If You Dare (4 page)

A strong breeze blew for the first time in days, it seemed, flattening the grass in waves and teasing a lock of hair loose from her tight braid. Out here, the compulsion to rake it back into place wasn't so pressing, but still won over. She smoothed her hair and picked another flower.

Even when her brother routed Pascal and returned, she still would be in a vulnerable position. This fight had only postponed Aleix's desire that she wed. When their father died two years ago, she'd been brought home from school so that a marriage could be contracted for her. Just as Aleix had begun narrowing the choices, Pascal had arrived.

Before he'd shown his true nature, Pascal had surprised them by asking Aleix for her hand, though they'd never met. Aleix had refused, incurring the general's anger, but her brother had never trusted the man even before his vile army of mercenaries and deserters had taken over the area.

Aleix repeatedly lamented the fact that he hadn't forced her to marry earlier. At twenty-one, she was more than old enough, and she'd been born and raised for it, but she'd never met a man she wanted. She never could imagine doing the perplexing things the girls at school had whispered about, those painful, aggressive things done in the dark—no matter how much she
longed.
Whenever she'd envisioned those acts with any of the men she'd been introduced to, she'd cringed.

Besides, she'd been so content to help care for Aleix and Mariette's baby that no man tempted her.

Yet now there was no baby, no Mariette, and all the happiness that had been in Aleix had died with them.

Annalía turned sharply toward the house. The feeling was back. When a cloud passed the sun, she held her hand to her forehead and scanned the windows.

The curtains in the Highlander's room swayed—to the side—then settled back into place.

W
hy the hell hadn't she returned?
Court thought as irritation sniped at him.

Vitale, the sometimes mute, sometimes caustic old Frenchman, had been by to warily bring food in and clean the room, but
she
couldn't be bothered to come again.

Court's body had at least ceased weakening, and he was becoming restless. He was finally able to dress himself, in clothes borrowed from Annalía's brother, or the “master,” as Vitale called him. He'd scoffed when Vitale had said the garments would fit. The woman might be five and a half feet and had a tiny frame, and he couldn't see a sibling of hers even broaching six feet, but apparently this “master” was a big bastard.

Forays to the window marked Court's only exertion, but they no longer made his eyes swarm with black dots. He was never one to sit still, yet he'd done just that since he'd awakened
four days ago. The only thing that broke up the monotony was watching her from the window. With not a thing else to do, he'd watched her a lot.

He could admit he enjoyed seeing her playing with the children in the courtyard, chasing the laughing bairn. No matter how tired Annalía appeared, each child received the same amount of attention, even when she looked like she wanted nothing more than to put her feet up.

Then there was spotting her returning from her morning ride, breathless, with her perfect hair finally fighting its bonds. He never failed to shake his head at the proud—no, the
cocky
—way she sat a horse. Welcome sights, when he could forget her disdain. For others she always had a smile, even when her eyes showed distraction. He often wondered if he was the reason her brow was drawn when she thought no one could see her. . . .

When the unseen clock downstairs tolled eight, Court's body tensed like a dog that'd been trained, and he rose to drag on the pair of borrowed trousers. As he did every day at that toll, he scuffed to the window, because within five minutes the front door would groan open.

Right on time, she glided out the door, her slim hips swaying beneath her bright blue skirts. She always wore bright colored dresses. Not garish or overblown, but a world away from the subdued colors favored by the women of his clan. She wore them, he would wager, not to attract attention, but because she was so ridiculously feminine that she found them
pretty.

Morning sun shone down, glinting off her hair, making it appear golden in places. As usual, it was braided up in an elaborate style, as intricate as any Celtic knot.

Next she would meet Vitale, who would have her hat that she continually forgot, and then they would speak for a few moments. He was impertinent to her and she allowed it, even
sometimes cocking a hip out and looking up at the sky with clear frustration. They had an unusual rapport, but they obviously cared for each other.

Like clockwork, the old man met her on the path just downstairs. They didn't talk for long before she was off to the stable for her ride. Damn it, he wanted to look at her for longer. She always wore the choker, but something was different today. Was she wearing new jewelry? Earrings that dropped down?

Enough of this.
He wanted more information, and he was getting strong enough to where he could begin demanding it. When she left, Court knocked on the glass and motioned for Vitale—who'd bemoaned Court's recovery and had placed his food on the ground “as was fitting for an animal”—to come up.

The old man gave him a lewd hand gesture, but the front door did sound soon after.

“Tell me about her,” he asked when Vitale had unlocked and entered the room.

He cast Court a sour expression. “And why would I do that?”

“Because if you do I'll no' be so disposed to beating you down when I recover fully,” Court informed him as he leaned against the windowsill.

Vitale swallowed hard.

“I ken what you're thinking, old man. You're wondering what harm could come of it. None could. I harbor no ill will toward the woman who saved my life.”

“What do you want to know?” he asked hesitantly.

“Where's her family?”

“Her parents are dead and her brother is away.” He added, “On business.”

A vague answer, but Court didn't press. “No husband? No other family she could stay with?”

“She and her brother are estranged from their relatives. And she was about to be married when Pascal came to power. Now escaping his notice is our top priority. Since you are his hired killer, I suppose we should have escaped your notice as well.”

Court ignored the last comment. “And why is this place so deserted?”

“Many fled Pascal. Some have gone to fight him. But you would know all about that, wouldn't you?” He shook his head. “I told her to take you back to the river and let you rot, but she never listens—”

“Pascal ordered this done to me,” he interrupted. “How much loyalty do you think I have to the man who sought to kill me? I barely escaped into the river.”

Vitale eyed him, clearly trying to determine if he spoke the truth, then asked, “Who beat you?”

Court admitted, “Two Rechazados.”

His eyes went wide, scanning the room wildly. “My God, you'll bring them down on this house. Every day you're here already weighs on her terribly. If you are in league with Pascal, she fears you'll lead his men here. Now when I tell her what you've told me, she'll know that Pascal's assassins will be searching for you to finish the job.”

Pascal would be searching, but there weren't enough of his prized assassins to spare. “He will no' waste any Rechazado for a task like me.” Their order never numbered more than forty-nine based on a twisted reading of the seven letters of the Apocalypse, and if they lost men they still only inducted new ones twice a year. “Besides, they'll have thought I died.”

Vitale marched to the second window to peer out though he couldn't have expected to see Annalía. Court knew she'd be well out of sight by now. “Why should I trust what you say?”

“You probably should no'.” He unsuccessfully crossed his arms, too late remembering the bloody cast she'd forced on him. “I want to talk to her, but she will no' come back. Get her to.”

“The mademoiselle? Attend you now that you're awake?” He snorted.

“If she will no' come to me, then I'll have to stumble out to find her.” His expression turned cold. “You ought to warn her that I might feel . . . put out when I catch her.”

He stepped back. “I will see that she comes tomorrow.” “After her ride?”

Vitale scowled at that. “If she knew you spied on her, she'd be very uneasy. She's an extremely private person. But yes, after her ride.”

Court nodded. “I need to get a message to my men. If I give you directions, can you see that it is done?”

“Again, why would I do that?”

“The sooner I contact them, the sooner I can leave.”

“I'll return directly with pen and ink.”

•  •  •

Court debated how to handle Annalía when she came for their meeting, and had to admit he was at a loss with a woman like her. She seemed complicated and mysterious, which meant she wasn't like straightforward Highland women at all.

And as much as he was unused to a woman like Annalía, she was surely accustomed to gentlemen, to polite behavior and nonthreatening men. So he decided to stay in bed and act as though he couldn't rise easily, to appear less intimidating, but the gentlemanly behavior was proving elusive. Court didn't exchange pleasantries because he wasn't a pleasant person. He was brusque and direct. She would not respond well to brusque and direct.

When she glided in hours after her ride, smelling of the flowers she'd been tarrying among earlier, he bit out, “Good afternoon.” He couldn't remember the last time he'd said that phrase, when in fact it hadn't been a better-than-average afternoon.

“To you as well.” She appeared surprised by his gruff words, then suspicious. “Vitale said you desired to speak with me. What do you require?”

Her words rolled from her tongue in that foreign way, and he found he liked listening to her, even as her obvious reluctance to be near him grated. A woman whom he found beautiful and who was kind to others was disgusted with him. He felt like a caged animal she was wary of—and all because he was Scottish?

And perhaps he'd found the exact chink in her armor and had hurt her that first day, a voice in the back of his mind reasoned.

“I'd like to ask you a few more questions.”
Pleasant enough.

She gave one tight nod.

“How have you escaped Pascal's notice this far?” Court had never heard of this place and wondered why Pascal hadn't looted it.

She didn't hesitate to say, “Probably by not dragging his mercenaries into my home.”

“I answer to him no longer.”

“His ex-mercenary, then,” she said with a flick of her hand as if the difference was trifling. “Vitale told me as much.”

At his irritated look, she added, “I don't know why we've been spared.” She was clearly lying, but he let it go.

“I have another question.”

She remained there, though she didn't deign to meet his eyes, and he found the question he'd meant to ask forgotten, replaced by, “Why do you hate Scots?”

She blushed to the tips of her small ears, her skin pinkening
against her crisp white blouse and her ever-present choker. “If you please, I would rather not discuss my dislike of Scots
with
a Scot.”

“You can tell me. I will no' bite.”

She gave him a wide-eyed look that said she wasn't sure on that count at all and hadn't thought about the possibility until he'd brought it up. Finally she said, “I've heard very unfavorable things about them—about you. Worse than any of the other outsiders Pascal has lured here.”

Court exhaled, reckoning it might be time to admit that his crew's Highlander tales had worked too well.

Whenever they arrived in a new area, his men spread rumors to the people underlining the Highlanders' brutality, their lust for blood, and their enjoyment of torture. Then, when the thirty-five Scots in their company, some painted, some in kilts, all nearing or exceeding six feet tall, gave a savage battle yell and charged with the requisite crazed look in their eyes, the combatants ran. They almost always ran.

The farmers and ranch hands in Andorra had fled so fast that even his quick cousin Niall could barely swat the last one on the arse with his sword.

Only one leader and his men had stood their ground. . . .

Court's eyes followed her slim hand when she smoothed an already immaculate crease in her skirt—today a bright red one. “And what did you think of Scots before we came here?”

She frowned, appearing genuinely confused. “I didn't think of Scots.”

He scowled at that. “And now?”

“Now that you've come, you've shown yourself to be the epitome of all I've heard.”

He waved her on with his cast.

She crossed her arms over her chest and took a breath.
“Violence surrounds you, as shown by your beating, but also by the gashes on your fingers. I'd wondered how you could receive such a peculiar injury, then concluded you'd cut them on someone's teeth when you hit him in the face.”