Highlander's Redemption: The Sinclair Brothers Trilogy, Book Two (9 page)

He needed a cold
dunk, and fast. And it wasn’t just because the smell of horseflesh and battle
clung to him, or because he wanted to wash away the blood that had dried on his
back.

It had started
with having her seated in front of him in the saddle as they rode through the
night. Hell, if he was honest with himself, it had started the moment he had
laid eyes on her outside of Dunbraes, but it had gotten much worse over the
last several hours.

Just like on their
ride from the safe house back to Dunbraes, he had felt her slim shoulders and
back pressing into his chest, her soft bottom wedged against his crotch, their
hips moving in unison. It had felt good—too good, considering he needed to be
on high alert, making sure they weren’t being followed and guiding them
northeast through the tangled forest. The importance of the task at hand, plus
his worry over Burke, had forced him to keep his mind on task and away from the
feel of her pressed against him.

Then as he had
watched her work on Burke’s leg, he had been caught off-guard again. Her golden
head had been bent over, her brow furrowed in concentration, but her hands had
been steady and swift. He had never seen a lass operate so calmly under
pressure—or operate at all, for that matter. In all the time he had spent in Robert
the Bruce’s war camp, they had never had a real healer, someone trained and
tested under pressure. Mostly the men just saw to themselves and each other,
but witnessing Jossalyn work made him realize just how valuable real healing
skills were. He had stared at her in fascination, amazed at her calm
cool-headedness.

But his real
undoing had been when she had offered to help him, and he had thought about
taking off his shirt in front of her again and having her slim hands skimming
over his skin exploratorily, as she had done back at the smithy. Despite his
exhaustion, that thought had made his cock jerk under his kilt.

Then she had
crossed her arms in annoyance at him, which caused her breasts to be pushed
together and up, and he thought he might have to adjust his kilt to hide his overeager
manhood. When he had approached her, he watched as she let her eyes run all
over his body. He doubted she knew what she was doing, but he caught the light
of hunger that flickered in her eyes, and noticed that her lips had parted
slightly, her breathing just a touch more shallow than normal.

He knew he
shouldn’t have, but he had let his words about bathing be an invitation. It was
neither the time nor the place, and even if it were, she was an English
lass—and Raef Warren’s sister. He couldn’t just dally with her for a few hours and
enjoy some shared pleasure, then move on like he normally did with the lasses.
He had a mission to complete, and a rebellion to return to.

And what the hell
had he been thinking when he had rescued her? Even thinking the word “rescue”
brought on an internal grimace.

He was no hero,
and it was ridiculous to indulge in the idea that he was. Aye, he had gone mad
with rage at the sight of Warren about to hit her, and he never tolerated any
man raising a hand against a woman, but what did he hope to accomplish by
taking her with them? He had been right when he told the lass that Burke needed
her. The wound was bad, and left untreated, Burke could die from it. He still
wasn’t even out of the woods yet. They had several days of hard travel ahead of
them, and infection could set in at any time.

So he had hacked
his way through a dozen English soldiers and thrown her onto Fletch’s back
because Burke needed her healing skills?

That wasn’t the
real reason, he admitted to himself as he reached the bank of the wide,
slow-moving creek. He felt protective of her. And possessive of her. He
couldn’t stomach the idea of her brother beating her into submission like a
dog. It had been gut-wrenching to decide to return her to Dunbraes despite her
begging to go north with them, and it was only made harder in light of his
knowledge that her brother controlled and abused her. But now that he knew that
her brother was Raef Warren, he would never put her in his grasp again.

As if his own
experience fighting against Warren in the battle of Roslin four years earlier wasn’t
enough, Garrick had heard from his brother how Warren had attempted to first
abduct and then murder Robert’s new wife Alwin. Warren was a base and cowardly
bastard.

Not that Garrick
was in a position to dole out judgment. He had done despicable things in his
life, but he would never involve women or children in his violent duty to the
Scottish rebellion. Aye, he had killed, and done it in cold blood too, not just
in the heat of battle. That was what it took, and he would do the jobs that no
one else could or would do. He would hunt and watch commanders of the invading
English army until he had the perfect shot. He would track and kill Scottish
power players who had secretly aligned with the English and who were spying and
selling their knowledge to the enemy. He had done it before, and once he could
figure out what to do with Jossalyn and get back to the Bruce’s side again, he
would do it again. But he hoped that he would never be as lowly and
dishonorable as Warren.

Garrick shed his
leather vest and shirt, then unbelted his kilt and let the material slide from
him. He tugged off his boots, then took a moment to let the early-morning air
cool his flesh and his mind. He would have some serious sorting to do regarding
this mess he had put himself in, not only in terms of dragging Jossalyn with
them, but also with the way the sight of her, the feel of her, the smell of her
fired his blood, making him want to forget everything and sink into her.

Pushing the
thought away, he stepped into the creek, which was almost more of a river
considering how wide, deep, and slow-moving it was. Despite the fact that it
was the heart of summer, the water was surprisingly cold and refreshing around
his legs.

He waded further
in, then crouched and dunked himself so that he was completely submerged. He
let the water block out all the noise in his head about Jossalyn, Warren,
Burke, the Bruce, and his mission.

He vaguely
registered that the water stung the cut on his back slightly, but he wasn’t
worried. He could tell that it had already closed itself and wasn’t serious. Not
like Burke’s injury. No matter how long he stayed underwater, he realized, he
couldn’t escape or fully block out everything that was going on. Reluctantly,
he reemerged. He blinked his eyes open, but cursed at the sight before him.

Jossalyn stood
frozen on the bank, her eyes locked on him and her lips parted in surprise.

She hadn’t meant
to see him bathing. That’s what she kept telling herself as her eyes devoured
the sight of his water-slick, muscular torso. It was just that a moment after
he had walked toward the creek, she had realized that she would need to gather
more yarrow, since Burke would likely need several more bandages with fresh
yarrow crushed into them in the coming days. And yarrow grew near water.

So she had
carefully made her way toward the creek, but kept her head down, both so that
she could keep an eye out for the distinctive feathery leaves and white
flowers, and also, she had admitted, so that she wouldn’t see Garrick changing
or getting into the water. She spotted the plant and plucked it, tucking it
into her bag, then saw another a little farther ahead, then more of them
clumped together, and she knew she must be close to the creek.

Just as she had
knelt to pluck another one of the plants, she had glanced up and spotted a pile
of red fabric along the creek bank. She blushed and averted her eyes
immediately, but then she realized that she didn’t see or hear Garrick at all. She
stood and glanced around quickly, but still didn’t see a sign of him. Uneasiness
crept through her. Where could he have disappeared to so quickly? Could he be
hurt somewhere? Was the wound in his back worse than she had thought?

She took a few
steps toward the creek, but suddenly the surface of the water exploded and
Garrick emerged. Naked.

She assumed he was
naked, anyway, since his lower half was still submerged in the creek. Her eyes
traveled down to where the water lapped just below his hip bones. She gasped at
her own brashness, and quickly spun on her heels so that she was facing away
from him.

“I—I’m sorry. I
was just collecting more yarrow, and then I didn’t see you…”

“Did you want to
see me, lass?” His voice was closer than where he had been standing a moment
ago. He was coming toward her. And he was naked. Her stomach seemed to flip
over.

“No, well, yes, I
mean, I…I saw your clothes but you weren’t anywhere, and I was worried about
the cut on your back, and…” She was babbling like fool. She took a deep breath
and attempted to gather her wits—and tried to force her mind to stop picturing
the water dripping from his dark hair and onto his shoulders, his chest, his
stomach…

“Would you mind
handing me my kilt? Unless you don’t mind if I get it?”

She looked down at
her feet and realized that she was nearly standing on his pile of clothing. “I’ll
get it!” she said frantically, grabbing the red plaid at her feet so that he
wouldn’t reach around in front of her to fetch it himself. She held the fabric
out behind her, and felt him take it out of her hand. So now he was within
arm’s reach of her. Still naked. She squeezed her eyes shut, and willed herself
to stop blushing like a fool, but it didn’t work. Her face was hot.

Actually, her
whole body was hot, despite the cool morning air. She told herself she was
being more than a fool—she was being a blind, naïve fool, for, she reminded
herself, she didn’t even know this man behind her. Yes, they had talked and
interacted and even kissed, but this was a different Garrick than the one who
pretended to be a Lowland blacksmith. This Garrick was a mysterious Highlander
who had killed people in front of her.

That thought
cooled her blood somewhat, and she opened her eyes again. Looking down, she
realized that the rest of his clothes were gone from her feet, though she
hadn’t heard him move or felt him brush past her. Then she heard water
splashing and turned around to face the creek. Garrick knelt at the water’s
edge, his kilt fastened around his waist by his belt, but his torso still bare.
He had his bloodied shirt in his hands and was dunking it into the creek.

Her eyes locked on
the red slice running down the middle of his back, and she stepped forward to
view it more closely. As she looked at it, she had to admit that he was
right—it wasn’t much more than a cut. It was only about six inches long and not
very deep. She absently ran her fingers around it to make sure that the skin
surrounding it wasn’t swollen or becoming infected. He jerked and stiffened at
her touch.

“I doubt this
needs stitches after all. I should check on it tomorrow to make sure that it is
still healing properly, though,” she said, still absorbed in assessing the
injury through her healer’s eyes.

Then she realized
that she was touching his exposed skin, which was warm under her fingertips.
She had also just said that she would check on him tomorrow without considering
the larger question of where he would be tomorrow—and more importantly, if she
would be with him.

She withdrew her
fingers from his back, and an awkward and laden silence stretched. Finally, he
wrung out his shirt and stood, turning to face her. His steely eyes locked onto
her, and he said what she had wanted to say and yet feared to broach.

“We have some
things to discuss.”

He searched her
large green eyes, looking for a hint of her state of mind.

Normally he could
read people as if they were open books. He had become skilled at analyzing
people’s movements and unspoken thoughts out of necessity, since he normally
worked alone and at a distance. He had learned how to figure out what a mark
was thinking, and then anticipate his next move in order to adjust his aim
accordingly. But as he let his eyes drink her in, he couldn’t figure out what
she was thinking. He saw a mixture of dread, anticipation, uncertainty, and—was
he just fooling himself, or did he see a flicker of desire in the emerald
depths of her eyes?

He pushed the
thought aside. Aye, he hungered for the lass, and they had clearly had a
connection earlier, back when she thought he was a simple blacksmith and he
thought she was a pretty English lass. But nothing could come of it. Now he
knew that she was the sister of his enemy, and an English noblewoman. And now
that the truth of who he was had been revealed—or at least part of it—he would
be a fool if he thought she could still desire him for the Highland killer that
he was. She would probably be even more horrified to learn that he was an elite
member of Robert the Bruce’s army, and the best archer-assassin in the Scottish
fight for independence. But it was time to tell her—or maybe just explain a few
things.

He took a breath
to steel himself, preparing for the inevitable: her horror, disgust, shock, and
fear of him.

“As I’m sure you’ve
figured out by now, Burke and I are not blacksmiths.”

She nodded,
keeping her eyes locked on his.

“We are from the
Highlands, and are part of the Sinclair clan.” He waited, but her eyes didn’t
register anything at the name of his clan.

So, Warren had
kept her in the dark about his affairs and activities against the Scots, and the
Sinclair clan in particular, he thought. He would have to tread very carefully,
then. He wanted to explain things to her, but didn’t want to give her too much
information. It was safer for her if she didn’t know too much, he thought
grimly. He didn’t know how long she would be with them, but at some point he
would have to figure out some place safe for her to go—away from both him and her
brother. It wasn’t wise for her to be with either of them. He hated to have to
admit that he had something in common with Warren, but when it came to
Jossalyn, they were both dangerous to her, albeit for different reasons.

“Why did you lie? Why
did you say that you and Burke were from the Lowlands and that you were
blacksmiths?” she asked, a hint of hurt creeping into her voice. Her pain stung
him, but he couldn’t let himself focus on it.

“We were…gathering
information on the English army’s movements.” He paused, weighing how much he
could say, but then added, “For the Scottish cause for independence.”

“You’re a freedom
fighter?”

Her words caught
him off-guard. It wasn’t often that the English called what the Scots were
doing “freedom fighting.” Rebelling, yes. Acting like savage barbarians with
their raiding and slaughtering, yes, according to those who opposed them. But
“freedom”?

The only other
time he had heard words that sounded even vaguely sympathetic to the Scottish
cause coming from an English mouth was when he had met his brother’s wife. He
had been instantly suspicious about her loyalty to Scotland given her
nationality, but love seemed to be strong enough to overcome Robert and Alwin’s
differences.

Someday you’ll
understand.
His brother’s words floated unbidden to his mind, but he pushed
them away, not wanting to consider why they lingered in his thoughts.

“Aye, we fight
with the Bruce for our independence.”

Her eyes widened,
but instead of fear or horror, he saw interest and curiosity. He felt himself
harden inside with suspicion. Years of isolation and subterfuge had made him
distrustful of people, but it had also kept him alive. Why would she be
interested in the fact that he was part of the Scottish rebellion, rather than
frightened or disgusted? Could she be part of some scheme? She was English,
after all, and Warren’s sister to boot.

He must have been
glowering at her, for she blinked and took a step back from him. As if
understanding his silent suspicion, she said “I have always felt an affinity
toward the Scottish people. Ever since my brother and I moved up to the Borderlands,
I have…understood the desire for freedom.” She trailed off at the end, lowering
her eyes to the ground between them.

“Is that why you
tried to escape with us earlier into Scotland rather than back to England?” he
said, some of his suspicion dissipating. She nodded then met his eyes again,
but this time her brow was furrowed.

“How do you know
my brother?”

He ran a hand
through his dripping hair. Explaining this to her was necessary, but also
dangerous. If Warren ever did manage to get his hands on his sister again, he
would pump her for information on her “kidnappers,” and she would have to tell
him that the members of the Sinclair clan, at the order of Robert the Bruce,
were spying on him and readying themselves for a war.

“Have you heard of
the battle at Roslin?”

Her furrow
deepened and she shook her head slowly. “It sounds vaguely familiar, but I’m
not sure.”

“It happened four
years ago in Scotland—on Sinclair land. Your brother instigated the attack, but
we were victorious.” He watched her closely for her reaction. She was letting
her eyes wander, and he guessed that she was scanning her mind for information.

Finally, she spoke.
“I remember my brother returning from a battle about four years ago. He never
let me be privy to information on the war, but that wasn’t long after our
parents died and we moved to Dunbraes. He was…strange after that.”

“What do you mean,
strange?”

She struggled for
words for a moment, biting her lower lip. Despite telling himself to stay alert
and keep his mind on task, his eyes kept tugging to her mouth, where that plump
lower lip was caught between her teeth. Thankfully, she spoke then.

“He didn’t take
our parents’ death well. He blamed the healer who had tried to help them, and when
she couldn’t save them, he became obsessed with being in control and
maintaining order. I think…” she hesitated, choosing her words carefully. “I
think he began to see Scotland as some sort of disease that England had to defeat,
and that the Scots’ way of life was dangerously wild and needed to be
controlled and stamped out before it could spread.”

Her words struck
him. He had always just thought that Warren was an evil warmonger, but his
hatred of Scotland and the fact that he was leading the English charge against
them took on a new twist in light of Jossalyn’s insights. Then something else
clicked into place.

“And he hates you
just as he hates all Scots and Scotland, because you are a healer. You deal with
disease and injury, but even you cannot overcome nature. You cannot save
everyone, and you can’t control nature’s course, so he loathes you, as he
loathes himself.”

Her eyes widened
but she nodded slowly, and Garrick felt a pinch of something in his chest. He
understood her, or at least understood some of her suffering.

A tiny part of him
wished selfishly that she could understand and know him too. But he pushed the
thought away harshly. He had no right to ask her to see his true nature and
accept him. He was beyond this innocent lass’s redemption.

He forced his mind
back to the issue at hand. “Your brother has caused much pain and suffering in
Scotland, and for the Sinclairs in particular. I was sent to gather information
on the English army’s movements. Your brother is at the forefront of the conflict,
not only in terms of being the farthest north English holding in the Borderlands,
but also in terms of his…fervor for battle. So we infiltrated Dunbraes village
to investigate.”

He was expecting
her to recoil despite his careful wording—he hadn’t quite said it, but he was
telling her that he was a spy, and had lied and deceived freely. He had even
used her for information. But her next question surprised him. “What did you
learn?”

His suspicion
crept up again, but he paused to consider her question before his distrust
shuttered him to further conversation. This lass was more than an English
noblewoman. She had endured a harder life than some pampered lady at court. She
had been living in the Borderlands among a combination of her war-hungry and
abusive brother, Borderlanders who feared war and had to keep their alliances
fluid, and likely some Scots with thinly-veiled hatred for their new
overlord—and his English sister.

Despite all that,
she had managed to ingratiate herself to the entire Dunbraes village from what
he had seen, likely because she offered her healing skills freely and
earnestly, helping anyone who needed it. And she had suffered her brother’s
control and abuse, all the while longing for her own freedom.

He hesitated for a
long time as he chewed on all of this, eying her warily. When he continued not
to answer her, her face finally contorted into the expression he had been
expecting this whole time—frustration, hurt, and withdrawal.

“You don’t trust
me, do you?”

“Do you trust
me
?”
He took a predatory step toward her. “Because you shouldn’t, lass.”

Finally the
inevitable was happening. She took a step back warily, but he took another
forward. She would see who he really was, even without him having to tell her
all of it, and she would flee him, or at least turn away from him.

He couldn’t have
her stay with him—for too many reasons. The most obvious was that he had a
mission. He had to tell the Bruce about Longshanks’ death, and give him time to
plan their next step. Then his work in the Bruce’s army would continue. There
were always more marks. He couldn’t simply walk away from his work and into the
arms of a waiting Jossalyn. The thought was like a punch to the stomach, both
the achingly honeyed idea of getting to be with her, and the bitter truth that
he never could, not long-term anyway.

But another reason
besides his duty to the Bruce and his mission whispered in the back of his
mind. She would never be able to care for him, to understand what he had done
over the long years of warfare and battles. It was better that she know the
truth now before either one of them let their attraction go any farther. He
wasn’t the hero. He did what had to be done, including pushing her away—or
rather, giving her a glimpse of his life and letting her turn away from him in
revulsion.

“I’m not the man
you met back in Dunbraes. I am a warrior, a killer, not some innocent
blacksmith. You shouldn’t be out here alone with me.”

She began to take
another step back, but then halted, lifting her chin. “If you are so dangerous,
then why am I still alive?”

“Like I told you
before, Burke needs you, and I need Burke to complete my mission. Don’t think
that it means you’re safe.”

Part of him hated
trying to scare her like this, but the other, louder part reminded himself that
it was true—he wasn’t a safe person to be around. Danger followed him—nay, he
sought it out. He couldn’t just bring her along with him to the Highlands and
into Robert the Bruce’s war camp. He still had no idea what he was going to do
about all this, but he had to put some distance between them. She couldn’t
think of him as some sort of champion, and he couldn’t let himself indulge in
the pleasure of her nearness. He had to be bigger than his desire for her.

Just then, her
eyes flicked from his face down over his torso, which was still bare. He
watched as a flutter of heat seeped into her eyes, and he felt himself snap. He
could crush down his own craving for her, but her desire for him was his
breaking point.

In one stride he closed
the distance between them and his body slammed into hers.