A Highlander Never Surrenders (14 page)

“Don’t be ridiculous, Anne. And do not question me about him again. I hate him. I loathe him. I wish I’d never—”

She walked straight into him. She looked up as his hands came around her upper arms to keep her from tumbling backward. He stared at her with unblinking intensity that set her head reeling.

“Watch where ye’re going.”

He stepped around her and was gone, leaving Claire a bit stunned, a little hurt, and spitting mad. She thought about shouting a curse at his back, but Anne was watching her with a knowing tilt of her brow. “Robert!” she shouted instead and stormed toward the inn. “Help my sister dismount!”

She stepped inside the small tavern with Brodie just in front of her and craned her neck around the brute’s arm to see where that bastard had gone. She found Graham almost immediately, for he was difficult to miss, with a giggling group of wenches already surrounding him. Claire gaped at them for a moment, wondering what the other patrons would do if she pulled out her dagger and flung it at him. Someone behind her gave her a gentle push and she spun around and glowered up at Angus.

“Dinna lose yer heart to him, lass. There’s nae point in it now anyway.”

Her fists curled at her sides. “Thank you, Angus, but my heart is lost to no one.”

He gave her a sympathetic look, and then he, too, left her. Robert and Anne entered the inn next, laughing as they usually did when they were together, which at the moment, made Claire want to scream. When Robert saw her glaring at them, he jerked away from Anne and looked more repentant than if she’d just discovered he’d killed her brother.

“I will get us rooms,” he said, practically running away from her. What the hell was wrong with him? Claire wondered. Had they all gone mad?

“I think he is afraid of me,” Claire told Anne, watching Robert’s swift departure.

“That’s absurd,” Anne huffed. “He doesn’t know you well enough yet.” Her sister looked around, then cut her gaze to Claire. “Are you not worried someone here might recognize you?”

Claire was too angry to play ignorant, so she shrugged her shoulders instead. “No one will recognize me, and if they do, they will not live long enough to make the accusation.”

Anne shook her head at her, her eyes pleading when she spoke. “I knew it was you when I heard of the attack on the governor’s men. Connor would not want you to do this.”

“Connor is dead, and I will avenge him.” Claire left her sister’s side and joined Brodie and Angus at a nearby table. After ordering a cup of mead, she went back to glaring at Graham. She tried several times to give her attention to the conversation around her, but every time one of the wenches attached to his arm laughed, it drew her flashing eyes back to him.

Why had she let him kiss her again? Did her inexperience in the art disappoint him so much that he decided she wasn’t worth any more of his attention? He’d warned her of his wickedness, and she was certain, so certain, that he could not affect her. But he did, blast him to Hades. He took advantage of her moment of weakness when she was so worried over Anne and he kissed her, then tossed her aside. Well, Anne was safe now, and Graham Grant would never see weakness in her again.

From the corner of her eye, she saw him coming toward the table with a cup clutched in one hand and a serving wench in the other. She watched him in seething silence as he threw himself into a chair and pulled the wench into his lap.

The woman’s pale blue eyes settled instantly on Claire, and then on her thick flaxen braid and bare arms. Her gaze narrowed, coming upon the sheathed sword at Claire’s hips. “Have we met before?”

Claire smiled dryly and dipped her glacial gaze to the woman’s ample cleavage jiggling beneath her chin. “It’s difficult to say. I’ve met many wenches, and all your bosoms look the same.”

Brodie chuckled and Angus coughed into his cup, but Graham’s eyes pinned her. She stared right back at him, hoping he could read her thoughts so he would know what a witless pig she considered him to be.

“Lianne will be serving our table tonight,” Graham said, and turned his dimpled grin back to the lusty wench perched upon him.

Serving indeed, Claire fumed. She ripped her eyes away from them when Anne and Robert reached the table. She watched as Robert waited for her sister to sit and then, looking a bit torn, he picked up the empty chair beside her and carried it to Claire’s side, where he promptly sat. Claire cast him a befuddled look and moved her chair an inch closer to Brodie’s to give Robert more room. Graham wolfed down the remainder of his drink and pushed the empty cup at Lianne.

“And bring some food,” he told her, giving her a gentle nudge off his knee. “Something hot.”

“I’ve somethin’ that’s been cookin’ fer ye,” she promised with a suggestive wink before she left. On her way around the table, she bent over Robert’s shoulder. “And I’ve somethin’ fer ye, as well, angel.”

Robert shifted uncomfortably and looked up from beneath his lashes at Anne.

“You’ve been here before, then?” Anne asked him, trying to sound blasé about it. Her sister knew better. The tight smile Anne offered the earl gave her away.

Claire wanted to kick Robert in the kneecaps. While she might not look favorably on Anne’s obvious fondness for a Campbell, if he bedded that wench tonight, he would answer to her in the morning.

“I haven’t been . . . ehm . . .
there
, nae,” Robert made haste to assure her.

“Still savin’ yerself fer love, are ye, Rob?” Brodie laughed, taking no mercy on the chaste earl.

Claire elbowed him in the ribs. “It’s a noble aspiration that others here should strive for.” She slipped her gaze to Graham. “Do not chide him for it.”

Graham threw her an indulgent smile that blatantly mocked her own innocence. “Some might consider it a noble aspiration to please a lass in bed.”

The fight that had been brewing for days was unmistakable in the upward tilt of her brow, the slight flare of her nostrils. “And there are others who consider it a failure that a rogue must continually practice at becoming better at it.”

He laughed, as if he knew better and her words did not disturb him at all. But he did not speak to her, and barely to anyone else, until they all rose to retire some time later.

On his way toward the stairs, he stopped a buxom redhead server as she passed him. “Send Lianne to me.”

Claire glanced over her shoulder at him as she climbed the stairs behind Anne. Let him go with the wench. As soon as they reached Ravenglade she would be free of him. Satan’s balls, she thought, tripping over a step, she could not wait.

Chapter Thirteen

B
etrayed. Betrayed by his friend. There is no greater offense. There is no greater sorrow.

Claire lay wide awake thinking about Graham an hour later, and another hour after that. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw him smiling at the women in the tavern—at Lianne. What was wrong with her? She didn’t even like him! He was an arrogant, unrefined, conceited knave. He called himself friend to Royalists and Roundheads alike, with no other passion firing his heart than that for his own pleasure. His pleasure . . . Was he kissing Lianne right now the way he had kissed her? Claire sat up in her bed and pounded the thin mattress with her fist. She swept her long hair away from her face, and, careful not to wake Anne, she slipped from the bed. What was the sense in lying here all night plagued with images that made her angry? She wanted a drink. Aye, a cup of warm mead would help her sleep. Most of the patrons were likely either gone for the night, or in bed—having their way with lusty wenches. She was certain she wouldn’t meet any of them, but slipped her dagger into her trews, just in case.

She tiptoed out of the room and trod silently down the stairs to the tavern. The hearth fire still glowed, illuminating the tables, most of them empty. Two patrons remained, slumped over their chairs in a drunken stupor. A swarthy serving girl rested in a chair by the hearth, rubbing her feet while the innkeeper sat across from her counting the coins he’d made for the day. They both looked up when she entered.

“If ye’re lookin’ fer a drink, come back in the morn,” the innkeeper called out. The girl gave him a slight kick with her foot and motioned to another table hidden in the corner, where the light did not reach.

Claire followed her gaze and stopped in her tracks when Graham rose from the shadows, his gaze fastened upon her. “What’s wrong? What are ye doing down here?”

She shrugged her shoulders and moved toward him. “I had trouble sleeping and thought a cup of mead might help.”

He took his time looking her over, from her bare feet to the loose mane of buttery tresses falling over her arms. In the dim light, she noted the tightening of his jaw. She tilted her chin. Let him be angry that she’d interrupted his . . . She looked around for Lianne.

“Finished already?” She made certain he heard the mocking contempt in her voice.

If he did, he made no show of it, but went back to his seat. “Go back to bed, Claire.”

“What are you doing here alone?” She ignored his rigid command and pulled out a chair beside him.

“Praying.”

She made a small sound like a laugh and picked up his cup, bringing her nose to it. Ale. She took a sip and felt his eyes on her; burning, brooding, and something else that made her nerve endings sizzle.

“Tell me,” she asked without looking at him. “What does a man like you pray for?”

“A woman like ye.”

She raised her gaze to his shadowy silhouette. She wished she could see his features, his eyes, his mouth. Was he smiling, mocking her? No, his voice was low and thick, with none of the teasing arrogance she was used to from him.

“Like me?” Her own voice sounded ragged and anxious against her ears.

He leaned toward her, his handsome face leaving the dimness to fill her vision. His cap rested on the table, leaving his spray of bronze curls free to dangle over his brows. Saints, but he was dangerous to be near. His eyes gleamed with hunger that made her fear for her virtue, or want to hand it to him to do with it as he pleased. “Aye, like ye. Ye fire up my passions like none . . .”

“You’re drunk,” she said as his warm breath fell against her cheek.

His jaw clenched and he drew back. “Aye, and in danger of betraying a good friend.”

“What are you talking about?”

Instead of answering her query, he finished off the ale in his cup and slammed it back to the table. “Why are ye wandering the inn at this time of night looking like that?”

“Like what?” she demanded, not liking the change in his tone.

“Like ye’re in search of a good tumble?”

If she had had a clear view of his face, she would have slapped it.

“I warn ye now,” he practically growled at her. “Go back to yer bed or ye might find what ye seek.”

She looked around, then settled her gleaming blue eyes back on him. “There is no one here who poses a threat to my virtue, Grant. Least of all, you.”

Without warning, he sprang from his chair and yanked her from hers. She pummeled his shoulders with her fists as he swooped down, slipped one arm around her waist and the other behind her knees, and lifted her off her feet.

“Put me down this instant!” she shrieked as he headed for the stairs, barely straining a muscle against her struggle to be free of him.

Claire went still. Would he force himself on her? “Graham,” she warned,tight-lipped, as he carried her up the stairs. “I’ve a dagger with me. Do not force me to use it on you.”

“Aim fer my heart first, lass,” he said, his gaze fixed and hard on hers. “Fer I think it has turned traitor on me.”

His heart? Dear God, she did not want to kill him! And why would he say such a thing to her? What the hell did he mean? Did it have something to do with his being here alone instead of off somewhere rutting with a serving wench? She stared up at him and for an instant his expression went soft all over her before he turned away, gritting his teeth.

He wanted to kiss her. She saw it in his eyes, along with the strength he called upon to keep himself from doing it. Her heart leaped in her chest and she feared she’d gone completely mad. She wanted him to kiss her, to
want
to kiss her! He had stopped deliberately trying to seduce her. But his assault on her senses, on her every waking thought, had become even more dangerous than before. For it was quiet, brooding, and, she understood now, fully restrained. But why? Why did he force himself to resist her? And why did it make him so damned irresistible?

When he reached the upper landing, he set her on her feet, not knowing which was her room, and turned to leave. “Go back to yer bed.”

“Is that it?” she blurted before she could stop herself.

He paused then, his wide shoulders stiff with tension as he slowly pivoted to face her. “What else would ye have me do?”

Do? She was thinking more in terms of him
saying
something, but suddenly myriad images flooded her thoughts of things she might like him to
do
. She had never cared much for the way a “proper” lady ought to think, and it was a good thing, because the images were lewd indeed. Instead of giving him an answer, she simply stared at him, wondering when she had begun to think on such a basely primitive level.