“It does.” From the melancholy in his tone, she sensed he spoke of more than his horrendous loss. God forbid, what had he experienced to carve such devastation in his life? Rois didn’t want to care for Griffin more than she already did. Neither was she coldhearted. He had suffered, terribly so. She’d lost her mother, yet still had her father. He had neither. “I am pleased your sister has found happiness.”
His entire body relaxed. “As am I.”
Silence echoed between them, but she caught hints of darkness in his eyes, shadows of struggle from his past.
Beneath her quiet gaze he leaned forward and stacked several larger pieces of wood on the burning pile. “This should last throughout the night.”
He was closing the topic, but she found herself wanting to know more. His pain and his ability to overcome adversity while yet attaining a position of trust to one of the most powerful men in the world intrigued her.
“Do you see your sister often?”
He stilled. “Why?”
His cool tone piqued her interest further. “I grew up without siblings. One would think if you are close, regardless of her husband’s loyalty, you would visit.”
Griffin set the piece of wood in his hand aside. “I see her on occasion.”
Rois raised a brow.
“We are close.”
Warmth touched her heart. “I am glad.” And found her words held truth.
He brushed the heel of his boot through the dirt on the cave’s floor, glanced up at her. “Though you have the penchant to rile a person, ’twould seem you have many people loyal to you.”
People? Nay, however vague the reference, by the edge in his voice, he spoke of one—Lochlann. Why? He could nae be jealous. Or, could he? A thrill ran through her at the thought.
“I am blessed that many people care about me,” she replied.
Griffin mashed the sand flat with the toe of his boot. “Are you?”
“If you have a question, ask me,” she said, her words crisp. “Enough dancing around the issue.”
“Fine, then. I speak of the warrior who tried to stop our handfasting.”
Rois hesitated. “’Tis simple. He thought to defend my honor.”
“Did he? Or were his reasons more personal?”
“You know nothing about him,” she challenged.
“He loves you.”
She brushed several strands of hair from her face. “He is a friend.”
Griffin grunted. “Is that all he is?”
Panic shot through her, and Rois shoved to her feet. “I owe you no explanation.”
Like a panther, he uncoiled himself and rose. His slow, controlled movements were those of a warrior, of a man used to having his way. She understood why King Edward had chosen this man, for his thoroughness and for his lethality when engaged in a mission. And at the moment, his mission was her.
“Until our marriage is annulled,” he said with quiet precision, “you are my wife and your actions will be above reproach.”
“You care naught about me.”
Shrewd eyes watched her. “I have made my expectations clear.” He leaned his muscled body toward her slender frame. “You would be a fool to test me. Our time together will be minimal. Upon your father’s return, the annulment will be quickly achieved.”
A hope she clung to as well. However much he made her feel, naught good would come from further discussions. She needed him to believe she’d accepted his terms, naught more.
Distant voices echoed from outside.
The slide of steel echoed upon leather as Griffin drew his sword and he shoved to his feet. He kicked out the fire. Whisper quiet, with hints of starlight illuminating the night, he crept to the entry.
Long moments passed.
Griffin glanced back, gestured for her to move deeper within the cave and remain silent.
A faint voice heavy with a rich burr echoed in the night.
The men were Scottish. She stepped closer.
A hiss slid between his teeth. “Stay there.”
“I may know them.”
“And,” he replied, his words crisp, “you may not.”
Rois halted, close enough to hear whoever passed nearby. As the voices grew faint, she sagged back. They were Scots. By their direction, they were en route to join de Moray and Wallace. Proof the English hadn’t pushed this far north.
Damn King Edward, his greed, his need for complete control. She should be out there preparing to fight alongside her da, nae forced to remain with an Englishman who served the English scum.
She stared past Griffin to where stars continued to grow brighter in the night, the trees in the distance outlined by iridescent swaths and shadows. Enough light to travel by. When she slipped out once Griffin fell asleep, she would travel to where her clan and others prepared for battle. She could wield a sword, would fight to the death if it brought her country freedom.
“They have passed.”
At Griffin’s quiet words, she started.
Against the flickers of starlight, a frown settled across his brow. He motioned her back.
In silence she complied, anxious for the time with a man who was her temporary husband to end. But she wouldn’t travel alone. Once she slipped out, she could catch up to the Scots who’d passed and travel with them. Anxious to rejoin her father, she wrapped herself in a solitary pallet. As for the information about Griffin’s knowledge of Dunagn, she would pass that information to her da. Why hadn’t she thought of that before?
“Are you nae going to rest?” she called.
At the cave’s mouth, he scanned the surroundings. “I will keep watch to ensure they do not return.”
“You think they saw the campfire?”
“No, but neither will I take the risk.”
“So far north of the border,” Rois said, “if the warriors noted any sign of a fire, they would assume it was made by a rebel.”
He stretched his back. “Mayhap you are right.”
Guilt sifted through her that she would deceive him this night. ’Twas her own doing that had led to this entire mess. He’d acted with naught but honor.
A gust of wind swirled through the cavern.
“Griffin?”
“Yes?”
“I appreciate your caring about what happens to me.”
A long silence filled the night. “Go on and try and sleep.”
Rois settled in her pallet. ’Twas too late to change her actions, but soon she would be out of his life. Shifting to her side, she drew up the blanket and feigned sleep.
Groggy, Griffin opened his eyes. What had woken him? Dagger in hand, he shoved to his feet. He glanced toward Rois. In the meager hint of starlight, he caught a hint of her outline. Relieved she was safe, he crept to the entry.
Stars coated the sky, embracing the low-hanging moon. A cool breeze swept past rich with the smell of earth and the tangle of leaves. He made out the slope of land, the wash of hills in the distance.
Rubbing his eyes, he worked past the last remnants of sleep and again scanned the area. What had disturbed his sleep? Except for the shudder of barren branches against another strong gust, naught seemed out of place.
Griffin frowned, surprised he’d slept so long. By the position of the moon, the new day was encroaching. Soon, the first hints of grey would crease the sky. No sense in returning to his pallet now. He rarely slept through the night. That he’d almost done so proved his state of exhaustion.
He glanced toward the bedroll where Rois slept. Whatever had caused him to awaken hadn’t stirred her.
A wave of tiredness rolled through him. After one last search of the moon-washed land, confident no one was about, he walked to his pallet.
The kick of the wind swirled around him as he sank upon his blanket, the cold bite but a wisp of what winter would deliver. He glanced at the blackened embers. However much he wished to rebuild the fire for the warmth, with others about, he refused to take the risk.
He looked to where Rois’s form lay bundled beneath her cover. Images of her naked came to mind. No, he did not need to think of her. With an exhale, he lay down and closed his eyes, listened to the bursts of wind, his even breaths, anything to not think of her.
Another gust of wind swept through the trees. The few leaves clinging with feeble hope clattered against the bony branches, a pathetic sound against this unending season of change.
With each breath, his mind tumbled into a soft haze. Images of Rois stormed his mind, the flicker of her eyes, defiant, then softening as he’d begun to make love to her. His body hardened.
On a muttered curse, he sat up and rubbed his face. And how many days would he remain in this cave with a woman he wanted with his every breath? Yes, he would leave her alone, the penalty to make love with her too high.
He grimaced at her dark outline. Considering his thoughts, ’twas best if he could not see her. He lay back again and closed his eyes. Unbidden, he caught himself listening for her slight sigh that he’d come to expect every so often as she’d slept.
The tumble of wind and leaves filled the quiet.
With a frown, he listened for her soft breaths.
Nothing.
Unease ripped through him, and he sat up. Surely Rois wouldn’t be so foolish as to try and leave.
Still, each time he’d awoken in the night, he’d heard her shifting around. Out of sheer exhaustion mayhap she’d fallen into a deep sleep. Or, perhaps her blanket had fallen over her head, smothering any sound.
Even if she wanted to leave, where could she go? If she headed for her home . . .
The Scots who’d passed close by last eve.
No, she was too smart to try something so dangerous. She missed her father and worried for him, but she would not risk traveling to fight by his side.
Praying he was wrong, he moved to where she lay. Griffin pressed his hand against her blanket.
The firm mound clunked under his touch.
Clunked?
He tore away the covering, touched the bulky shadows.
Wood.
Bedamned! Fear tearing through him, he shoved to his feet and rushed to the entry. The eerie shadow of clouds amidst starlight braided the land in a magical wash. No, there was naught magical about this night.
His horse! With a curse he made to the back of the cave.
A soft nicker greeted him.
She’d left his horse, which meant she traveled on foot. And if he was right, she hurried to catch up to the Scottish knights, men who, if strangers, might harm her—or worse.
A shudder ran through him as he quickly saddled his mount. God forbid if she found the warriors before he intercepted her.
Chapter Nine
Under the first hues of the turbulent dawn, Rois shoved aside the limb of another tree as she slipped through the forest. Loose stone gave beneath her feet. The rich scent of earth and dew filled her each breath.
“On with it,” she muttered, ignoring her exhaustion and reaching up to catch the next branch, shoving her toe into a solid foothold. She must catch up to the Scots who’d passed near the cave where she and Griffin had taken shelter. Several times throughout the long hours, she’d caught the faint murmur of voices ahead. With the denseness of the forest slowing their pace, it had to be them, but she would nae be foolish enough with the possible threat of Englishmen near to call out.
The cool morning breeze whipped strands of hair around her face. Rois wiped them away, took a deep breath, and continued up the steep incline.
A deep voice thick with a burr echoed from ahead.
The Scots!
Relief pumping through her, Rois ignored the sharp leaf-barren limbs tugging at her garb.
Rocks slid beneath her feet with each step. Sweat clung to her brow. As she crept higher, she caught the wisps of dawn smothered beneath the churn of thick, ominous clouds. A storm was moving in. The unsettled weather was minor compared to Griffin’s outrage when he discovered her gone. Had he awoken? Or did he still sleep, ignorant of her escape?
Even if he searched for her, ’twas too late. After she explained her circumstances to the Scots, they would take her with them to Stirling Bridge.
Boisterous laughter echoed from ahead.
Nerves shot through her, and she released her grasp on the next sturdy limb up the steep incline. What was she doing? This was nae the time for doubts. How many strangers had she met over the years?
Met, aye, but with her father at her side, a man known and respected.
Nay, she’d made her decision. ’Twas exhaustion that instilled her concerns. She reached for the next branch.
Ahead, someone cursed.
Rois let go. In the black of night her plan to join the small band of Scots had seemed rational. As she’d journeyed she’d envisioned their warm welcome and protection. With the men but paces away, their language as foul as a bear-mauled badger, merits of the idea faded. Mayhap she should find her own way to join her da?
A burst of laughter sounded ahead.
Odds stood the men were honorable, their language of warriors, men unaware of her presence. Yet, if they were honorable, why did they nae travel with Wallace or Andrew? Or, had duties delayed their travel?
Nay, she refused to take the risk. Rois half-walked, half-slid down the incline. She’d find her way to the battlefield alone. Many a time she’d ridden through the forest along this same path.
Her da would be furious at her coming, but once she’d arrived, it would be too late for him to send her back. She touched the dagger secured at her waist. With the Scots outnumbered, another fighter would be welcome. Mayhap—
A hand smothered her scream as she was hauled against a very male, very muscled body. She tore at the fingers, twisted against the firm hold to break free.
“Quiet!” Griffin hissed in her ear.
Heart pounding, she nodded.
“I heard something,” a nearby warrior said.
“I did as well,” a second man replied, his burr deep with suspicion.
“Johan, Rogier, circle wide,” the first man ordered. “Whoever is out there, we will find them.”
“Aye,” a deep voice boomed. “If ’tis the bloody English ’tis my blade he will feel.”
“Indeed,” the first man agreed.
Griffin wanted to throttle Rois. Did she not realize the danger she’d placed herself in? He took quiet steps back and drew her behind a thicket. “We must leave before they see us,” he whispered. “If they discover us, we are dead.”
Rois nodded.
Surprised by her quick acquiescence, he frowned. “Do you know them?”
“Nay,” she whispered.
He inhaled a deep calming breath. “You were going to saunter up to strangers?”
She turned toward him, frustration in her eyes, but he quietly interrupted, “No, there is no time to talk sense to you. Bloody foolhardy!” Griffin ignored her struggles as he tied a cloth around her mouth, tugged her with him, and backtracked into the bog.
The roll of clouds enveloped the struggle of daylight, the muted light as welcome as the grass silencing their steps.
Calls of the warriors expanding their search echoed nearby.
Griffin grimaced. Before long they would stumble over the broken ground where he and Rois had crossed, then follow their trail. After her actions yesterday past, why had he not expected her to flee? Had he truly believed her content to await her father’s return?
A mistake he’d not make again—if they lived.
Neither would he allow Rois out of his sight. She might believe the rebels would aid her, but he had his doubts. These men headed for battle, a clash that could very well leave them dead.
“Over there!” a deep voice called.
Blast it! Griffin pushed Rois ahead of him. “I have secured my horse a ways ahead. Run!” She bolted forward, and he followed in her wake.
“I see him!” another voice boomed. “Through the thicket.”
Brush crashed.
Griffin ran faster. They’d spotted only him. If they could put more distance between them, he could hide Rois and lead the men away. At the bottom of the slope, with Rois several paces ahead of him and lost within the thicket, he glanced back.
Three Scots. Two several leagues back, but another to the left closing fast.
He sprinted after Rois.
“Halt!” the man with the deep burr called.
Bedamned! Rocks and grass tore free as Griffin half-ran, half-slid down the dirt and leaf-strewn slope.
“Christ’s blood, ’tis an Englishman!” Outrage echoed in the Scot’s voice.
Fear glazed Rois’s eyes as she glanced back.
“Go!” Griffin ordered.
Her footsteps pounded upon the pungent weave of decaying leaves.
Almost there. Within the dense cover of fir ahead, they could hide until the men abandoned their search and turned toward Stirling. The scrape of branches had him glancing back. The nearest warrior stood several paces away!
“Halt!” the Scot boomed.
Rois whirled.
Blast it! Griffin jerked her gag free. “Keep going. Do not turn back.”
“I willna leave you here alone,” she rushed out. “’Tis my foolishness that endangered us both.”
However impressed by her admission, at her taking responsibility for her actions, now was not the time to argue.
“Run,” he said, “I will catch up!”
She shook her head.
Limbs snapped, this time closer.
God’s teeth, ’twas too late now for her to run. Whatever the cost, he must keep her safe. “Whatever I say agree,” Griffin whispered. “Understand!”
“Aye.”
Sword raised, Griffin faced the rebel. “I have no quarrel with you.”
The stocky Scot halted several paces away, a dagger firm in his grip, his claymore secured in his sheath on his back. He eyed Rois, and appreciation warmed his gaze.
Griffin silently cursed.
The Scot’s gaze shifted to him. “Who is the lass?”
Distant footsteps grew louder.
But moments remained to escape. Griffin gave her hand a squeeze. “My wife.”
The Scot grunted with disbelief. “By her garb, the lass is a Scot.” He sheathed his dagger and withdrew his claymore. “What say you, lass, are you indeed wed to the Sassenach?”
Her hand trembled in Griffin’s. “’Tis true.”
“You lie, but I understand,” the Scot replied, “’tis self-preservation. Do nae worry, lass, about the bastard’s threats.”
“He has threatened me naught.” Fear rattled her voice.
“Nay?” the Scot asked, “Then why are you with an Englishman when our country is at war?”
Shielding Rois, Griffin slowly stepped forward.
The Scot’s eyes narrowed. “I believe your presence is forced.” “Rois, run!” He caught his attacker’s hand, but the Scot rammed him. Griffin slammed to the earth, his breath hissing out in a rush.
“Bloody bastard,” the warrior spat as he dove atop Griffin. His free hand shot out.
Pain shattered Griffin’s head. Vision blurry, he made out the Scot again raising his fist. He jammed his boot against the warrior’s gut, kicked.
The Scot fell back.
Griffin dove, pinning the knight to the ground. One of the man’s comrades called out from nearby. He drove his fist into the man’s face.
Eyes rolling into his head, the warrior slumped back.
On a groan, fighting to focus, Griffin pushed to his feet. He touched his jaw where he’d taken a fist, pulled away. Blood smeared his fingers. After a glance toward the direction where the man’s friends approached, he turned and ran.
At the crest of the hill, he spotted Rois crouched amongst the brush. As he neared, she stood.
She reached to touch the gash on his jaw.
Griffin caught her hand and pulled her with him toward where he’d hidden his horse. “Go!”
“You are hurt.” Her words rattled between breaths as she ran at his side.
“It matters not.”
“I am sorry.”
“No time to talk now,” Griffin stated.
But there would be, Rois silently finished. The cut on the side of his brow would need stitches. And his eye had already started to swell.
A soft rain began as they sprinted into the thick of the forest. The ground rich with soggy moss thankfully muted their steps. With a curse, he made a sharp turn.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“To my horse, but he is still too far away. Until the men leave, we must hide.”
Around the next bend an enormous fallen tree lay nearby. A tangle of vines strangled the weathered bark in a hideous display.
Griffin tugged her to the weave of roots exposing a large hollowed-out trunk, stepped back. “Inside.”
The rich tang of decaying wood filled the air as she stared at the cobwebs adorning the darkened entry. Memories of being trapped as a child in a cavern flooded her.
Pulse racing, Rois stepped back. “I canna go in there. There could be—”
He shoved her inside, followed. “Crawl. Now!”
Rois fought for calm as she inched forward, the mulch of tree rot and dirt clinging to her fingers like a macabre nightmare. She swallowed hard, climbed deeper.
Sodden footsteps hit the ground nearby.
Griffin reached out for a limb cluttered with dying leaves, propped it against the exterior of the opening, then shifted his body to block the meager light.
Blackness encased her, a smothering darkness that threatened her fragile hold on her composure. Thick moments passed, inciting the terror of her youth, the nightmares that as a child often scared her awake. Eyes adjusting to the bleak setting, she began to make out details.
Through the breaks around Griffin and the entwined brush, the vague outline of the forest came into view. Splotches of rain increased to a downpour, the lash of water brutal as gusts beat against the trunk with merciless violence.
The suck of a boot sinking in mud echoed nearby. “Where the bloody hell did they go?”
Another man cursed. “They are nearby.”
“Aye,” the Scot shouted against the whip of wind. “Go north. I will circle round and meet you on the other side of the ben.”
“What of Rogier?”
A grunt. “He should have awakened by the time we finish with the English bastard.”
“And the woman?”
Crude laughter echoed. “Once I have had my fill, you can have her.”
Rois swallowed against the bile rising in her throat. Griffin reached back, took her hand, and gave a gentle squeeze. Tears misted her eyes. She’d believed the Scots would nae harm her. Thank God she’d hesitated; more, that Griffin had saved her. If the men had caught them . . .
She shuddered at the horrific thoughts. Overwhelmed by the events of the past two days, and the deep-seated fear she never would see her da again, tears rolled down her cheeks. She slowly began to rock, the ball of terror inside growing.
“Rois?”
Griffin’s soft whisper stoked her guilt. “I was a fool to believe the men safe.”
In the dismal gloom with the thunder of rain pounding against the hollowed-out trunk like a drum, he turned, drew her against his chest. His pulse, strong and steady, calmed her.
“You saw the Scots as but countrymen, those who shared your beliefs, your values.” He pushed away several strands of hair from her cheek. “If only ’twas so easy. ’Tis war, the fear, the terror ahead can twist the thoughts of many a man, including those normally guided by honor.”
When Griffin should be angry, frustrated by her impulsiveness, he offered support. Moved, she lay within his protective hold. Damn him for making her care for him more. He was the enemy, a man who had threatened to expose her father to the English king, a man who asked nae for the mire she’d dragged him in.
And, he was her husband.
She swallowed hard. Heaven help her, but she’d made a muck of it.
The rain pounded in time to the steady beat of his heart. Rois shifted, unnerved by her complete sense of contentment. “Now what?”
“We wait a little longer, then retrieve my horse and return to the hideout. We will remain there until your father’s return.”
Her father. She rubbed the dull ache building in her brow. Had the battle begun? Were the Scots fighting at this moment? Was her father en route home? Or dead? She shuddered.
“You are cold?”
“Nay.”
“Rois, look at me.”
She kept her head against his chest.
In the murky light, he lifted her face, his breath soft upon her cheek. His mouth pressed against hers, his kiss a soft reassurance.
Griffin lifted his head, his breathing uneven. “I will protect you.”