“Aye, on that we agree.” Sir Lochlann grimaced. “In the end, for the poor decisions made, King Edward’s men paid the price. As did the Treacherer.”
Treacherer. Griffin grimaced. A name given to Cressingham by the Scots. His abusive ways earned him no friends amongst the English. Instead, his self-serving actions had gained him the title of the Son of Death.
“What happened to Cressingham?” Rois asked.
At her question, several people nearby quieted, their attention on Sir Lochlann.
“Flayed him, they did.” Lochlann grunted. “The bastard will nae be ordering any more Scots cut down.”
Gasps echoed from the women, and Rois’s face grew deathly white.
“That Cressingham is dead is enough,” Griffin warned.
Red streaked the Scot’s cheeks, and he nodded to Rois. “Aye, ’tis nae a description fitting a lass’s ears.”
Mayhap not a lass’s ears, but Griffin understood exactly who the description had been for—him. However jealous, however much Sir Lochlann hated Griffin, for the Scot to upset Rois further was unforgivable.
“It matters nae,” Rois said, her voice trembling, “I must see my father.”
“Nay, Lord Brom’s request was clear,” Sir Lochlann stated. “He wishes you nowhere near the battlefield.”
She stiffened. “My father may be dying. You will take me or heaven help me, I will ride there myself.”
“’Tis no place for a lass,” Sir Lochlann growled. “Though the battle was swift, the carnage ’tis a sight that makes a seasoned warrior cringe.”
Rois scowled. “Well I know the price of war, and the cost.”
“Rois,” her friend said, “as Lord Monceaux cautioned, though the English fled, to be outside the castle walls is far from safe. And, more worries we have.” He paused, shot Griffin a hard look before turning back to Rois. “’Tis your cousin.”
“Andrew?”
“Aye,” Lochlann said. “He is severely injured.”
Griffin stilled. God’s teeth. Wallace knew the basics of how to wage a fight, but the crucial strategy backing the rebels was de Moray’s. Expertise gained from his time in Europe, the tactics achieved by his training with the Swiss mercenaries.
“How badly?” Griffin asked.
Hatred flashed in Lochlann’s eyes. “’Twould seem we will both know when we reach him. Sir Wallace bade me bring you to the encampment to take de Moray to Cumbuskenneth Abbey.”
“De Moray requested the Englishman’s presence?” a Scot nearby asked with skepticism.
Lochlann’s mouth tightened. “Aye.”
Whispers of disbelief raced through the crowd.
Yet another reason the Scot was furious. Griffin would never reveal he could be trusted by the rebels, or of his close bond with both Wallace and de Moray.
Her face pale with shock, Rois shook her head. “I canna lose them both.”
“We must leave immediately,” Griffin said, far from looking forward to traveling with the Scot, a man who would kill him without hesitation.
“Aye. Except”—Sir Lochlann frowned—“Sir Wallace made it clear that Rois was to travel with you, but her father wants her kept away from the battlefield as much as possible.”
A muscle worked in Griffin’s jaw. “’Tis bloody unsafe.”
“At the risk of earning Wallace’s displeasure, I questioned the wisdom of Rois leaving as well. Neither do I agree on having an Englishman anywhere near de Moray,” the Scot stated, his voice crisp, “but he refused to discuss the reason behind either decision.”
And with good reason, Griffin mused. To request an English lord who held a high position within the king’s court to escort one of the Scots’ most powerful leaders was a decision that would raise many a rebel’s ire. But the Scots trusted Wallace, understood he did nothing without good reason. God forbid if Wallace’s request reached King Edward’s ears.
Still, why would Wallace want Rois in accompaniment? To say something was amiss put it mildly. Like the rebels, Griffin would do as Wallace asked.
“To remind you,” Sir Lochlann said, breaking into his thoughts, “I will ride with you and Rois as well.”
As if he’d forgotten? The Scot’s presence would make for a tedious trip. The Scot hated him for having wed Rois, for the wedding being allowed to stand, and for Griffin being asked to take de Moray to Cumbuskenneth Abbey. Each day, Griffin’s displeasure with Sir Lochlann increased as well. ’Twould seem they shared a common bond.
“And,” Sir Lochlann glanced at Rois, “to keep your cousin safe, they moved him a distance from the battlefield.”
“How far is he from my father?” Rois asked.
“Several leagues,” Sir Lochlann replied.
Griffin cursed. “’Tis still too near the battlefield.”
“Aye,” the Scot agreed. “But the decision was nae mine.”
“I care little who made the decision,” Rois said. “I wish to see my cousin, but I
will
see my father first. I am nae a weak-kneed woman who needs protection.”
Tenderness and concern creased Sir Lochlann’s face. “Christ’s eyes, Rois, I would nae keep you away from your father. But ’tis nae my choice.”
To Griffin, the sincerity in the Scot’s voice rang false. Lochlann may wish to take Rois to her father, but he doubted true concern lay behind his reason.
“Once we pack enough food to travel, we will leave immediately. As for our destination,” Lochlann said, his gaze on Rois, “we will follow Wallace’s request and your father’s.” The Scot dismounted, strode to the keep.
As he watched the Scot walk away, Griffin grimaced. Rois might believe Sir Lochlann a man to depend on, one she called friend, but Griffin was far from convinced. He would keep a watch for the notions Sir Lochlann would surely try to put in Rois’s head. Blast that Wallace had asked Rois to ride with them.
Or . . . had he?
Wallace’s request for Griffin to escort de Moray to Cumbuskenneth Abbey rang true, more so by the Scot’s anger. But had his friend indeed requested Rois’s presence as well?
The more Griffin pondered the questions, the greater his disquiet. Though he had no proof, one thing he believed without a doubt . . .
Sir Lochlann was a liar.
Chapter Eleven
Rois drew her cape closer, the whip of wind chilling where she, Griffin, and Lochlann had made camp. An ache built in her chest as she scanned the fragmented land, hard sweeps ravaged by winter, valleys smoothed by the passage of time. She cursed the fading day, inhibiting their ability to continue to travel. What of her father? Was he struggling to live? Or, was he already . . .
She closed her eyes, fought to control her emotions. On a deep breath she lifted her lids, studied the wash of land blurred through her tears. Frustrated, terrified for her father’s life, she brushed the tears away. Da lived. She savored the belief in her mind; it was much needed assurance to her battered soul.
Flickers of dying sunlight rippled across the sky, the rays like waning fingers of orange. Along the horizon, a glow built within the heavens, a subtle shimmer that embraced the land as if magic cast.
Magic?
Nay, naught but worry existed this day, the weight of her thoughts far from those inspired by the fey. All she wished for at this moment was to know that her father lived.
Rocks clattered nearby.
Rois turned.
From around a tall boulder, Lochlann made his way toward her, his thick red hair tied at the nape of his neck. He reached the flat boulder where she sat, and halted. “Dinna ye mind if I sit with ye?”
She gave him a smile, comforted by his concern, his familiar face welcome during this turbulent time. “Nay, ’twould please me.”
“And me.” He glanced toward where Griffin tended the horses, scowled.
“None of that now,” she said.
Lochlann grunted. “The bloody Sassenach should nae be charged with escorting de Moray to Cumbuskenneth Abbey. Odd, I find it, for Wallace to be making such a request.”
A disquiet Rois shared, but as her father had said many times, war oftentimes made strange bedfellows. Whatever guided Wallace in asking Griffin to escort her cousin to the abbey, he did so with good reason.
“I believe Wallace’s request is more a strategic move,” she said.
Lochlann settled beside her, rubbed his thighs. “You have an idea of the why, then?”
She picked up a weather-smoothed stone, rolled it in her palm. “Nay, but having met Wallace several times in my life and given his keen mind, neither can I believe he has made the decision in error.” He shrugged, but she caught the tension in his shoulders. “Lochlann?”
He faced the dwindling rays.
“You are upset,” she said. “More so than because of Wallace’s request.”
His jaw tightened as he turned to face her, grey eyes hard with shadows and anger. “You should nae be with the Englishman.”
Rois set the stone aside. “Lord Monceaux and I handfasted.”
“Bedamned, Rois, the marriage was a farce.”
“’Twas my fault. And now my father’s wish. But,” she said, her voice but a whisper, “temporary.”
“Is it?”
Stunned by his accusation, she stared at her childhood friend, with whom throughout the years she’d shared many a secret. “Aye, why would you think our union anything but?” Even as she asked, a part of her found regret that indeed the marriage would end, and in weeks if nae days Griffin would ride away and she would never see him again. Absurd thoughts indeed when he was her enemy.
And he was . . . Wasn’t he?
“Rois?”
Unsettled by her thoughts, she stood, the shimmer of the sun’s rays illuminating the land as it faded, just like her dreams of love or happily ever after.
“’Tis growing late,” she said. “’Twill be a long day of travel on the morrow.”
Lochlann stood, towered over her, the wisps of light embracing his hard expression. “You have feelings for the Englishman.”
“It is nae what you think.”
“Nay?” He cursed. “Has he touched you?”
She narrowed her eyes. “I am a woman wed. I will nae be discussing what Griffin and I do in private.”
“You were handfasted in an act to protect your father, an act that I curse myself for allowing.”
Guilt swept her, the memories of how Griffin had touched her, how she wanted more. “Lochlann, you didna—”
“This entire misfortune is because of me. Never should I have told you of the Englishman’s threat to your father. I should have found a way to convince Lord Brom to leave before the baron noticed him seated at the front of the chamber.”
“It matters nae,” Rois replied. “The deed is done.”
Lochlann took her hand, laid it over his heart. “A deed that will soon be undone. Of that I swear.”
At his intimate gesture, she tried to pull away; he held tight. Panic swept her. “Release me.”
“I will nae let you go. I love you, Rois. Have since you were a wee lass and shot down my stick fortress with your slingshot.”
Laughter and sadness melded in her throat at the image of the blustery indignant lad. “Lochlann, we are nay longer children.”
His eyes searching hers, he stroked her face with the pad of his thumb. “Aye. You are a woman well grown, a woman whom I love and have always loved.”
Alarmed by his intensity, Rois again tried to withdraw her hand. For a moment he held, then released her. She stepped back. “Lochlann, I am married. ’Tis unseemly to speak of such.”
His nostrils flared. “I will nae give up on you, lass.”
Regret touched her. She was too aware of Lochlann’s deep emotions toward her, of the many years he’d wanted her, and how she’d turned him away. Though she loved him as a friend, as much as she’d tried to care more for him on an intimate level, never would her desire for him be more.
She shook her head. “I—”
“Rois.” Behind her, ice etched Griffin’s voice.
She whirled. Her husband stood several paces away. The grey cast of the advancing night warred with the shimmers of the new moon against the fury carved on his face.
Hand clasping his dagger, Lochlann stepped forward.
Bedamned her friend for provoking Griffin. Rois stepped between the two men. “Has a runner come?”
A runner? Griffin muttered a curse. As if his wife alone with another man professing his love was not reason enough for his intervention? Rois belonged to him.
Until their annulment.
Griffin awaited the sweep of relief of his impending freedom, of the day when he could ride away without the weight of a woman who promised naught but complications. Instead, a sense of emptiness left his heart with a subtle ache.
His heart? Laughable. He could not have deep feelings for Rois. He’d known her but days.
Yet the emptiness remained.
Frustrated, he forced his thoughts to his realization of moments before. When he’d first seen Lochlann in the great room at Dunadd Castle, he’d thought the Scot looked familiar. Amidst the chaos, he’d dismissed the memory as quick. But as he’d rounded the corner, the anger in Sir Lochlann’s voice had invoked an image of a Scot in an inn abusing the woman two years past. The bastard would never touch Rois!
“Stay away from my wife,” Griffin warned. “Touch her, look at her the wrong way, and I will kill you.”
Challenge glinting his eyes, Sir Lochlann stepped forward. “Dare you threaten me, Sassenach?”
He ignored the ugly slang for an Englishman. “I make no threats. A promise, the same as I made at the tavern two years past.”
Surprise flared in the Scot’s gaze.
“Griffin, Lochlann,” Rois said, panic riding her voice.
“Heed my words, Scot, the next time you will feel not the lash of my tongue, but my blade. Now, keep a lookout for any danger.” Griffin caught Rois’s hand. “I need to speak with my wife—in private.” He strode with her into the moon-ridden land.
She hurried to keep by his side. “Lochlann is a friend. He would never harm me.”
Griffin grunted.
Frustrated, Rois glanced back, caught the outline of Lochlann against the glow of the rising moon. “And what did you mean by a promise you made two years back? Do you know him?”
“We have met.”
The anger in his voice assured her the meeting was neither friendly nor welcome. “When?”
Once they’d rounded a boulder giving them privacy, far from where Lochlann could hear or see them, Griffin whirled. “Two years past, I was en route to deliver a writ. While drinking a tankard of ale at a tavern, I heard a woman scream.”
Nerves edged through her. “What has that to do with Lochlann?”
“’Twas he who held the woman roughly, he who had shoved her in the corner, and he who was taking unwanted liberties.”
“It must have been someone else. Sir Lochlann is a fierce warrior who intimidates some.”
“It was Lochlann.”
Anger filled his voice, raw with conviction, a belief that left Rois struggling to accept his words. “Why would he do such a thing?”
“Because he is an arrogant man who believes in taking what he wants.”
“Lochlann has a stubborn streak,” she agreed, “and a temper at times, but he does nae mistreat women or take what is nae freely offered.”
“You doubt me?”
“From the time I have known you, you have proven yourself an honorable man.”
“Yet,” Griffin said, “you remain hesitant to believe me?”
“What happened between you two that night?” Rois asked, wondering if she truly wanted to know.
“When Lochlann refused to let the woman go, I dragged him from her. I threatened him if he ever touched the woman again.”
Which explained the immense dislike between the men. On edge, she turned toward the moon, its silver beams spilling upon the land like fairy dust spilled. She swallowed hard. Over the years, she’d witnessed touches of Lochlann’s anger, but she’d wanted to believe the best about him and had dismissed the incidents as rare. How could she nae, when he was her friend.
“Rois, you are not to be alone with him again.”
At the fierce passion within his voice, she faced him. The sheer need in his eyes stunned her, ignited memories of his touch upon their wedding night, of how her skin tingled with awareness, how her body had burned for him.
She shuddered. Each moment she remained alone with Griffin, wanting him as she did now, ’twas dangerous. To linger where her fantasies lived and breathed their own life would leave her hurt in the end.
“We need to rest,” he whispered, but his voice lacked conviction. “Our journey on the morrow will be long.”
“It will,” she agreed.
Wind slipped through Rois’s hair, fluttering strands across her cheek in a gentle caress. Griffin caught a wayward lock and pushed it back, savoring the touch of his finger across her skin. Never had he wanted a woman as much as her.
Drawn, needing to taste her as he needed the air he breathed, he laid his mouth over hers in a soft kiss, one that ignited a yearning for more, invited images of him stripping her naked and making love to her.
Breaths coming fast, he broke the kiss. She was an innocent and had no idea of the dangers each second alone with him wrought, more so with them hidden from sight.
“Go,” he whispered, each moment weakening his intent to leave her untouched.
She remained before him, her desire clear in her eyes, in the quickness of her breath, and in the way her body leaned against him.
He willed himself to step away. “I need you to know that if we had made . . .” He closed his eyes, opened them. “One day you will find the happiness you deserve. Happiness I cannot give.”
“Why is happiness nae yours to give?”
The confusion and concern in her voice touched him deeply, made him want her more than was right. “My life is one of turmoil, of . . .” He could tell her nothing. “Due to the demands of my duties I am often away.”
“Nobles are often away for various reasons of duty to whom they swear fealty, but they marry, have families, build dreams of more.”
God’s teeth, this woman could stir him as no other. “Rois, can you not see that our marriage will never last because”—he paused, saddened to introduce reality at what could be for them a defining moment—“we are enemies.”
“Are we?”
That she dared look beyond what most saw shattered his every defense. “Rois,” he whispered, his voice trembling from the intensity of wanting her, “do not do this.”
She started to speak, but he found his patience for questions at an end, their earlier kiss a pittance compared to what he yearned for. On an exhale, Griffin claimed her lips with fierce possession. Her taste infused him, and her complete return of passion left him a man willing to drown.
He lifted his head, stared at her face framed within the moon’s glow. “You are beautiful,” he whispered against her lips, wanting her, wondering if ever he would tire of her taste.
With a gentle touch, he framed her face in his hands, took her mouth slowly, completely, capturing her tongue, suckling slowly, thoroughly. When she began to shake, he edged her back against the moss-covered stone, aligned his entire body against hers to show her the need she inspired.
“Griffin,” she moaned.
“Feel me,” he whispered, kissing the curve of her chin, tasting the silk of her throat. He drew her palm against his chest. “I want you to touch me.”
For a long moment she studied him.
Throat dry, he watched her. “Please.”
A nervous smile trembled on her lips, then she nodded. Trembling fingers rested on his chest, slid over him in an unsteady glide.
At her innocent exploration, his body hardened with a fierce ache.
“Do you like this?” she asked as she slid her finger beneath his tunic, touched his nipple.
Like it? ’Twas bliss itself. “Indeed,” he hissed through clenched teeth.
She hesitated. “You are in pain?”
Yes, with wanting to sink deep in her slick warmth and take her until she screamed with her release. “No,” he managed. “My reaction is normal.”
“Truly?”
“Yes.” Griffin steadied himself. “Touch me, anywhere you wish.”