Highland Brides 04 - Lion Heart (4 page)

But she read the lie in his expression, and lifted a brow. “Even if I knew what a bairn was, I don’t believe you!”

“Why would I lie?”

“To frighten me, of course!”

If she had any sense at all, she would, indeed, be frightened. “Is it working?”

“No!” she declared.

Broc frowned. “Are you certain?”

She crossed her arms. “Do I seem frightened to you?”

Not nearly enough, Broc decided.

With a fearsome growl, he suddenly lunged at the hound. The animal yelped, bolting closer to its mistress and Broc couldn’t hold back his laughter. Meager thrill though it might have been, it took the edge off his unwanted ardor. The last thing he wanted was to be attracted to a bloody English shrew.

Rushing forward, the woman fell to her knees, hugging the hound’s neck protectively, completely disregarding any threat to herself.

He frowned at her response.

Her eyes flashed with disdain. “
You
are a very churlish man!”

Broc grinned. “So I’ve been told. But of course we Scots are all ruthless barbarians, don’t ye know.”

“’Tis true,” he persisted when she cocked him a dubious look. “We eat our bairns when they’re born weak and use entire trees for toothpicks after.”

She frowned. “That is utter nonsense!” she proclaimed.

Broc crossed his arms, standing his ground.

She gave him a coy little glance. “Though I have, indeed, heard you toss whole trees at each other in silly contests to prove your manhood.”

Broc lifted a brow at her reply. “Did ye now?”

She was a delightful contradiction, this woman. Dressed as befitted a queen, she knelt in the muck like a beggar beside her hound, hair mussed, eyes glittering with the spirit of a warrior.

He almost wished she weren’t a bloody Sassenach.

Though his days of loathing the English simply because of their birth were done, he placed about as much trust in them as he did his laird’s wife’s bastard da. Page’s father was the epitome of those he’d come to despise—those who had murdered his parents. And yet, because of Page, he no longer heard that distinctive accent and saw black rage, though neither did he feel at ease in their presence.

This woman was no exception.

She was a Sassenach and where there was one there were bound to be more. He scowled at that thought. Like vermin, they traveled together in bucktoothed packs. While he was standing there admiring her bosom they were like to be preparing to pounce upon him and rob him to his bloody teeth.

In fact, he didn’t recall her from Meghan and Lyon Montgomerie’s wedding and that fact niggled at him…

Feeling suddenly wary, he turned to study the woods from where she’d appeared.

His neck prickled as he examined the forest surrounding them. His warrior’s intuition told him there was someone there… in the trees… watching…

He spied the man nearly hidden by a cluster of oaks. An Englishman, no doubt, by the manner of his dress. He was standing, bow in hand, ready to loose an arrow. At first Broc thought himself the quarry, but the man was so fixed upon his target that he didn’t even realize Broc had spied him.

He was after the woman, he realized.He stood there an instant too long. The arrow flew.

Broc didn’t think, only reacted. He hurled himself at the girl.

E
lizabet scream. “Let go of me!” she demanded.

He dragged her up with him as he got to his feet, jerking her toward him. She gasped at the knife that suddenly appeared in his hand, though she somehow sensed it wasn’t meant for her. “What are you doing? Let me go!”

“Shut up!” he snarled.

“No!” Elizabet said and screamed again, louder this time. “I’m not alone!” she warned him.

“So I noticed. Who’s that bowman?”

What the devil was he talking about?

Elizabet struggled against his unyielding grip. “I said let go! You are hurting me!”

He swung her about to face him suddenly, glaring at her. “Not as much as that bowman intended to!”

“I don’t know what you are talking about! What bowman? I saw no bowman!” She thought it was likely her brother and father’s men come to rescue her, but she wasn’t about to tell him so.

“Elizabet!” her brother John suddenly shouted from the woods, confirming her suspicions.

“John!”

She wanted to warn him to go get help because her brother was no match for this Scots barbarian, but the behemoth jerked her against him and slapped a hand against her mouth.

Jesu, but he was smothering her!

Elizabet bit his thumb. He yelped in pain but didn’t release her and she bit harder.

He brought his knife to her throat. “Let go of the thumb, wench!” he demanded, “or I’ll leave you to their mercy!”

What was he talking about?

Leave her to whose mercy?

Suddenly, there was a shout unlike any Elizabet had ever heard as her brother came charging from the tree line. He was bellowing hideously, and Elizabet couldn’t tell whether it was in anger or in fear. Mayhap both?

“Release her, Scots bastard!”

Elizabet let go of the man’s thumb long enough to scream her brother’s name. “Nay!” she shouted, and tried again to warn him to go get help, but the Scot cast her roughly away, switching his dagger to his injured hand and unsheathing his sword with his right, wielding it in a movement so swift she could scarce believe her eyes. She had completely misjudged him.

The most ungodly sound spewed from John’s lips as he attacked. The Scot swung his weapon, felling John with a terrible whack. The battle was over before it had begun.

Elizabet rushed toward her brother’s lifeless body. “John!”

Too late, she could hear shouts from her father’s men as they came rushing to the scene.

The behemoth stooped to look at him.

“Leave him alone!” she demanded. “John!” she cried, assessing his wounds. He was sprawled on the bracken, but there wasn’t any visible blood. Still, his face was pale, and his lips were already turning blue. He lay as still as a cadaver. “Look what you’ve done!” she screamed up at the Scotsman, tears pricking her eyes.

Her father’s men rushed into the copse then, but Elizabet didn’t look up. Where the hell had those ne’er-do-wells been when she’d needed them? She held John’s face, begging him to awake. He was the only family she had left—her only friend! “John!” she cried softly, but he didn’t move.

Panicked, she peered up at the Scot. “You’ve killed him!” she screamed, and looked up in time to see him hurl his dagger into one of her father’s men. Wide-eyed, the man fell backward, the knife protruding from his breast. The other two froze where they stood.

Where was Tomas?

Elizabet scanned the forest, her heart hammering as she searched, desperate for his aid. John had fallen, so had Edmund, and the two remaining were not enough to overpower this madman.

Aye, she had completely misjudged him.

The men stood staring at one another, at an impasse, her father’s men unwilling to approach him. In fact, only one of the two remaining was even armed.

Without warning, the Scot jerked her up, dragging her backward. Once more he pressed his blade to her throat. “Neither o’ ye move,” he said. “Or she dies!”

Neither man stepped forward to help her.

Elizabet didn’t know whether to be grateful or incensed. Swallowing, torn between fear and grief, she allowed the Scotsman to drag her away from her brother.

How could she have endangered them all so frivolously? Guilt accosted her and she blamed her unruly tongue. How many times had her mother warned her that her mouth would be the death of her? Jesu, it seemed her mother was right.

Their livery was the same as that of the bowman’s.

Broc didn’t intend to hurt her, but he had no wish for her companions to know it. She seemed to know them, and yet there was no mistaking the fact that one of their party had only moments before tried to murder her. The arrow had missed them both, embedding itself in a tree behind them, but it hadn’t been aimed at Broc, of that he was certain, and he didn’t have time to make explanations to the she-wolf howling in his ear.

He could bloody well leave her, aye, but what would become of her? If he left her to their mercy, would he be signing her death warrant? Somehow, it mattered to him what happened to the wench.

Who the hell was John anyway? Her lover?

Certainly she seemed distraught enough over a bump on the head, as Broc had barely grazed him with the butt of his dagger. The idiot Sassenach must’ve swooned!

A thousand questions barreled through his head, but there was no time to mull over any of them. He made a swift decision, relying on his instinct to guide him. It rarely led him astray.

He drew the girl back with him away from the two men. “If either o’ ye follow,” he warned, “I’ll slice her throat before your eyes!” And in case that wasn’t deterrent enough, he added with a vicious smile, “And then I’ll cut out your hearts and feed them to the hound!”

Though the hound, he realized, had fled. Smart dog. Smarter than his mistress, it seemed.

He watched as both men turned to look at the man he’d felled, considering his threats. Evidently deciding he was capable of doing exactly what he claimed, neither of them moved to disobey him.

Bloody cowards, the lot of them! Were this his mistress, he would have given his life to protect her.

He placed a hand over her mouth and whispered, “You must trust me.”

She rewarded him with a kick in the shin.

“Ouch!”

Damn. Ungrateful wench!

He pressed his blade to her neck, silencing her, realizing that she couldn’t possibly understand that he was only trying to help her. He didn’t have time to try to convince her. Brute force, he realized, was the fastest way to gain her compliance.

Slowly, until he was out of the Sassenachs’ sight, he pulled her backward into the forest, and then, once they could no longer be seen, he seized her by the arm, holding her firmly, and dragged her behind him.

He hoped she wouldn’t give him too much trouble. He was doing this for her own good and he didn’t want to come to regret it. “You’ll keep your mouth shut if ye know what’s good for ye!” he said.

“You killed my brother!” she accused him, struggling to free herself. “Stop! I have to go back!”

A sense of relief washed over him. It was her brother he’d felled, not her lover. Somehow, that knowledge pleased him.

“You’re
not
going back!” he assured her, jerking her arm, though not to hurt her. “Your brother isn’t dead, lass!”

“But I saw you kill him!” she argued, and dug in her heels, resisting. “I’m not going with you! You can’t make me! Do you have any notion who I am?”

“If I did, wench, do ye think I’d have asked ye thrice to tell me?”

She kicked him again and fell upon her rump, fighting harder to free herself.

“My father will kill you for this!” she hissed up at him, struggling valiantly.

Be damned, if he needed this sort of trouble. It had started out to be a damned fine day. Why did he have to go and befriend her stupid hound?

“He would have to catch me first, lass.”

And they certainly would if he remained an instant longer. Muttering an oath, he swung her to him, tossing her over his shoulder, stifling her protests once and for all. She gasped, and he knew he’d knocked the breath from her lungs. Good, mayhap it would silence her long enough to get them safely away.

He knew these woods better than any but Seana Brodie. There was no way her men would catch him, even with his lovely little burden.

“Trust me!” he bade her, knowing it was a ridiculous request considering the circumstances.

“Trust you!” she exclaimed, once she caught her breath. She pounded his back furiously with her dainty fists. “Let me go, you Scots barbarian!”

Broc didn’t give her a choice.

She was going to have to trust him.

Instinct told him he was doing the right thing.

Whether they were all in league, or not, he knew without doubt someone in her party wanted her dead. Perhaps they all did, for all he knew. Once he reached Seana’s old, abandoned home, he would settle her down and simply explain. She’d thank him then because he’d very likely saved her life.

As for her brother, someone else would nurse his headache, because he was no more dead than his sister was timid.