Highland Sparks: Logan and Gwyneth (Clan Grant Series Book 5) (3 page)

Her eyes were both haunting and challenging, probably in an attempt to mask the pain and humiliation she had just endured. He was drawn to the lass like a moth to a flame, even though every ounce of her warned him off.

The woman hissed, “Touch me, and I will rip your bollocks in two, you rutting bastard.”

Father MacLaren pivoted toward the young lass, who looked to be around twenty summers in age. “Gwyneth, these men are here to help. They aren’t the enemy. Their mission is to transport you to the priory. Please be agreeable. We’ll get you back to your brother’s Kirk in Glasgow.”

The lass named Gwyneth lifted her head into the light so she could survey the rest of the group. The slight movement brought more attention to the bruising of her delicate features. She looked as if she had been slapped and punched, which only fueled Logan’s fury. He could hardly fault her for wanting to blame every man in her vicinity. He would allow her to direct her ire at him, for he knew how difficult it was to be a strong person with no control over your circumstances. He had felt the same way when his wee niece and nephew were near death.

Dressed in warrior’s clothing, including leggings and a clinging tunic, she ignored him and continued to fidget with her torn clothing. Logan moved over to stand in front of her. She hoisted herself up, standing tall enough to almost look him in the eye. He was still a mite bit above her, but she was close to his height. Long limbs supported her, and she clutched a small plaid to her torso.

She never took her eyes off Logan, but she directed her comment to Robbie. “Take me back to Glasgow, and I will be eternally grateful, but I won’t go to the priory. I’m going to my brother’s Kirk. Fair warning for any of you, if you try to touch me, I’ll stick a knife between your ribs when your head is turned.”

Father MacLaren said, “Gwyneth, these are the men who fight for the Scottish crown. They aren’t here to hurt you.”

“Your pardon, Father. Other than you and my brother, all men are the same to me right now. Three kidnapped me and threw me on a boat, and another tried to rape me. So don’t expect me to be grateful. Get me to Glasgow, and you’ll never have to see me again. Just give me my bow and arrows and my knife, and I will leave a happy lass. And don’t try to tell me they aren’t here, because I know the rotten bastard intended to sell my weapons, too.”

Logan celebrated inwardly; she was a fighter and an archer. There were not many lassies able to use a bow and arrow correctly; this he would beg to see. The more he learned about her, the more he wanted to know. He smiled at her when her gaze caught his.

“Do that again, and ‘twill be the last thing you do, warrior or not.” She leaned in, so she was nose to nose with Logan. “You don’t frighten me. I could kill you easily.”

He had to give the lass credit. He could see in her eyes how close she was to falling apart. Somehow, he knew she would hold it together. He would not do anything to make it more difficult for her. “I have nae doubt you could, lass,” he said. “I’ll keep my hands to myself until you request otherwise.”

The two stared at each other for a long moment, complete silence as everyone else in the room waited to see what would happen next. He let her set the pace, something he rarely did for a woman. Even the way she wore her hair, pulled straight back and plaited from a spot high on the back of her head, enticed him. Something about the glossy sheen made it look stronger, cleaner, and more beautiful than that of any other lass. Much to his delight, the lass held strong under his gaze. Logan had found a woman who would stand up to him. The urge to kill the bastard who’d put her in this position raced through his body again, unstoppable as flames through a field of wheat.

Finally, Father MacLaren cleared his throat and said, “Come, lass, I’ll give you your things as long as you promise not to use any of your weapons on these men. And please give my regards to your brother.”

Gwyneth limped along behind the priest. “Father, I intend to get back to my home in Glasgow, but if anyone tries to prevent that, I’ll do what I need to do. As long as no one touches me, you have my word. If a man dares to lay a hand on me, believe me, his life will be in
my
hands.”

Chapter Three

Gwyneth climbed into the cart after helping the other victims get settled. Still restless from all that had transpired, she was even more ill at ease from the looks the braw warrior, Logan, was sending her way. True, she couldn’t deny his good looks, but she didn’t care at this point. She needed to get to Glasgow, talk to her brother, and seek out the bastard, Duff Erskine.

She had begged to ride a horse, but there were only enough horses to pull a cart and one for each warrior. Logan had offered for her to ride with him, but she had rejected him in a hurry. After all that had occurred, she couldn’t deal with any part of a man’s body touching hers for now. She attempted to rest, but each time she closed her eyes, the wild Norsemen took over her thoughts.

Bolting upright, she decided to forego any sleep. Probably better to stay alert. Who knew what would happen when they passed through the burgh?

Logan pulled his horse up next to the cart and tossed a blue plaid over to her. “Here, lass, rest your head on this.”

Gwyneth caught it and tossed it back. “No need, warrior. Keep it.”

Logan sighed. “I know where your head is right now. You’re thinking of ten different ways to kill the bastard who did this to you.”

“Aye.” She stared straight ahead, refusing to make eye contact with him. For some reason, he unsettled her, and she didn’t like it.

He grinned. “And what is your preference? What would serve justice best?”

She glanced at him before bringing her gaze back to the front. “An arrow right between the eyes.”

“You know him?”

“Aye.”

“And you know where to find him?”

“Well enough, though he often moves. I’ll take care of him, make no mistake.” Peering at him, she had to admit he was impressive atop his stallion. Light brown hair, a strong jaw line, and massive muscles rippled through his tunic. “Your name again, warrior?”

“Logan Ramsay, and I would be mighty pleased to help you, lass.” He smiled at her.

“I can handle him by myself.” She looked away again as a bolt of warmth shot through her limbs, not wanting to scrutinize her body’s reaction to him.

“Are you capable of placing an arrow between his eyes? Because if you can’t guarantee his death with the first arrow, you may require some assistance.”

“My arrow goes wherever I choose.” She returned her gaze to him, lifting her chin as a challenge.

“Truly? I look forward to seeing that,” Logan chuckled.

“You don’t believe me? I challenge you at first light. We’ll see if your aim is as sharp as your tongue.”

“Gwyneth, if I heard your name correctly, I am not out to beat you. I have other games in mind. But if it would please you to challenge me, I welcome it.”

Logan’s grin riled her. “Aye, my name is Gwyneth of the Cunninghams, the best shooter in the Lowlands, do not doubt my claim. And just to be clear, I’m not interested in rutting with any beasts, even one who fights for the Crown.”

“Understood. The only way to beat the bastard who hurt you is with food in your belly and proper sleep to make your aim true.” He tossed the plaid back to her. “Take your rest and build your strength. Killing him ten different ways in your mind won’t make you any stronger, lass. I know.”

Gwyneth caught the plaid and stared at him. His words were similar to her brother Rab’s. He was right; she hated to admit it, but she did need to save her strength. “My thanks, beast.” She rolled away from him and tucked the cloth under her head.

Aye, this man unsettled her. Ever since her father and brother had died in front of her eyes, she had lived a sheltered life. She and her brother, Rab, had gone to live with her Uncle Innis at the Kirk. They had made do and survived, her brother turning to the church while Gwyneth turned to revenge, focusing her efforts on mastering archery. Her goal was in reach and she was more driven than ever. She would kill her family’s murderer. Now she had more reason than ever.

The result was she hadn’t spent much time with others her own age. Her mother had died giving birth to Rab, a year younger than her, and Gwyneth had grown up with her father and two brothers. Moving to the Kirk had surrounded her with religious men. She didn’t know how to deal with men outside the church, at least not kind men. She hadn’t met many, and she didn’t know much about interacting with other women either.

She found herself unable to fall asleep as her imagination spun images of a brawny warrior who actually supported her at her side instead of trying to kill her.

***

As soon as they arrived at the priory, Gwyneth hopped out of the cart, and stumbled on her weak leg before righting herself, cursing. She helped the other women out and guided the men as to which of the wounded needed the most assistance. After she located her things in the back of the cart, she turned to glance down the street and found herself swept into the arms of a grinning warrior.

“Put me down, Logan Ramsay. I told you that you were never to touch me. How dare you assume I need help when I don’t. And I’m not staying here either.”

Logan grinned all the way down the stairs and into the chamber in the base of the priory, not loosening his grip a bit. “Just following orders, my lady. Want to make sure you have no serious injuries.” Logan plopped her down on the nearest pallet, and she landed with a string of curses.

Gwyneth swung at Logan, but he sidestepped with a chuckle before he turned to leave. The foolish brute should have to listen to a few more choice words, but she was in a priory. Out of respect for her brother’s profession, she cut off her cursing as soon as Logan left her side. The sound of her name caught her, and she spun her head around, searching for the source.

Caralyn Crauford hobbled across the room in her direction, limping and in pain, but with a smile on her face and her arms wide open. “Gwyneth? Blessed saints, ‘tis really you?”

“Caralyn? Hellfire! How I have missed you.” She stood, moving as fast as she could toward her friend. The two lasses threw themselves at each other, hugging as if they hadn’t seen each other in years.

Caralyn stepped back and stroked Gwyneth’s arm. “I was afraid I would never see you again. It has been months, hasn’t it? Where have you been? Are you unhurt?” She ushered Gwyneth back onto the bed, then sat down next to her.

“I wouldn’t sit here for anyone but you, Caralyn Crauford, especially not for this lout!” She waved her arm toward Logan, who had not gone very far at all and was now leaning against the wall by her pallet, his arms crossed and a smile on his face. With a huff, she turned away from him, giving him her back. “Caralyn, I am so happy to see you. Where are your sweet lassies? Wee Gracie must be so big by now.”

Caralyn’s expression turned to a frown, and she shook her head. “I don’t know. Please, may we talk about this later?” She glanced up just as Robbie strode over to the bed. Gwyneth watched as her friend met the Highlander’s gaze and he shook his head.

He whispered so no one else could hear him but Logan, Caralyn, and Gwyneth. “Sorry, lass. We haven’t yet found your wee ones.”

As soon as Logan and Robbie left, Gwyneth grasped her arm. “Where are your daughters?”

Caralyn’s expression on her face crumpled. “I don’t know. Malcolm has taken them from me and will only allow me to see them when he gives me permission. ‘Twas supposed to be every sennight, but now he is angry and said only once a moon.” Tears misted in her eyes. “You know how much I love them. I miss them so, and I have no idea who is caring for them or if they are hurt.”

“Is Captain Grant going to help you?” Gwyneth asked. “He appears of sound character. Surely he would help you find the weans. I would trust the captain, and he has knowledge that others cannot obtain.” How she had fallen in love with Caralyn’s two daughters during their visits to her brother’s Kirk in the royal burgh. They hadn’t come often, but she and Caralyn had become fast friends. After a time, Caralyn had revealed the truth of her situation with Malcolm, how he forced her to be his mistress and worse by threatening her daughters. It was yet another example of the cruelty of men. Gwyneth and her brother had discussed the matter, but they hadn’t come up with a solution.

“Aye, he said he would find them for me, and then come rescue me. I only hope he can find them. They are too young to be alone with two brutes. They are only two and eight.” She clasped Gwyneth’s hands in hers. “Gwyneth, you look tired. I am sure you have had a terrible ordeal. Why don’t you rest? I’m going to help the sisters with the other women. I won’t leave without saying good-bye.”

Gwyneth had to admit she was tired—tired of fighting Duff Erskine, tired of worrying about her friend. Her brother shared her feelings about Duff since he had also been a witness to his cruelty, but when she had gone to Rab about Caralyn, they hadn’t come up with any solutions to her problem.

Gwyneth had been forced to act on her own. After several years observing Duff Erskine, she had decided to seek help. How could a man like Duff get away with all his crimes? How could someone like Malcolm treat Caralyn the way he did and not be forced to stop?

Wealth. Duff Erskine had grown his merchant business over time and therefore, had increased his fortune. She guessed he used his fortune to pay off the local sheriff and other government officials. Apparently, Malcolm Murray did the same. So she had gone to someone for help, someone very high up in the Scottish government and presented her evidence.

Now she worked for the Scottish government covertly. She needed to notify her supervisor of what she had seen. It had been a long time since Duff Erskine had sold slaves. She knew he would go back to it eventually, but she hadn’t expected to be one of his potential victims.

Gwyneth rested her head on the pillow. “Aye, I am a bit weary. ‘Twas a long night and I couldn’t sleep on the wretched cart. Wake me before you go.” Her eyes closed, though her hands still clung to Caralyn, her only close female friend. She would help her find her wee ones if Robbie Grant didn’t, and if he did search for them, she would be right behind him, whether he wanted her help or not.