Highland Brides 04 - Lion Heart (3 page)

“She’s not here!” shouted John from the bushes ahead, and Elizabet veered at once to avoid them.

“I’m going to search for her,” she shouted back, grateful that he had spoken up so that she wouldn’t barrel through the bushes and embarrass herself.

“Don’t wander far, Liza!”

She smiled at John’s show of concern. “I won’t!”

Mayhap she worried too much about him, but he seemed so fragile at times. His wit was sound and quick, but his frail body failed him far too oft. The youngest of her father’s legitimate children, he seemed ever ready to do battle over the least little thing—as though he always had something to prove—and Elizabet finally understood why. His fears had finally been realized. Like Elizabet, he had been too easily discarded.

She had grown to love John, though she hadn’t known him long. He was the one person who had welcomed her without reservation when she’d arrived at her father’s house—not that her other siblings had treated her poorly, they had simply never really embraced her. There was not so much to go around that they relished having to share with yet another sibling.

And yet, Elizabet had dared to hope she’d found a safe haven after so many years of having no family and no place to call her own. Until her father had gone and wed that horrid woman, and Elizabet had been put out of her bed within a fortnight of their nuptials.

But she refused to allow herself to wallow in self-pity. This was an opportunity, she assured herself. Unlike her mother, she would never be shackled to some man, dependent upon his good graces to feed her and her children. Nay, moreover, she would have no children and no man to keep her. Here in the wilds of Scotia she would be free to live as she chose, unencumbered by the fetters of matrimony. She would beg Piers to return her dowry, and she would find a way to care for herself. She was determined to make the best of her life and take care of John as well.

Anyway, she reasoned. It wasn’t as though anyone would have her anyway. She had nothing to bring to a union aside from her body and her mind. Her meager dowry hadn’t even been enough for her father to keep her.

Indeed, she had learned quite young where men placed their value. A woman’s worth was determined by two things. The first and most important was what they could bring a man by way of riches and heirs. The second was what they could do in bed, and the latter would gain Elizabet no more than it had her courtesan mother.

In truth, her mother had worked hard for every morsel of food the two of them had placed in their mouths, and in the end she had died alone. And her father’s wife—she who had borne him five children—had lost her husband’s heart to another woman whose body had brought him greater pleasure—Elizabet’s mother.

In both cases, it was a matter of one man’s satisfaction and some poor woman’s unappreciated labors.

It all seemed so unfair.

But now was not the time for sorrow or regret. Her mother had been dead three years, and she must be responsible for her own wellbeing. As God was her witness, the first thing she intended to do after she found Harpy was go back and speak to that old woman in the little hut. There could be little harm in simply talking to her and once she realized who their father’s cousin was, she was likely to greet them courteously as Piers de Montgomerie was, after all, her neighbor.

It really didn’t matter to Elizabet whether those accursed men approved or nay, because if they refused to go back to beg for directions, Elizabet would go alone—fie on them all!

She was tired of aimlessly wandering these woodlands with four men who didn’t seem to be able to follow the noses on their faces, seeking a distant relative she had never met—who probably had no inkling she even existed—and who likely had no room or inclination to care for her and no desire to put forth the effort to see her provided for.

It seemed her life had gone to the bloody dogs.

Aye, for all she knew, Piers might turn them away the instant they found him. Why, after all, would he wish to be saddled with the bastard child of a cousin he wasn’t the least obliged to?

She studied the forest for some sign of Harpy.

Where the devil could the dog have gone?

It was getting late, and the woods were beginning to darken. The bright greens had turned to grays, and fireflies began to twinkle before her eyes.

“Harpy!” she called again, and then suddenly she heard an answering bark in the distance. “There you are!” she muttered, and began to run.

God’s truth, she didn’t know what she’d do without that silly, cantankerous hound!

She followed the sound of barking into a tiny copse, only to freeze, startled by her discovery.

H
e was by far the biggest man Elizabet had ever encountered, but his coos as he spoke to Harpy were gentle as a dove’s. He knelt at a distance, coaxing Harpy to come to him, and his size was evident even crouched upon his haunches.

“Here, doggy,” he was saying. He clapped his hands. “Here, doggy, doggy!”

Despite that it appeared he was trying to steal her dog, Elizabet swallowed her protest as she watched him, fascinated by the juxtaposition of his size and his gentility.

Deep golden hair framed a face that was almost too lovely for a man, and even in the twilight, she could clearly see the brilliant blue of his eyes.

Fireflies twinkled between them, giving Elizabet the dizziest sensation as she stared.

She had to remind herself to breathe.

He was wearing the most barbarous garment—something like the ancient togas she’d seen depicted in the drawings in her mother’s manuscripts, but with brilliant color. And his legs were bare, thick and muscular. His arms were uncovered, too, as was most of his chest. And his only accoutrement was an enormous sword in his scabbard.

“Lord!” she whispered, remembering herself suddenly.

She scrambled behind the nearest tree, though somehow, she didn’t quite fear him. Something about his demeanor and the good-natured look in his eyes set her at ease. Still, she peered at him around the tree trunk, her heart hammering fiercely. “Sweet Mary,” she said low.

He must have heard her, because he glanced in her direction suddenly.

Their eyes met.

Whatever words Elizabet might have uttered in that instant were forgotten as she stared into those clear blue eyes.

Copper hair, chiseled brows, and lips so full and red they appeared painted were Broc’s first impressions of the girl.

He didn’t recognize her though he knew most folks in these parts, except for a few who had settled here with David’s Lyon—the Englishman who had earned a piece of this land through his sword arm, and then kept it by his wits. His marriage to a Brodie would never have bought him loyalty but it seemed he had earned it just the same.

Curiosity needled him and he found himself wishing she would come out from behind the tree so he could get a better glimpse at her.

“Who are you, lass?”

She gave him a narrow eyed look from behind the tree. “Why should I tell you?”

English by the sound of her voice, he surmised and he reasoned she must belong to Lyon Montgomerie—though what the hell was she doing alone this far on MacKinnon land?

He peered about for some sign of her companions but the woods were empty save for the woman, her mangy hound and Broc. “Because,” he said, “we Scots dinna like outlanders in our home.”

“
Your home
?”

She ventured out from behind the tree, looking more contrary than she had a right to and threw her arms out to indicate the surrounding woodlands. “I would hardly call
this
anyone’s home!”

Her long, copper hair was bound in a single thick braid generously woven with luminous golden ribbons. The style was thoroughly ruined by the wayward curls that escaped confinement and framed her lovely face.

And she was, indeed, lovely.

Broc experienced a surge of lust so unexpected that it took him aback.

Christ, but were all these Sassenach women alike?

“Every tree in these woods is mine!” he enlightened her. “Every leaf you spy upon the ground belongs to my brothers.”

She cocked a brow. “My what a possessive family you have!” She stood straight, hands on her hips, challenging him, and Broc tried not to laugh. “Perhaps you should tell your
brothers
when you see them that it is far more blessed to share.”

The wench was taking him far too literally. “I dinna have any brothers, woman.”

“Nay?” She lifted her brows. “Then you should have listened to your mother when she advised you never to lie.”

“I dinna have a mother, either,” he said more sullenly than he’d intended to, though she seemed to appear far more offended than compassionate over his declaration.

“
Everyone
has a mother!”

“Aye, well, mine is long dead,” he informed her, hoping to shut her up. The subject remained a painful one even after all these years. He had, in fact, just come from the cairn he had built in her memory. No matter how many years passed, it never lessened the pain of his loss.

“So is mine!” she argued. “But I would never be so ungrateful as to claim I had none!”

Broc merely stared at her, bemused. Only Page FitzSimon had ever dared speak to him so impudently—and not since first meeting his laird’s wife had he encountered a tongue so bloody sharp.

What the hell did they feed these English lasses to make them so bitter—and for once he couldn’t blame it on Seana Brodie’s damnable
uisge
though there must be something in the water there.

He nearly laughed out loud at the absurdity of it all. She was hardly small for a woman, but neither was she any match for any man—much less him—yet she stood there, antagonizing him as no man ever dared.

Broc scratched his head. “Who the hell did you say you were?”

She hitched her chin. “A substitute for your manners, since you seem not to have any!”

Stubborn wench.

Broc resisted the urge to walk over and toss her lovely bottom over his knee. God’s truth, if he were some ruffian, she would lose more than her tongue for her impudence. “Speaking of manners, lass, did no one ever warn you to mind yourself before strangers?”

She ignored his rebuke.

“
That
is
my
dog,” she informed him tautly, pointing at the dirty beast at his feet. As though it understood, the animal turned to face her, but didn’t move. “Come here, Harpy!”

Harpy sat stubbornly.

Broc quelled his laughter, but his shoulders shook with mirth.

In his present mood, he nearly called the hound just to spite her. He’d always had a way with animals, and he had no doubt the hound would come to him, particularly if he were to pat the pouch at his waist, tempting it with more food.

“For the last time, wench, who are ye?” he asked, more firmly this time.

Little good it did him.

“Who I am is none of your concern!” She puffed her breast in a show of bravado that merely managed to draw his eyes to her luscious bosom. Broc blinked.

She was blessed in a way few women were, with full breasts and a tiny waist that was emphasized by the golden girdle that hung low on her hips.

A woman like her could make a man forget his manners. His body hardened at the thought, surprising him again with the reaction. He couldn’t remember the last time a woman had stirred his blood so easily. God’s truth, he loved a woman with sass, but the borderlands, despite the newly forged peace between their clans was no place for a female alone.

“Come here, Harpy!”

The hound remained stubbornly at Broc’s side, peering up at him and wagging its tail amiably.

Good dog, he thought a little smugly and turned to study his
guest
a little closer while her attention was on the hound. She looked a little like a courtesan, he mused—richly dressed to attract her pigeon. Though something about this woman’s eyes seemed far more innocent than her dress proclaimed.

She would be easy prey for men with ignoble intentions. “These woodlands are no place for a lady,” he apprised her. “All manner of dangers lurk here.”

She came nearer, her gaze shifting between Broc and the hound. “Aye, well something tells me that if you’re the worst the Scots have to offer, I suppose I shall have naught to worry about.” And she called her hound again to no avail.

Suddenly Broc didn’t feel the least bit charitable. Beautiful though she might be, she was the most cantankerous female he had ever met. He ought to teach the wench a bloody lesson, never mind who she was. And the fact that she thought him harmless annoyed him beyond measure—especially if she was in fact a bloody Sassenach. She damned well ought to worry as he wasn’t the only one in these parts who loathed the English. Their love for Page MacKinnon didn’t particularly lessen their hatred of her countrymen.

He narrowed his eyes at her. “Haven’t ye heard, lass… we Scots feast on stray women, bairns and helpless dogs? Lucky me, I seem to be blessed with two out of three and I’m a verra hungry man.”

She stopped in her tracks and blinked. He tried not to laugh at her answering expression, the way she cocked her head so uncertainly.