Highland Brides 04 - Lion Heart (8 page)

Piers was a formidable man, but Broc knew Meghan would defend him to Piers. And if Meghan loved Montgomerie, as Colin said she did, Montgomerie must be a good man at heart, Sassenach or nay. And Elizabet was Piers’ own flesh and blood, after all. He shouldn’t have to argue her position. Montgomerie would surely champion her of his own accord.

Och, but his little harridan was lovely… though that was certainly not why he was intervening on her behalf. It was simply the right thing to do.

Only a year ago he would have loathed her for her Sassenach blood, and in truth, he might have abandoned her to her fate, but much had happened to soften his anger. He still did not trust the English, and he thought King David of Scotia a fool for dealing with Henry, for the English would stop at nothing to bring Scotia to its knees. But neither could Broc any longer justify his once blind hatred. He was wary of men like Montgomerie, to be sure, but he could no longer despise them simply for their birth.

And anyway, some good had come of Piers’ settlement here. A tentative peace had come to their clans. No longer were ancient feuds, such as that between the MacKinnons and the MacLeans, nursed. No longer did Montgomerie and Brodie war upon one another. Marriage had brought unity to their peoples. Together, the MacLeans, MacKinnons, Brodies and Montgomerie had stood against Page’s bastard da.

Broc made his way quickly through the woods, telling himself that she would be safe until his return. Though the night was almost too dark to travel, he didn’t need much light to make his way. He knew these border woods well.

He heard the voices before he saw them as he broke into the clearing near Montgomerie’s manor, and he retreated into the woods to assess the scene before continuing.

In the courtyard, two men on horseback sat their mounts before Montgomerie. Another man stood talking to Piers, and beside them, stretched out upon the ground, lay two bodies. Huddled together on the steps with the newlyweds, Colin and Seana, Broc spied Meghan, with her hand covering her mouth.

Montgomerie held in his hand a parchment, reading from it, and Broc awaited Montgomerie’s reaction.

Two men were dead, he realized. He had very likely killed one of them, but not two.

John had been alive when he’d fled with Elizabet. He was certain of it. He hadn’t even used his blade upon the lad, only the butt of his dagger. There was no way he could have killed him. No possible way.

His first consideration was for Elizabet; he had promised her that her brother was alive and well, that he would suffer no more than a headache. How could he return and tell her that he had been mistaken? That he had killed her brother, in truth?

Or had he?

Christ.

If someone had meant Elizabet harm, then so too could he have intended the same for John. Broc must have given the bowman a perfect opportunity.

Remaining at the forest’s edge, he moved closer to the party, trying to listen to their discourse, keeping to the trees. But he couldn’t get near enough to hear what they were saying, and he grew frustrated.

Who were they blaming?

Deep down, he knew.

This did not bode well for him. They would band together, he realized.

Were they all in league together?

A million questions hammered at his brain.

Montgomerie finished the parchment and rolled it very deliberately, fury evident in his gesture. One hand fell to his side, and he clenched it, forming an angry fist.

Broc moved closer, his heart hammering within his chest as Montgomerie spoke sharply to the men mounted before him. One of them rattled off an explanation that Broc could scarce hear—bits and pieces only.

“Came from nowhere,” he heard. And then, “Took us unawares… stole Elizabet… killed John and Edmund.”

Broc’s gaze fell once more to the bodies lying upon the ground.

Liars!

He moved nearer, as close as he dared without risking discovery.

“Fetch my horse!” Montgomerie shouted, his tone fraught with anger. “Gather men at once! Meet me before the stables!”

He spun toward the manor as his men scattered to heed his command, leaving Elizabet’s traveling companions to await his return. When he was gone, the three of them spoke in low tones to one another, though at this distance, it was impossible to hear what they were saying.

“I’ll gather my own men and search the north woods,” Colin announced and then turned to kiss his bride upon the cheek. He lingered, as though speaking softly at her ear, and then Meghan reached out to embrace her new sister in marriage. The two of them held each other as Colin turned and left them upon the stairs.

What the hell was he going to do about Elizabet?

Broc didn’t feel confident about going to Piers anymore. He scarce knew the man, and neither did Piers know him. Why should he take Broc’s side when it was Broc’s word against three of his own compatriots—one of them Elizabet’s own kinsmen.

Searching for the bowman, Broc looked closer, trying to make out their faces, but he could barely see more than their silhouettes against the torches lit behind them. He recognized Piers more than aught else by his stature and voice. He was one of the few men who stood nearly as tall as Broc.

Should he come forward to Colin? If he did, he would be forced to hand Elizabet over to Piers. He was certain Colin would bid him do so. And in doing so, he would place Elizabet once more in danger. He couldn’t expect Colin to keep his confidence in such a serious matter. He would risk a blood feud between Piers and Meghan’s brothers.

In that vein, he couldn’t take Elizabet to Iain either. The last thing he wanted to do was force his own laird to take a stand against Montgomerie. This wasn’t Iain’s problem. Christ and be damned. It wasn’t his either, but what options did he have?

None, it seemed, except to return to Elizabet and tell her what happened.

Except that her brother was dead now, and Broc couldn’t prove it wasn’t by his hand.

The riders were beginning to disperse now, and he didn’t want to lead them to Elizabet, so he thought it best to go. Cursing himself for the mess he had managed to embroil himself in, he turned and fled into the woods. Not daring to look back, he raced through the forest, weaving blindly through the trees in the darkness, relying on instinct to guide him.

Only one thing did he know for certain. No longer at stake was her life alone. Regardless of whether or not he chose to let her go, the blame for her brother’s death would fall to Broc, and the peace that had fallen over the MacKinnon, Brodie, and Montgomerie clans would be no more.

No doubt, his laird would stand behind him, as would Colin. Piers might love his wife, but Elizabet and her brother John were his own flesh and blood, and he would surely champion them. Unless Broc could bring John’s murderer to light, his own clan would be forced to take up arms against Montgomerie—and mayhap Colin against his sister’s husband.

Broc couldn’t bear to have the blood of his kinsmen on his hands, but neither could he in good conscience simply hand Elizabet over to her murderer.

Not to mention the fact that Elizabet would likely name him as her brother’s murderer along with her Sassenach companions, and where would that leave him?

When he reached the hovel, he was drenched in his own sweat and reluctant to go in. He fell upon his knees to catch his breath.

What the bloody hell was he supposed to say when he faced her? Her trust in him was tentative at best. No matter how he looked at the situation, he was damned either way. Och, but what a pretty kettle of fish he had boiled himself within.

It made a man wish he’d never gotten out of bed.

I
t occurred to Elizabet only after he’d gone that she didn’t even know his name.

Growing impatient for his return now, she paced the hovel, trying not to notice the stale, dank odor of the room. She grimaced with disgust as she walked through a sticky web and tried to shrug free of it.

What sort of woman lived in a place such as this?

His friend’s house, was it? It wasn’t her experience that men and women could be
friends
. She couldn’t help but wonder just how close they had been—her Scotsman and this woman who had wed his best friend.

Had they been lovers?

Likely!

She clasped her hands at her back and continued to pace, considering the sparseness of the room. Elizabet had never really owned anything herself, but she had never gone without the most basic of necessities. In fact, she had been surrounded by luxuries as her mother’s lovers had all been generous. She reached down to clasp the crucifix into her hand, taking comfort in it.

The woman who had lived here probably had missing teeth, else her Good Samaritan Scotsman would have claimed her as more than his beloved friend. He had probably used her until someone else had been willing to take her off his hands.

Wind gusted into the room through cracks in the wall and ceiling. The candle on the table sputtered, threatening to go out. Elizabet hugged herself for warmth. She searched the room for a blanket and, finding one, seized it and threw it about her shoulders. It was threadbare and reeked of fermented drink, the odor permeating every fiber of the material. Apparently, the woman had been a drunkard, as well!

Then again—her gaze assessed the tiny room—if she had been forced to live in a place like this, she might have taken to drinking, too.

Anyway, these Scots were said to be partial to their ale. They were all barbarians, every one of them, women and children alike. However, they all shared one thing more valuable than any material possession Elizabet might ever crave.

Freedom.

Elizabet heard much about the way they lived. Even the women seemed to enjoy a certain mastery over their lives. They wed where they pleased and not at all if ’twas their wish. And their children ran about dirty and free. The men loved their brides and wed not for duty but for life. They had no need to keep mistresses on the side. Their mistresses were their wives.

As much as Elizabet loved her mother, her sympathies had oft lain with the wives of the men who had visited her. And she hoped never to marry if it meant that her husband would lavish his affections upon women like her mother and leave her to rot alone at home, like some forgotten trophy set upon a shelf.

She’d rather be alone.

Except, not right now.

Finally! She heard a sound outside the door and rushed to open it. It had grown black outside, the sky dark as pitch.

There was no one there, and unnerved by the near moonless night, she pulled the door shut, shuddering, though not entirely from the cold. Anticipation of Broc’s return kept her on her feet. Concern for her brother made her pace the small room.

What made her heart beat so swiftly?

Her fingers went to her lips, remembering the kiss…

He’d kissed her in anger, though he hadn’t hurt her. But he’d taken liberties she had never offered any man. And now she couldn’t forget the warmth of his mouth upon her lips. Every time she remembered, her heart jolted a little within her breast.

With all that had transpired that afternoon—the bowman, her brother—the one thing that kept playing over and over in her head was the moment he had taken her into his arms.

What was wrong with her?

She tried to focus on the important matters.

How long had he been gone now? It seemed like an eternity. What would Piers say?

They must be very near Montgomerie’s fief, as her guardian angel—that’s how she’d come to think of him—seemed to know Piers well enough. Then again, an Englishman with holdings in Scotia would likely be talked about for leagues. She knew these Scots couldn’t possibly like Montgomerie’s presence here. Nor would they relish that he’d been given King David’s approval. Or that he was a favored emissary of King Henry.

Had he been trying to teach her a lesson, or was it more? Heat crept into her face as she remembered his arousal. And yet he hadn’t harmed her.

God’s truth, she wished he would hurry.

The night seemed to be getting colder by the instant, and, as the candle grew shorter, the shadows grew longer. Wrapping the blanket more firmly about her shoulders, she sat again at the little table to wait, anxious to learn something of her brother.

What if he didn’t come back?

Mayhap she should set out by herself to find Piers? She felt entirely too helpless waiting here in this place.

There had never been anyone to champion her—not ever—not even as a child. Her mother had been far too busy with her own affairs, and if Elizabet had wanted something, she’d had to pursue it herself.

The wait was driving her mad!

Where the devil was he?

Growing too impatient to remain seated, she sprang from the chair and went to the door once more, throwing it open with a vengeance. The last thing she expected to find was her dubious savior standing there, leaning with one hand on the doorframe, staring down at his feet, as though he had nary a concern in the world.

She shrieked in surprise.

He bellowed in fright.