The rumbling churn of water pouring into the falls echoed in the tense silence.
Griffin’s hand trembled.
“Griffin,” she called, “please.”
His breaths coming fast, he pressed the knife harder against Lochlann’s flesh; a red line appearing across his skin. “Next time you pull a knife on me in a fight meant to be fair, you will die.”
“You carry a blade,” Lochlann ground out.
“I do, but ’tis secured in its sheath.” Griffin stood and hurled the Scot’s dagger into the rush of water beyond.
On a curse, Sir Lochlann staggered to his feet, his face battered, and his lip starting to swell. “’Twas a knife handed down to me by my father.”
“Be happy I did not end your life.” Griffin turned to Rois, his eyes hard with determination. “He lives, because of you.” He nodded. “Come.” Griffin turned, strode toward their mount.
Rois hurried to his side. “What of Lochlann?”
“We ride through a land he is familiar with,” Griffin replied. “Once he crawls to his steed, he can catch up.”
“Do nae leave with him,” Lochlann boomed.
She turned toward her childhood friend. Did he nae understand what he asked? “I must.”
Grey eyes darkened. “Nay, lass, the choice is yours.”
Her mind torn with emotions, she backed away. “You dinna understand.”
“Aye,” he spat as he cast a damning glance toward Griffin, who retrieved his steed. “I believe I do.”
“Rois,” Griffin called.
Aching at the turmoil, she walked to where Griffin stood beside his mount. In silence he lifted her onto the saddle, then swung up behind her. A gust of wind spun the wash of fall-dried leaves past as he kicked his horse forward. A moment later, a thick fir erased the view of her friend with his hands upon his hips, his gaze riveted on her.
Shaken, she stared straight ahead. For now her life, by her own words, had bound her with Griffin. A tie that, however much she was starting to wish otherwise, would be severed.
“Sir Lochlann will never have you.”
At Griffin’s fierce claim, Rois hesitated. “Have me?”
“As his wife.”
She glanced back. “If you have nae noticed, ’tis you I wed.” “Only to protect your father.”
At the frustration edging his voice, she stilled. Griffin was clear that he intended their marriage to end. Had he changed his mind?
He scanned the sweep of land, the tangle of limbs void of leaves, and frowned. Eyes as bare as the weathered bark settled upon her.
“Remember what I told you about him? Sir Lochlann is a man known for his brutality.”
Any hope wilted. His caution was for her safety, nay more. “You witnessed but one event two years past. Many a reason could explain his anger toward the woman at the inn.”
“You think there are not more women he has abused?”
“He is nae a cruel man.”
“’Tis not an answer.”
Frustration built. “Once the annulment is procured, you will leave. Griffin, what is it you want of me?”
“To swear you will never go to him once you are free.”
She swallowed hard. “I see.”
Anger glittered in his eyes. “I am not a man who can afford the luxury of marriage.”
“Luxury?”
He shrugged. “But another poor word choice.”
“Is it?” Rois asked.
Griffin watched her with unnervingly intense eyes. “Marriage is not mine to offer.”
Hope again ignited. “Do you nae want a family, an heir to one day bequeath your lands?”
“My wants matter little, ’tis the needs of a country at war.”
A shiver crept upon her skin, and she understood. “Nay, as King Edward’s advisor to the Scots, you have little time for the pleasantries of life when your work is to conquer a land nae yours.”
“Is that all you see?” he demanded.
All she saw? As he was King Edward’s man, how could she view his employ as any other? Confused, understanding somehow she’d insulted him, but having no idea how, she remained silent.
“It matters not,” he said after a long moment. “’Tis best if you think me the enemy. ’Twill make the challenges ahead easier to bear.”
“Think you the enemy? What are speaking of?”
“’Tis of no concern.”
’Tis of no concern?
He would confuse a sage. “Griffin—”
The slide of stone against the rocky path in their wake had her glancing back. “’Tis Lochlann.”
Griffin gave a grunt of disgust, then guided his horse around a boulder. “Nor did I doubt he would come. The man is like gout and causes naught but suffering and grief.”
A chill swept Rois, and she leaned back against Griffin. Whatever was between him and Lochlann was far from over. She prayed her friend would nae try again to kill Griffin. If he did, after witnessing Griffin’s skill, next time Lochlann would lay dead.
Chapter Thirteen
Beneath the cloud-smeared afternoon light, the Scottish rebels’ makeshift camp came into view. A steady wind casting reckless leaves about through the day now rattled branches overhead, the taste of fall steady upon the breeze.
Griffin slowed his mount, glanced at Sir Lochlann. “Where is de Moray?”
The rebel gestured toward the rear of the encampment where several guards stood beside a large tent. “In there.”
With a curt nod, Griffin nudged his steed forward, Rois sitting in silence before him. Since his and Lochlann’s fight a day past, the Scot had spoken little. A choice he’d honored. Ironically, he kept silent due to Rois, who, with each passing day, Griffin cared about more. Regardless, with the demands of his secret life as a spy for the Rebels, a life with Rois was one he could never have.
Over the years he’d held naught but pride for the Scots, his work as
Wulfe
offering fulfillment in helping deter the strong-arm tactics of King Edward. For the first time, however, emptiness haunted him.
Fatigued, Griffin focused on the encampment, the battle-weary men scattered about, bindings covering many a wound, and for some, a macabre frame where a leg had once stood.
War.
He damned its vulgar hand, the cost, the stench that haunted a mind forever after. This was real, not the yearnings of a lonely fool. Lonely. Yes, he was that and more. Incredibly, Rois had taught him how alone he truly was.
For a short while he’d found a woman who made him feel more than he’d ever believed possible. But, he was a warrior. If he yearned for her when he rode away, so be it. Yearnings were inspirations of the mind, thoughts he could quell.
On a curse he kicked his horse forward. The soft cadence of hooves upon the pine needles echoed around them. A solemn hush swept the men as he passed. Several rebels sent curious glances his way as they rode past, but none offered a challenge.
No doubt Wallace had spread the word of his request for Griffin’s presence, but it far from answered questions the Scots would have of why a high-ranking Englishman loyal to his king would be entrusted to escort their other rebel leader to an Abbey. And him riding with Rois in tow but stirred the pot.
At the outskirt of the camp, he slowed his mount to a walk.
A laird walked nearby. Cool eyes met his.
Griffin recognized him as one of the men who had cursed him the day he’d wed Rois in the great room. Griffin nodded in acknowledgment.
The laird’s brow drew into a deep frown, and he turned away.
No, he’d won no friends that day.
“Rois, your father is camped a short ride to the north of here,” Sir Lochlann said.
“He is?” Hope filled Rois’s voice.
Griffin shot the Scot a hard look. “We will see Andrew de Moray. ’Tis why we came.”
Sir Lochlann nodded.
The Scot’s silence fooled him not. No reason existed to remind Rois of her father, except to cause division between her and Griffin as well as guide her mind to thoughts of seeing Angus.
Eyes dark with worry, she turned to Griffin. “But if my father is close—”
Griffin gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “I must see Lord Andrew first.”
“Lord Monceaux,” a guard called at their approach. He nodded to Rois. “Lady Monceaux. Sir Lochlann. We have been awaiting your arrival.”
“How fares Lord Andrew?” Griffin asked as he drew his mount to a halt.
The guard shook his head, his face grim. “He lives.”
Foreboding twisting in Griffin’s gut, he swung down, helped Rois dismount. “Take us to him.”
“Aye, my lord.” The guard started forward.
“My lord,” Sir Lochlann said from behind.
Tense, Griffin turned toward the Scot. “What?”
Sir Lochlann swung to the ground. “There are tasks I must address. I will be nearby if I am needed.” With a nod, he walked away.
Griffin watched the Scot depart with a wary eye. After his abrasive presence, odd he’d not remain near Rois. Whatever the Scot’s reason, his absence would make the meeting with de Moray easier. On edge, Griffin took Rois’s hand and followed the guard. A woman’s touch was a comfort he’d never sought before. Until Rois.
The scarred earth held firm beneath their careful steps. A bite of winter edged the cool September breeze along with an ominous sensation that weighted his each breath.
A guard stood outside the tent’s entry. As they neared, he nodded and lifted the flap. “My lord, my lady, Sir Andrew is expecting you.”
“My thanks.” Griffin ducked inside, led Rois in his wake. The stench of blood hit him first, a cloying unhealthy taint, that of rotting flesh, of herbs scalded in their brewing to aid in treating wounds. In the corner sat the rebel leader’s shield, three white stars displayed amongst a field of blue. A swath of dried, mottled crimson smeared two of the stars.
Her green eyes edged with worry, Rois’s hand trembled in his.
Griffin squeezed her hand, the macabre silence of the men inside intensifying his concern.
“Lord Monceaux?” De Moray’s throaty whisper rattled out.
“I am here, Lord Andrew.” Griffin stepped before the powerful leader, nodded. Except the man before him watched him with his face pale from weakness, agony-stricken eyes, and his each breath labored. ’Twould be a man deluded who couldn’t see his dire condition.
De Moray glanced toward the guards. “Leave us.”
Wind-tossed leaves scraped against the battered tarp as the men exited the tent.
Alone, de Moray looked at Rois and his taut expression softened. “Cousin.”
On a soft cry, she knelt before him. “Andrew.” Her hand trembled as she took his hand. “God in heaven, you look a tragic state.”
His weak laughter collapsed to a fit of coughing.
Red stroked her cheeks. “I should nae have spoken so.”
“Nay, lass.” The smile in his eyes darkened with pain. “Everyone else swears I am the vision of health. But you”—he dragged several steadying breaths—“you tell me the truth.”
Her lower lip trembled. “I—I should lie.”
De Moray gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “You should always be you, a fresh breath in a sea of those vying to earn my regard.” He paused, the lines of strain upon his face betraying the cost to speak. “Too often men give answers they believe others wish to hear.” Grim eyes lifted to Griffin. “Keep her safe. She is a woman unlike any other, one any man would be proud to call his wife, a gift only you have been given.”
Emotions storming him, Griffin silently swore. As if he didn’t know how special Rois was? Still, how could the rebel leader make such a request? And he understood. De Moray loved his cousin, wanted her protected, and in his anguished haze, knew Griffin would keep her safe.
“I will protect Rois,” Griffin replied, “that I swear.” Until Angus recovered. Then, he would turn over her protection to her father.
She frowned up at him. “’Tis my cousin’s health that needs tending, nae the rambling of men and their vows.”
“So it is,” Griffin replied, her passion something he would miss. Her cousin was right, Rois could always be counted on to speak her mind, even when the words evoked a hard truth. “Sir Andrew, William Wallace requested my presence with instructions to escort you to Cumbuskenneth Abbey.”
De Moray scowled. “I assured him ’twas but a battle wound, one no deeper than I have suffered in the past.”
“Mayhap,” Griffin replied, “but given the seriousness, you must understand ’twill take a month or more to heal.”
The rebel leader sighed, fatigue riding his face. “Aye. But my injury was well worth the accomplishments the rebels achieved. Our victory two days past at Stirling Bridge is the foundation to Scotland’s freedom. Wallace is a man driven, but . . .”
“He holds not the expertise of strategy for war,” Griffin finished.
Somber eyes met his. “Aye.”
“Nor,” Griffin said, “the training you experienced while living with the Swiss mercenaries.” At the curiosity in Rois’s eyes, he refrained from saying more. With her ignorant of his position as
Wulfe
, further discussion with de Moray would invite questions he could not answer. “We must depart for Cumbuskenneth Abbey immediately,” Griffin said, regretting that seeing Angus must wait. “’Tis best for all involved.”
“Aye,” de Moray agreed. “But there are a few things I need to take care of first.”
Bedamned. “Lord Andrew, to delay offers naught but risks to your recovery.” Griffin fought to keep emotion from his voice. “Already we must keep our pace slow. Our travel will be arduous at best.”
Mouth firm, the rebel leader held his gaze. “I have stated when we will depart.” The taut lines in his face eased. “Do nae worry, ’twill be before the sun sets.”
Hours mayhap, but did he not realize how each could make the difference in his life saved? Griffin wanted to argue further, but from the firm gaze in the rebel leader’s eyes, he would not yield.
“I will await word from you then, Lord Andrew,” Griffin said.
De Moray nodded.
Rois pressed a kiss upon her cousin’s brow. “I love you and will keep you in my prayers.”
A smile edged the Scot’s mouth. “You have always been a smart lass. Mayhap I love you as well.”
Tears filled her eyes.
“Do nae cry for me, lass.”
“Damn you, Andrew, I am afraid for you, for my da.”
His face weary, De Moray exhaled. “We all are at times. ’Tis what assures us we are alive, and teaches us to appreciate the good when we have those precious moments within our hands.”
Her lower lip quivered. “Were you with Da when he was injured? Do you know how badly he was wounded?”
Her cousin’s brows dipped with concern. “He fought alongside his men to the north. After the fighting was over, when I learned of his injuries, I rode to see him. His men had treated the gash in his head and removed the arrow in his shoulder. He had a few smaller cuts, but naught that with time should nae heal.”
“Do you know where he is now?” Griffin asked.
“Nay,” de Moray replied.
Rois met Griffin’s gaze, then faced her cousin. “We will find him.”
On a sigh, he closed his eyes. “Tired I am.”
“Take care, Andrew,” she whispered, her voice thick with tears. “May God guide you in the journey ahead.”
“That He will.” He shot her a wink, and then closed his eyes.
Frustrated for the hours lost before they would begin their travel, Griffin took Rois’s hand and led her from the tent to a stand of pine where they could be alone. Sheltered by the thick boughs, insulated by the hush of wind, and surrounded by the freshness of pine, he drew her against him.
“Let the tears go,” he urged.
“Griffin, terrified I am to lose him.” The first sob broke, then another. With tears streaking her cheeks, she looked up. “What if his injuries have become infected since Lochlann departed? What if he has become delirious? What if we do nae reach him in—”
“Rois”—he lifted her chin and pressed a soothing kiss on her mouth—“we will do the best we can. Your worry will change naught.”
“I am”—she sniffed, hiccupped—“so scared. My da and Andrew . . . What if they both die?”
A worry he shared. Neither would his telling her his concerns give her calm. He smoothed his hand against the length of her chestnut hair in steady sweeps.
“’Tis not my decision to make, nor a thought I will entertain,” Griffin said. “Your cousin is with us now, and I will do all within my power to deliver him safely to Cumbuskenneth Abbey. Once I return, I will take you to see your father.”
“I canna wait to see him,” she said, her words desperate.
“Rois,” Griffin said. “’Tis a difficult time, and I need your patience. Focus on the now.
“H-how can one focus on anything when your mind is in turmoil?”
Fatigue swept him as he thought of the many battles in the past, of the many friends lost. “Regardless the cost, you learn to move forward, to make decisions against the mind’s anguish in order to survive.”
Her face blotched from crying, Rois looked up and frowned. “To survive?”
He wished his words back, damned that he’d said them. Never had he meant to share the strife he kept imprisoned. “It matters not.”
She studied him as if seeing him in a different light, one of understanding. Perhaps if he wished deeply enough, she would see him as one who could share her fears and dreams.
“I think it matters greatly,” she whispered. “Sorry I am that your life has brought you to a place where you can function through the worst tragedies. ’Tis a wish I would offer no one.”
“Paint me nae a martyr, Rois. I understand war. It is naught glorious or heroic. Battles take what they will and allow none to forget.” He paused, steadied himself. “The ground beneath my boots has been bloodied by many hands. Including mine.”
She studied him, her gaze shrewd. “You craft your words to push me away.”
“I tell you only the truth.”
“God in heaven. How can you continue after witnessing such atrocities?”
“Bedamned, Rois, do you not comprehend?”
Sadness touched her face. “Mayhap better than you want me to.” The complete understanding in her simple words moved him, touched him deeper than he’d ever believed possible. The moment shifted, turned dangerous. Wrapped in the hush of pine, with naught but the wind embracing them and drowning out the world beyond, at this moment they were very alone.
Too easy it would be to expose the horrors he had witnessed, of the black emptiness crawling through his soul, a life tainted by the deception of those who coveted their greed, and the shame he carried for his parents’ deaths. Forever would he be haunted by their carriage accident, as they’d traveled to free him from an English cell.
Rois stood before him, innocent of the world’s brutality, proof that against the fight for gold and power, good existed. Yes, he understood why de Moray demanded his vow to keep her safe. What man with even a fragment of a soul would not ask the same?