The Highlander's Triumph (14 page)

“I…I suppose,
” she stammered. The throbbing in her hand dissipated only to be replaced by a throbbing in her head.

“Did he not tell
ye his plan?”

“His plan?”
Why did that sound so ominous?

“Aye, lass.”
Now Wallace seemed all business.

She shook her head.
Frustration welled within her. What was going on? “Only that I was leaving.”

“Ye are leaving, and ye will be returned to Longshanks.”

So, Brandon had known all along. She was simply a conquest of his. Her heart squeezed painfully, and she pressed her hands to her belly, hoping her reaction wasn’t too noticeable to Wallace.

“Ye would let me go freely?” It was hard to keep the surprise from her voice. Wallace and his men did not seem the type
s that would let enemies go so easily. Brandon on the other hand seemed all too willing for her to simply disappear.

“Lass, ye are not our enemy, as much as King Edward is. We want to know where
his camp is. We want Ross. Ye are the key to getting those things.”

She was a pawn.
And she’d be handed over to their enemy, a sacrifice in the greater scheme of their war. If she returned to Edward now, he would kill her. She was sure of it. The king would know she betrayed him—and she’d not do any different if given the chance. Not any amount of bribery or torture would make her give away the Scots secrets. And so she was doomed.

“I see.”
Her voice came out calm, but cold. The hands once pressed to her belly, grew steady, and she folded them in front of her. She’d not let these men see how they affected her, how they pained her. Mariana lifted her chin, pressed her shoulder blades back. She would stand strong, remain in control.

“Dinna be offended. We would have done this to anyone.”

“Not a particularly comforting thought,” she muttered. How many others had there been, and had Brandon bedded them as well?

Wallace laughed. “If it were not for this war, and for
your knowing those we want captured, I would have liked to share a cup of wine with ye. Ye’re a lively lass.” Wallace’s attention flickered behind her. “I see ye’ve decided to finally join us.”

Mariana glanced behind to see Brandon standing tall in the moonlight.
Her body did a little jolt as she took him in. Unwelcome as it was, the intrinsic attraction between them was strong. There was no hiding from it, and no trying to control it, she just had to learn to ignore it. He was an impressive warrior. Tall, with shoulders as wide as a door, corded muscle that filled the expanse of his linen shirt. Muscle she’d seen naked, run her fingers over, kissed. His features were chiseled from marble. Perfect, masculine, raw, powerful.

Her cheeks heated with her thoughts, and with her anger.
His scent surrounded her, even though he stood several feet away—and she was aware that the scent was but a memory and not the real thing. Despite how he’d shunned her, she still desired him. An overpowering desire that threatened to wreak havoc on her sanity.

Brandon gave a curt nod in their direction and then walked toward his horse.
Ignoring her. Giving her a direct cut. Despite having told herself she wouldn’t let him get to her, that she had to move on, doing so appeared easier conceived than accomplished.

There was strength in his stride.
A fluidness and agility that was mesmerizing. She would have given anything at that moment to know what his true thoughts were, even if they hurt. For she had an idea that he might just be pretending as much as she was. But why should she care? He was an imbecile—and she wasn’t exactly flawless either.

She sniffed the air
, pretending indifference, and turned back to Wallace. “My horse, sir?”

Wallace chuckled
, seeming to read through her bravado. “This way, my lady.” He took her hand and placed it on his arm as he led her toward a horse.

In the darkness, the horse looked black
, chestnut perhaps. There was no stable hand to help lift her, and the stirrup was higher up than she was used to. But even still, she lifted her leg and propped her foot into the stirrup. Bouncing on her other foot and gripping the saddle, she tried for purchase. With another laugh, Wallace lifted her onto her mount and waited while she adjusted her skirts.

“Dinna take this personally
,” he said.

For a moment she didn’t know what he was talking about—thought maybe he referred to the odd placement of the stirrup, but the seriousness set about his eyes made her realize he spoke of their decision to hand her over to King Edward.

She looked down at the great warrior, connecting her gaze with his, and then looked up, searching for Brandon. “I will not harbor any ill feelings toward
you
, sir.”

“Dinna harbor them against any of us,” he said softly.
He adjusted the straps to her saddle, making sure they were tight. “We all do our duty for Scotland.”

“And some of you do more than that.” She looked away, wishing Wallace would mind his own business.

Wallace patted her horse on the rear, nodding his head. “Alas, ye are correct. Some men are afraid to…admit their heart leads them in a certain direction.”

Mariana jerked her gaze back to the man. “Sir, certainly you aren’t suggesting—”

“I am nay speaking of myself, lass.” He said no more, and did not wait for her reply, but turned and headed toward his own horse, leaving Mariana with her mouth slightly open in surprise.

What had he meant? Was he speaking of Brandon?

Someone shouted an order and the men all mounted. In the chaos of them readying for departure, Mariana never lost sight of Brandon. He stood out among the rest of the men. There were some who reached his height, and some who matched him in breadth, but none who equaled the power and draw that surrounded him. He sat fierce and proud on his horse, and she instinctively trusted him with her life, though he was thrusting her aside.

T
he moonlight glinted off his weapons. She could see his gaze was on her, feel it penetrating her. She was powerless to turn away. He held her captivated and she didn’t even know whether he looked at her with the raw ferocity she’d seen in him before or with the disdain he’d shown when she’d left the great hall. And it didn’t matter. They were leaving this place. Though he wasn’t tossing her into the wild, he was willingly giving her back to the English king—his enemy. A fate worse than death, for a man would typically accept death over being controlled by their enemies.

“Move out!” Wallace’s voice cut through her thoughts.

The men filed side by side into a pattern they must have made on many occasions. Mariana was unsure where she belonged. She urged her horse forward twice, only to be jostled back by a warrior taking her place.

“Rude,” she muttered under her breath. When it happened for the fourth time, she chose to remain rooted in place. They couldn’t go ahead with their plan without her, so if they wanted her to come along, someone would have to let her into the line.

“Ye are to ride beside me.”

Brandon.

Mariana refused to look at him. Every inch of her skin prickled, sensing his nearness. Her face was hotter than a flame. She was sure he’d seen her scorned by the other warriors and taking pity on her, chose to ride beside her.

Should she even acknowledge him? ’Haps another
warrior would take pity on her, saving her from the very man who would push her aside. The chances of that happening were slim, but none the less, she would wait to see.

“Mariana.”
Brandon’s voice was a low growl as he enunciated each syllable in her name. “We’ve no time for ye to decide your course. It has already been chosen for ye. Now ride.”

How true his words were in every aspect of her life.
She frowned and whispered to no one in particular, “There will be a day that I choose my own path.”

If Brandon heard her, he didn’t acknowledge it. His thigh bumped against hers as he urged her mount into the line, and stayed there, burning a hole right through her cloak and gown. She tried to shift away, but he only came closer, and then they were under the gate and on the bridge, riding side by side and the only escape for her
was to jump into the loch.

She looked down at the darkened waters, seeing the stars and moon reflected on her depths. When she was a child, a
sennachie
had come to their chateau with one of her mother’s cousins, and regaled them with fantastical stories of mermaids, nymphs and fairies. She’d always thought the mystical waters of Scotland to be filled with magic and searching out their depths now, she didn’t think any differently.

“The loch is cold still, lass. I promise your suffering would be worse if ye jumped.”

Mariana flicked her gaze from the inky depths to the road ahead, hoping to appear as though she weren’t as jarred as she was. Why did Brandon have to read her thoughts? Since they’d met, he’d taken up lodging inside her mind with no intent to leave.

“I imag
ine the water is frigid considering ’tis freezing out,” she muttered.

“Spring is nearly upon us.”

She hated that he was trying to make small talk, as though nothing had happened between them. “Mmm-hmm.”

“Have ye seen a Scottish spring?”

Mariana had not, and wanted to know why he was bothering to ask. But didn’t dare ask him. It would only lead to a longing for something she would never have. Instead, she shook her head, kept her gaze straight forward. The sound of horse hooves clopping became quieter with each passing minute as the men moved off the bridge and onto wet earth. Flecks of muck sprayed up from the horses in front, a few landing on her cheeks.

“’Tis beautiful,” Brandon said.

“I don’t imagine I’ll ever see one.” Her voice was clipped and she felt bad, but there was no point, in her mind, of small talk or any talk really, especially of a Scottish spring.

“Mariana—”

She cut him off, unable to listen to his voice a moment longer, as it only brought her memories of laughter and sensuality. “My laird, please, I beg you, stop this. You have made your judgment and issued your sentence. If you would give me but one small reprieve, I don’t wish to speak.”

Brandon’s mount slowed, allowing her to gain an inch or two, but only for a moment.

“I dinna understand ye, woman,” he mumbled.

“Well
, that makes two of us.”

“Ye dinna understand yourself?” His voice held a hint of teasing
, but she refused to answer.

She saw he meant to tortur
e her along the road to Edward’s camp. Brandon didn’t say anything else, and the silence heavy with unspoken questions between them. Though she’d asked for that reprieve, she now wished to hear him say something.

Mariana glanced at Brandon from the corner of her eye. His face was outlined in the moonlight, strong and handsome.
Features that could have been cut from marble, like the many statues of gods in the garden of Fontainebleau Palace. Her heart constricted.

“I didna mean for ye to hear what I said in the great hall.” Brandon flicked his gaze toward hers, and her breath caught.

Mariana sighed. “Whether or not you meant for me to hear does not take away what you said.”

“I know.”

“Don’t feel the need to explain to me, Brandon. You won’t be the first to judge me.”

“I think ye mistake my words.”

Mariana let out a bitter laugh. “There was no mistake on my part.”

“Aye, lass, I think there was.”

She stared at him, mouth pressed in a hard line. “Explain it to me, then.”

They rode into the forest, the dark of pre-dawn made even
more gloomy by the slew trees. Mariana breathed in the crisp air, hoping it would help to calm the beating of her heart.

“I’m nay sure I can.”

Chapter Fourteen

S
truck.

That was the best way to describe how Brandon felt. How could he explain to her what he
meant, and would she believe him if he told her? Had she heard the part where he said she was beautiful? Even if she had, she wouldn’t know of his internal battle of whether to claim her as his own or push her aside. Or how he was afraid that his anger could hurt her one day.

Brandon had never
raised a hand to a woman before, didn’t have any intentions of doing so, but his father had laid his fists upon his mother often enough and Brandon lusted over violence when in battle. Didn’t that mean that he was susceptible to hurting a woman?

He wasn’t willing to find out.
According to his mother, his grandfather had been one in the same. A violent streak passed down from one generation to the next. As he’d wiped blood from her lip or brow, she’d made him promise never to treat a woman in such a way. A promise he meant to keep. Only cowards beat on the defenseless. Brandon was no coward. But keeping such a promise meant he couldn’t love a woman, or even hold her close. Not when his blood demanded that he do much the same as his forebears.

The darkness of night was beginning to give way to a hazy, misty gray morning.
He glanced Mariana’s way, wishing it were light already so he could see her face, and glad it wasn’t at the same time. He’d seen her lip quiver, known he’d hurt her. The pain etched on her brow wasn’t something he wanted to witness again.

Pushing Mariana away was for the best.

Even if he desperately wanted to pull her into his arms and press his lips to hers. To drag her back to his castle in the north where all this strife seemed so far away.

Brandon cleared his throat. He had to get a hold of himself. He’d become a pathetic excuse for a warrior in the past few days.
Thinking about love and beauty. What he needed to be doing was concentrate on the war, and the magnitude of what was about to transpire.

“A warrior does not disclose his true thoughts to anyone,” Brandon said
, his spine straight, hand clenched tight on the reins.

“Your words to Sir Ronan were not your true thoughts?”
Mariana’s words were smooth, a stroke over his nerves. Her expression guileless.

The minx was trying to trick him. B
randon would not be fooled. “Didna I just explain a warrior does not disclose?”

“But moments ago, you said I was mistaken.”

“Aye.”

Mariana let out a little exasperated sound, but the slump in her shoulders gave away her defeat.
They were both conquered by the world around them. Somehow, they had to rise above, to overcome the things they had no control over. And part of that was not allowing her to needle her way further beneath his skin.

“Ye are Longshanks mistress, my lady. Even knowing that, I will not go back on my promise to protect
ye. I’ve already told Wallace and the Bruce that I dinna believe ye are a spy.”

She didn’t even flinch, keeping her gaze on the top of her mount’s head. Brandon stretched over, briefly touching her hand. A mistake, as he wanted to reach back and entwine their fingers together. Mariana’s fingers curled tighter on her reins and her horse shook its head in protest.

“Tell me now, Mariana,” he said in a low enough tone that no one could overhear him. “Are ye a spy for Longshanks?”

She licked her lips, the tip of her
red tongue darting over her lower lip and then the upper. With a tilt of her head, she looked toward him, her coquettish stance one he hoped was natural and not learned.

“When I was
fifteen, my mother gave me this belt.” She opened her cloak, pointed to the silver. “She also gave me away to the French king. Told me to do my duty to the family and I would be rewarded with a good marriage.”

Brandon swallowed around the anger rising in his throat. At such a tender age she was sacrificed for greed.

“You ask me if I am a spy. You think I’ve made my bed willingly.” She leaned closer, the scent of her hair filling his nostrils. “I ask you, Laird Sinclair, what girl at fifteen chooses to be mistress to a king?”

He wanted to draw his sword and ride all the way to France—his horse running upon the water. He’d call the king
out, make him take up his sword and fight. Fight for her honor.

“My lady, I—” He felt like a fool. Didn’t even know what he could say to make it better.

“Please don’t. The last thing I ever wanted was your pity.”

Brandon
nodded, understanding her need. “I dinna pity ye, lass,” he said softly.

Mariana gave a curt nod.

“But I am sorry that ye had to undergo so much at such a tender age. That ye still are.”

Mariana let out a short bitter laugh, looking briefly at him with cool eyes. “
Oui
, I can tell. I shall think of your apology often as I attend King Edward.”

Brandon ground his teeth. The only thing he seemed able to do was make an arse of
himself. The thought of her attending the Hammer of all Scots, made him physically ill. Rage burned in his belly and he had to resist the urge to bellow his refusal for such to happen.

But the truth was, she belonged to King Edward and if Brandon took her as his own
now, he’d only bring the king’s wrath down harder on the Scottish people. Mariana was the key to finding and bringing down Ross. To disabling part of the English king’s regiment. They had to hit him hard. And that required sending Mariana back, and making her believe he didn’t care.

“I’d had hopes ye’d think of me kissing ye.”

Mariana gasped. “You’re a brute.”

“Ye flatter me.”

“I am in no way meaning to do such.”

Brandon laughed. “Ye’ve spirit.”

“’Tis the only way to survive.”

“I’m surprised no one has tried to break it.”

Mariana was quiet. He glanced over to see her chewing her lip and strangling her horse with the reins again.

“I…” she trailed off, loosening the reins a bit.

“Aye?” he pressed, overly curious about what she would say.

She looked up at him then, her eyes piercing his.
Such strength and resilience in their depths. “I’ve never let my spirit, as you call it, show with anyone else.”

An arrow to the chest.
Brandon reached out, then snatched his hand back, aware that he was about to grasp her reins and pull her mount to a stop. He was no better than any of the other men who’d sought to rule over her.

The evening before, he’d willingly bedded her, knowing who she was. Had taken pleasure in her body, and when his own pride was hurt, he’d thrust her aside. Now, he would put her into the midst of a battle. There was no telling if Longshanks would kill her, beat her. No wonder Wallace and
the Bruce had second guessed him for choosing to put her in the midst of danger.

“I’m sorry,” Brandon said
, conviction in his voice as his gaze held hers.

Mariana shook her head. “There is no need for you to apologize.”

Brandon didn’t hesitate this time when he reached out to grasp her hand. So much smaller than his own, the overwhelming urge to protect her at all costs surged from within. “But there is, lass.” He searched for just the right words. “Ye put your life in my hands. I made a pledge to protect ye, yet I’m returning ye to a place that brings ye pain.”

A tentative smile touched her lips and she placed her hand over top of his.
A bond, that was how it felt, as though they were connected in some way he could not name. “You did protect me. But you also have a duty to your people and your country. I understand that.”

He ground his teeth in frustration. “That doesna mean ye have to be tossed into the middle of it.”

She shrugged daintily and frowned. “I was already there when you found me.”

Brandon wanted to smooth her brow, rub his thumb over her lip and see her smile once more.
He leaned closer, enough so her scent was hinted in the air. “I’ve made a mistake,” he said.

In another hour the sun would be shining.
Brandon watched as the tip of Mariana’s pink tongue slid along the plush line of her lips. A nervous reaction, but one that sent his blood to boiling. He had to fight to keep from stopping his horse, pulling her atop his lap and kissing the past twelve hours away. Brandon found himself leaning closer. She glanced up at him. In her gaze, he read her permission, her need. To hell with the mission, he’d never felt this way about any other woman, never wanted anything in his life as much as he wanted her.

Last night had been proof of that. There was no going back.

Brandon caressed from her hand up toward her elbow, her shoulder, her neck. He touched her cheek, his thumb rubbing over the arch of her cheekbone. A few more inches and their lips would meld as one.

As shrill whistle filled the air.
Wallace called for them to pick up speed. Reluctantly, and with great regret, Brandon pulled away. What a spell she’d cast around him. He’d been about to kiss her in broad daylight, in the midst of men.

Mariana’s throat bobbed as she swallowed. From relief, regret or fear of the unknown, Brandon had no clue. He preferred to believe she felt as he did, but in all reality, he wasn’t privy to that either.

The pounding of the entourage’s horses’ hooves forced them to quicken their pace, else they be run over by those behind them. Brandon found it physically difficult to pull his eyes away from her, but he did so all the same. Forced himself forward instead of hauling her from her mount and placing her on his lap where they could ride fast and still steal a kiss. Or two.

Galloping
made it hard to talk, but he would try all the same. The loss of what ground they’d regained may prove to be the end.

“I dinna want to give ye over to him.”

“You don’t have a choice, Brandon. And neither do I.” There was sadness in her words.

“There is always a
choice,” he called over the din, convincing himself as much as her.

Mariana smiled briefly, flicking her gaze from him to the parade in front. “Not always. Sometimes duty comes before our
preferred choices.”

Given what she’d told him, Brandon could see how Mariana had come to such a conclusion. He had much the same opinion.
’Twas a shame. His desire to kiss her only increased. To pull her into his arms so they might share their misery. A sense of togetherness had never revealed itself before meeting her. Someone he could relate to and commiserate with. With Mariana he could find peace and happiness.

“Duty,” he ground out. That was where he was torn. Fiercely loyal to his country, his men, his family, his future king, where did Mariana fit? A lover held little claim to a man’s
life, save for pleasure. But Brandon wanted more than that with Mariana. A future. A bond. Choosing that path was risky.

“When I was young,” she
started, her voice as bouncy as her horse. “I used to stare at the stars and wonder at the meaning of the word duty.”

Brandon had never done that. Duty had been a way of life, no questioning it, only acting on it.

“My mother would say,
’tis your duty, smile and placate those you serve
.”

“Were ye not noble born?” Brandon asked.

She nodded. “Surely you realize the duties of a woman, even noble born, are to serve. She serves God, country, king, father, mother, brother, husband.”

Brandon realized. Though, he’d not thought about it often enough without a sister or wife of his own.
He frowned. In his mind, women were not placed on earth to serve men. They were here to make the world a better place. A woman’s touch had the power to heal. Already Mariana had smoothed over some of the cracks on his heart. Mended his broken soul. He could fall heavily into her arms each night, knowing that when the sun rose, he’d be lighter.

Only those men too cowardly to control their anger, to put it to good use in other ways, thought women were placed on earth to be their living
quintains—practice targets for their blows.