Lion's Lady

“The earl’s court is likely to be a rough place.”

“I’ve lived among rough men all my life,” she’d said with a toss of her head, rather enjoying the freedom to decide things for herself after so many years under Padruig’s thumb.

“I heard Eneas tell Clem we should reach Blantyre sometime today,” Rowena said now to her freckle-faced escort.

“Not a moment too soon.” Harry grimaced as he shifted. “Me bum’s permanently flattened, I’ll wager.”

Rowena smiled and blew a drop of rain off the end of her nose. “I know just what you mean.”

“Will it be a grand place, do ye think?”

“I shouldn’t wonder, for Finlay tells me it is the ancient seat of Clan Shaw, and they a wealthy house.” Oh, she did so want to make a good impression on the mighty earl who’d taken up residence there. She had a moment’s qualm, thinking of the woolen gown carefully folded into her saddle pouch. It was the finest thing she’d ever owned, and Jennie had assured her that the deep blue color was vastly becoming. Yet Rowena feared the noble courtiers would see through the bright plumage to her drab MacBean roots.

“Do ye think there’ll be lassies there, and all?”

“For shame, Harry,” she said. “You are supposed to be guarding me, not chasing after a flock of light skirts.”

“My lady! I—I assure ye I didn’t mean it, I—”

“I was teasing, Harry.”

He glanced sidelong at her, dark eyes wide under a tangle of dripping red hair. “I’ve never heard ye jest before, my lady. Ye were always a most serious and proper sort.”

“I suppose that’s true.” But there had been a time, a brief time, during that wild, glorious summer with Lion, when she’d been gay and happy and loved. The memory brought with it a pang of longing so sharp she could smell the heather that had grown in the fields. Six years it had been since she’d been held or kissed. Six long, lonely years.

“Lady Rowena?”

She started. “Aye, Harry.”

“Look up ahead. Eneas’s scouts have ridden in with word we’re within a league of Blantyre Castle.”

“Praise be,” Rowena said. “Can we pause that I might change into fresh clothes and try to get a comb through my hair?”

“I doubt Eneas’ll stop, and I’d not want to linger alone in these woods.”

Rowena followed his wary gaze into the dark, dripping forest, which seemed to close in on them. Steam rose from the black boulders crowding the edge of the trail. It mingled with the mist in the trees, forming a dense fog within whose depths all manner of evil might lurk. Somewhere nearby a hawk’s lonely cry split the silence, sending a shiver down Rowena’s spine. “I suppose you are right. Hopefully the earl will understand.”

“Ye look fine as ye are, in any case, my lady. Except for the bit of mud on yer cheek.”

Rowena hastily scrubbed at her face. “Oh dear, it is vitally important that the earl look kindly on me.”

“We must hurry along,” Harry urged. “Eneas and his men have reached yon bend in the road, and we’ll lose sight of them.”

Rowena lifted her head to find Eneas glancing back over his shoulder, watching her from the head of the column. The hatred in his eyes settled the question. He’d like naught better than to lose her...or see her fall prey to some lethal accident. “You are right, Harry. Let us make haste.”

The words had scarcely left Rowena’s mouth when the thud of muffled hoofbeats came from behind them, mingled with the low rumble of male voices.

“Mayhap ’tis scouts from Blantyre come to welcome us,” Rowena whispered.

“Nay, they come too fast” Harry freed his sword. “Quickly, make for Eneas and the others,” he urged.

Too late. Mounted men erupted from the trees behind them, brandishing swords and screaming fit to curdle the blood.

Eneas showed his true mettle. Or rather, his back. He fled ahead of the attacking horde without a backward glance, his men scrambling after him like a pack of terrified rabbits.

“Sweet Mary, we are lost,” Rowena cried.

Harry wheeled to face the oncoming men. “Ride, my lady,” he shouted. “Dinna stop till ye reach Blantyre.”

There was no time to argue, no time to thank Harry. Digging her heels into her horse’s ribs, Rowena sped along the track Eneas had taken. Branches slapped at her face; briars tore at her clothes. Behind her, she heard the grate of steel on steel, followed by an ominous cry.

Harry.

There was no time to mourn, no time for pain and regret. Rowena focused all her energies on staying in the saddle and keeping her mount moving on the track. A minute they rode, maybe two, before she heard the pounding beat of hot pursuit.

“Faster! Faster!” Rowena urged, giving her mare its head. Her heart flew into her throat as the beast stumbled. “Nay.” She pulled back on the reins, fighting for balance, praying for a miracle. It was not granted. With a sharp equine squeal of protest, the horse went down, throwing Rowena off over its head.

She hit the ground with a teeth-jarring thump. The world went black, then misty gray. Stars danced before her eyes. She tasted blood and dirt.

“Chase down the others, I’ll see to the wench,” shouted a coarse voice.

Rowena clawed at the dirt, trying to rise, to crawl into the concealing foliage a foot away. Hard hands grabbed her by the shoulders and wrenched her up. There she dangled, like a fish on a hook, feet milling in the air, her head muzzy as a drunk’s.

“Well, well...” Even seen through a misty haze, her captor’s face was terrifying, with blunt, brutish features weathered by sun and wind, close-set black eyes and a tangle of inky hair. “She’s a mite dirty at the moment, but she may clean up fine.”

“I dinna want to wait,” snarled a sullen voice. The speaker was smaller than his hulking companion and better looking, if you discounted the meanness in his pale eyes.

Terror chased the cobwebs from Rowena’s aching head. Mustering what courage she could, she said, “Release me this instant,” in her most imperious voice. The effect was ruined by her position.

The brute laughed. “Why, ’tis no serving wench we’ve caught, Dickie me lad, but a fine lady.”

“She don’t look so fine...and it don’t make a damn bit of difference to me who she is.” Dickie reached for the laces on the front of her gown.

“Wait!” Rowena said, hating the quaver in her voice. “I am Lady Rowena Gunn, come with my kinsmen on important business with the Earl of Buchan. If you will take me—unharmed—to Blantyre Castle, my brother will reward you richly.”

The brute’s eyes narrowed assessingly. “Dickie and me, we’ve no need of gold, but a fresh wench...” He cocked his head, a merciless grin splitting his ugly face. “Now that’s a reward a man’d have to be dead to pass up.”

“Dead is what you’ll be if you don’t release the lady,” said a low, soft voice. The man who stood behind the brute was leaner but taller than her attacker. A helmet shadowed his face. From beneath it, black hair flowed over massive shoulders. With his sword held before him and his dark cape fluttering out in the wind, he resembled an avenging angel.

“’Tis Glenshee,” Dickie exclaimed.

Cursing, the brute cast Rowena into the bracken and drew his sword as he turned to face the newcomer. “Ye’re alone.” A savage smile split his ugly face.

“I have Avenger.” The knight hefted his claymore with one hand, letting the half-light play on the runes carved into the gleaming blade. “That’s enough to deal with the likes of you, Georas MacPherson.”

Georas’s laughter was coarse and mean, his attack lightning quick. His sword slashed down. Metal screamed on metal as the dark knight countered the stroke, driving Georas back. Face red with fury, MacPherson lunged, shouting for Dickie, who came in swinging his own blade. The blow fell on the leather-and-metal targe the knight held over his left arm. Before Dickie could disengage, Glenshee twisted the shield, scoring Dickie’s arm with the metal point at its center.

Dickie cursed and drew back, then resumed the attack, raining a flurry of blows on the targe.

“That’s it! Give no quarter!” Georas roared. He slashed with more fury than finesse, but the air resounded with the grating of steel on steel.

Rowena scrambled up from the dirt, back braced against an oak as she watched the struggle. Surely Glenshee could not prevail against these two. Should she call for help? Oh, that was rich. Whom did she expect would come?

While she debated, the dark knight sent his blade sliding down Georas’s. With a flick of his muscled arm, he sent his opponent’s sword arcing into the brush.

“What the...?” Eyes wide, Georas backed up, rubbing at the small, bloody slice on his wrist. “Get him, Dickie.”

“By all means, Dickie. Come and get me,” Glenshee taunted. The deadly tip of his blade swung back and forth between the two, keeping them at bay.

“The hell with this.” Dickie backed up a step, then turned and ran to his horse. “No wench is worth this much trouble.”

Georas glared at the knight. “We’ll finish this another day, Glenshee.”

“Name the time and the place.”

Georas growled a low curse and backed toward his horse. He sprang into the saddle, sent a last, scathing glance at her rescuer, then spurred away into the mist.

Rowena released the breath she’d been holding and sagged against the tall oak, scarcely feeling the damp. As her breathing quieted and her heart settled, she became aware of the hushed silence all around them. The trees stood motionless; expectancy hung heavy as fog in the air.

Her rescuer stood a few feet away, staring after the MacPhersons, his face hidden in shadows. His sword, held still in his right hand, gleamed evilly in the pale light.

Suddenly the lump was back in Rowena’s throat. Had she traded one thug for another? “Thank you, sir, I—I am in your debt. I do not know what would have happened had you not come.”

“I do, I am afraid. Georas MacPherson and his brother are old hands at picking on things that are small and fragile.”

Was that how he saw her? Defenseless? Vulnerable? She tried to step back, found the way blocked by the oak.

“Pray do not be alarmed.” He sheathed the sword and extended his large, lean hands, callused palms up. “You are quite safe with me, lass.”

A sense of déjà vu swept through her, taking her back to another time and another man—a lad, realty—who’d saved her from a band of bullies at a clan gathering. Lion Sutherland. Friend, lover, enemy. She stared at him, eyes aching as she tried to pierce the gloom. There was something in the timbre of his voice, in the way he held himself, so straight, assured and proud, that made her tremble. “Who are you?” she whispered.

He cocked his head, considering. A smile flashed briefly. “How remiss of me.” Sweeping off his helmet, he bowed low, courtier to lady. “I am Lionel Sutherland of Glenshee.”

“Sweet saints above.” Rowena swayed, praying for the ground to swallow her up. “It cannot be you.”

“Rowena?” He closed in on her, his hand warm and hard as it seized her chin and tilted it up. “Dieu. ’Tis you.” His grip tightened. “Bloody hell. If I’d known, I’d have run Georas and Dickie through for daring to touch you.” His thumb whisked over her jaw. “Are you all right?”

“Aye,” she murmured, dazed by the unexpected turn of events. It was horrible, yet thrilling to see him again, to stand so close after so long. His hair was shorter, the dark mane just brushing his shoulders, its red lights dulled by the gloom. Nothing could dampen the glow in those amber eyes, though, eyes that could freeze or burn. Eyes that studied her with searing intensity. Aye, he was still a magnificent man, with the body of a warrior and the face of a poet. A man other men followed into battle, a man women sighed over and burned over. She’d sighed and burned. Oh, how she’d burned.

Oh, how she’d grieved when it was over.

The memory of his leaving broke through her dazed state. Shivering with emotion, she tried to draw back.

“Shh. No need to fear, I’ve got you safe.” He drew her into his embrace. The feel of his arms was so familiar, so welcome after six long years of drought, that she shivered again. “Easy.” He stroked her back, as he’d done so often in the past, holding her as she drifted down from the heights of passion into blissful contentment.

Angered by her own weakness, she tried to twist free, but he held her fast. Clearly, whatever he’d been doing in France these six years had built up his strength, not depleted it. “You are hurting me,” she said, knowing his one weakness.

His grip eased, but he didn’t let her go. “I know I hurt you,” he said, his voice low and tight, and she knew it was not the present of which he spoke, but the past.

“I do not want to talk about it.”

“I understand, but—”

“Oh, you do?” The temper Rowena had held in check all the while she’d lived with the Gunns suddenly threatened to explode. Shaking free of his grip, she shouted, “Well, understand this, I loved you. With all my heart. When you left, you broke it. You nearly broke me. Do not,” she added, when he reached for her again.

“You have every right to be hurt and upset, but there are things I need to tell you.”

“Well, I don’t want to hear them.”

He sighed and raked a hand through his hair, a sure sign he was agitated and trying to work through a problem. Good. She hoped it plagued him into the early grave he so richly deserved.

“At least listen to what I have to say,” he argued. “You owe me that much.”

“I owe you?” Rowena’s simmering fury boiled over. She buried her elbow in his rock-hard midsection, ignoring the shaft of pain that traveled up her arm. His grunt of surprise as he bent over was satisfying, but not half as much as the sharp oath she wrang from him when her knee caught him under the chin.

The earth shook as he hit the ground. “Damn.” He dragged the hair from his eyes with an angry swipe. “Where the hell did you learn such low tricks?” he gasped.

“From you. You said a lass should be able to protect herself.” Rowena stood over him, hands on her hips, wounded spirits soaring. Seeing him lying at her feet almost made up for the past. Almost. “And I could not agree more.” Dusting off her hands, she spun around to look for her horse.

But she’d forgotten how quick he’d always been to retaliate. Grabbing hold of her ankle, he jerked her down on top of him. Before she could wriggle upright, he rolled, pinning her to the soggy ground with one heavy thigh. His elbows were planted just above her shoulders, caging her, yet sparing her the brunt of his weight. Eyes bright with anger and something even more dangerous, he smiled down at her. “Even better.”

The feel of his warm, solid body pressing into hers, the scent of his skin, the quick hammer of his heart against hers were so achingly familiar that for a moment her mind emptied of everything but this. She’d thought herself dead to all emotion save her love for Paddy. ’Twas the worst irony to find that even after six years of hating him, with one touch Lion could still make her yearn and burn.

“Ah, Ro. Jesu, but I’ve missed you.” He lowered his head, his breath warm on her mouth.

Buffeted by memories, she waited, wanting his kiss, craving the taste of him. And then what? She’d been down that path before. It promised paradise, but lead to hell. “Nay!” She turned her head aside, shivering as his lips grazed her ear.

“You cannot avoid the inevitable,” he whispered, nibbling his way across her cheek.

She had to. Desperate, Rowena fought back the only way she could. When his lips grazed hers, she bit him. Hard.

“Hell!” Lion reared back, eyes shocked, blood welling from a neat set of marks in his lower lip.

Rowena was so furious with him, with herself, that she shook all over. Nay, ’twas the ground that shook. She looked up, past Lion’s shoulder, to see a troop of mounted men galloping toward them.

“Lion!” called one of them. “I thought you were rescuing the lady, not debauching her.”

Lion rose lithely. “Save your pity, Bryce. I’m the one with bruised ribs and a bloody lip. Any losses?”

“Nay, we chased the MacPhersons off before they could do more than frighten these folk. And the lady?”

“Is just fine, thank you,” Rowena said briskly. She dusted off her hands and searched the crowd of milling men, finding the Gunns knotted together in the throng. Eneas’s disappointment at finding her alive was apparent. Some of the others looked shame-faced. And well they should, riding off and leaving a lady and a lad to face a horde of—“Oh, my guardsman,” she exclaimed, starting back down the road. “He was injured.”

“I will find him,” Lion said, trotting alongside her.

Rowena turned on him. “I do not want your help.”

He had the nerve to look hurt. “Bryce,” he called over his shoulder. “Would you assist the lady Rowena in finding her man?”

Rowena marched down the muddy track, the knowledge that Lion watched her sending an odd thrill down her spine. Seeing him again after all this time was...

Terrible. Horrible.

And exciting.

Dangerously exciting.

That was what frightened her the most.

Bryce Sutherland waited till the little cavalcade, with himself and Lion at its head, had gotten underway before he broached a delicate subject. “How does it seem, seeing the lady Rowena after all this time?” he asked of his cousin.

“I am not sure,” Lion replied.

This from the man who was always confident, always knew which way to jump, no matter how perilous the situation? “’Twas a shock,” Bryce said. Ten years Lion’s senior, he was as much mentor as captain of the elite force that had fought under the Sutherland banner during their years in France.

“Aye. When I realized the lass I’d saved from the MacPherson was Rowena, I damn near fell over.” A muscle in Lion’s cheek jumped as he flexed his jaw. “She is not well pleased to see me,” he said in a low, troubled voice. “And who can blame her, for she thinks I left her without a care or a qualm.”

“Did you not explain what happened that night?”

“She would not speak of it.” Lion exhaled, his eyes bleak in the sockets of his helmet.

“Mmm. Mayhap she will when she is over the shock of the MacPhersons’ attack and her guard’s wounding.” Bryce deftly changed the subject. “Did she say what they were doing here?”

Lion shifted in the saddle, barely resisting the urge to look back at the object of his turbulent thoughts. She’d refused any further help from him. That had hurt. “I did not think to ask.”

“Aye. You were a trifle busy when we arrived.”

Lion flushed. “Appearance to the contrary, I was not trying to seduce her.” Though he’d wanted to. Still did, if the truth be known. He’d gorged himself on women when he’d learned his Rowena had wed another, but none of them had captured his heart or satisfied his soul the way she could.

“Have your feelings for her changed, then?”

“Nay.” His heart had soared when he’d recognized her. “But she made her hatred of me plain enough.”

“She is only recently widowed.”

Lion nodded, gut tightening with guilt.

“According to Eneas Gunn, Padruig’s brother and the leader of this band, they believe Padruig was killed by thieves.”

Did she mourn him? Had she loved him? “Eneas is the wretch who ran off and left her to MacPherson?”

“The same. I’d say there is little love lost ’twixt him and Rowena, for when we’d routed the MacPhersons, he was not anxious to go back and find his brother’s widow.”

“Bastard. I’ll see she’s kept safe,” Lion murmured. “Whether she wants my help or not.”

“I still cannot believe Alexander had Padruig killed simply because he would not bring his few men to Blantyre.”

“The Wolf grows more and more unstable in his thinking.” Silently Lion cursed the earl for wreaking havoc in the Highlands. ’Twas not peace Alexander wanted, but power. Under the guise of curbing lawlessness, he planned to gather about him a huge Highland army. With it, he’d wrest the throne from his weak, ineffectual brother, Robert. “If only we could find proof of Alexander’s true intentions.”

“Mad he may be, but Alexander is clever, too clever to leave evidence lying about.”

“But we know he has designs on the crown. He has promised that when he’s king, he’ll grant land and other favors to some of the more powerful clans, the ones he cannot now sway to his side with gold or intimidation. Rory Campbell saw the document Alexander sent to Archie, chief of the Campbells.”

Alarmed, Rory had ridden to Lion’s family at Kinduin, where he’d been fostered as a lad. Lion had only just returned from France when Rory burst in with his tale of treachery and intrigue. They’d agreed that Lucais, Lion’s father, would go to Edinburgh to try and convince the king to recall Alexander from the Highlands. Rory would return to Blantyre and secure the promissory note. But Rory had been ambushed and killed. The murder of his friend had launched Lion into a desperate scheme of his own to infiltrate Alexander’s ranks. He’d been right successful, too. The earl trusted him...as much as the wily wolf trusted anyone.

“We’ve had Alexander’s things searched and found naught,” Bryce glumly reminded him.

It had not been easy getting a Sutherland, disguised as a servant, into the chamber Alexander used at Blantyre. “Naill could not get into the locked strongbox. ’Tis the most likely place for the earl to store such damaging evidence.”

“We must somehow get inside that chest, no matter how dangerous,” Bryce murmured. Searching the personal belongings of a man as powerful and ruthless as Alexander Stewart would be akin to walking bare naked through a room full of vipers. One false step and they’d all be dead. “Mayhap we might slip a sleeping potion into his wine and take the key from around his neck while he is unconscious.”

Lion shook his head. “If he suspected that he’d been drugged, he’d kill every servant in the place...and mayhap even harm Lady Glenda.” Lion liked the woman, who was chatelaine of Clan Shaw’s stronghold Blantyre Castle. Three months ago, Alexander had decided the large, strategically placed fortress would make the perfect headquarters from which to conduct his “pacification” of the Highlands. He’d presented himself at the castle gates, and when Lady Glenda had balked, had proceeded to seduce the homely, middle-aged woman. Lately, however, there’d been signs the earl wearied of his mistress.

“We must come up with something,” Lion said grimly. And while he was on the subject of problems, he added, “I will think on it whilst I escort Rowena to wherever she is bound.”

“Eneas said they were destined for Blantyre Castle.”

Lion gasped and whirled to stare at the woman whose image had haunted him—waking and sleeping—during his years in France. She was looking down at the injured man his lads carried in a litter. Harry had received a grave wound to the side trying to defend her. His sacrifice had given Lion the time to reach her. Harry was unlikely to live, but that hadn’t discouraged Rowena from tearing up her own shift to fashion a bandage for him. She’d always had a soft spot for hurt things.

“Why are they going there?” Lion asked.

“Clan business, Eneas told me. Nastily, I might add, as though I had no right to inquire into his affairs.”

“Any man who leaves a woman in distress is no man at all.” He looked back again, studying the delicate line of her face. “And Blantyre is no place for a gentle lass like Rowena.” The vain, shallow women who hung about the earl’s court would slash her to ribbons with their vicious tongues. And the men... Lion’s gut roiled at the thought of his fragile Rowena pursued by Georas MacPherson and his ilk.

As though sensing his scrutiny, Rowena looked up. Their gazes met, locked. Her eyes were as dark as peat smoke and just as mysterious, her pale, dirt-streaked features coolly blank. When had she learned to guard her thoughts like that? Lion wondered, remembering the lass whose every notion he’d been able to read from the first.