Highlander's Redemption: The Sinclair Brothers Trilogy, Book Two (12 page)

The heavy weight
of a callused hand clamped over Jossalyn’s mouth. Her eyes sprung open, panic
stabbing through her.

“Don’t make a
sound,” came the low voice right next to her ear. She tried to thrash away from
the man behind her who was holding his hand over her mouth, but his arm pinned
her upper body, and he threw a large leg over her kicking legs.

“It’s me, lass. It’s
Garrick.” His breath tickled her cheek and neck, and despite the fact that he
spoke right into her ear, she could barely hear him, he spoke so quietly.

He eased his hand
back slightly from her mouth, trying to make sure that she wouldn’t scream or
thrash again. She turned her head slightly so that she could lock eyes with
him. He shook his head in a warning, then jerked it toward the entrance to her
shelter, indicating something outside.

She froze and felt
her eyes grow wide.
Burke?
she mouthed silently. He jutted his head
backward to where Burke was apparently still lying inside his own shelter. Then
he leaned in and his lips brushed her ear, sending shivers through her.

“Men on
horseback,” he whispered. He lifted his arm and leg off of her and twisted toward
the entrance of the lean-to, which was covered with a few branches to obscure
the view of them inside. She sat up next to him and peered out into the woods,
which were darkened with the bluish-gray light of evening. The clouds were
still thick overhead, further dimming the light, and rain fell heavily.

Through the trees
and underbrush, she began to see shadowy figures emerge. She felt her stomach
tighten and twist. As the group moved closer, she guessed that there were over
a dozen of them, their armor dull in the low light. She could tell just by
their armor that they were her brother’s men, but instead of riding in two
tight rows side by side like she had seen them do on their way in and out of
Dunbraes, they were fanned out and moving slowly across the forest.

They were hunting
them.

She couldn’t quite
suppress a shudder of terror. What would her brother and his men do when they
found them? She suddenly pictured a sword sinking into Garrick, his blood
seeping out of him as he crumpled to the forest floor. She squeezed her eyes
shut, trying to not only will the image away, but also push her brother and his
men in a different direction.

But they kept
moving closer. When they were only fifty yards away, she unexpectedly caught
sight of her brother. He still wore the same fine clothes he had been clad in
when he had arrived at Dunbraes from Cumberland with word of the King’s death,
though they were wet and rumpled now. There was a bandage wrapped carelessly
around his right hand, where Garrick had shot him. The bandage, white except
for a dark smear of blood, glowed bluish in the dim light. He and his men must
have been pursuing them just as hard as they had been fleeing, though this
group traveled slower since there were more of them, plus they had to pick out
the signs of their trail.

Her brother
spurred his horse forward and ahead of the arc of soldiers sweeping the forest,
more tense and alert all of a sudden. She watched as he turned his head this
way and that, scanning the woods. He sniffed the air suspiciously and turned
his horse in a slow circle.

Jossalyn held her
breath, praying that they would move on but fearing the worst. She felt a
movement at her side, and glanced at Garrick. Ever so gradually, he was nocking
an arrow into his curved bow, which he had raised in front of him. He slowly
pushed the tip of the arrow through a small gap in the branches covering the
opening of the shelter and drew back the bowstring.

Panic sliced
through her. If he fired, their hidden position would be revealed, and it would
be Garrick against more than a dozen armed soldiers. And he would have her and
Burke to worry about also. But her fear was suddenly eclipsed when she looked
down the shaft of the arrow and saw who he was aiming at.

Garrick was
pointing the arrow right at her brother’s heart, and he was about to fire.

Garrick slowed his
breathing, focusing on the sound of his heartbeat as he locked his eyes on his
target. Warren continued to look around suspiciously. The second that Warren
spotted them, he would let his arrow find its mark deep within the man’s chest.
He had nine arrows in his quiver, ten if he counted the one that was currently aimed
at Warren, plus his fletching dagger in his boot.

He had left Burke
and his swords with the horses, which he regretted now, but if all of his
arrows flew true, he would be able to take out most of the men before they
could reach him or Jossalyn. Once the arrows were spent, he would just have to
count on his skill and a lot of luck to be able to take out the remaining men,
who all had armor, swords, and horses. It was a long shot, but if they were
spotted, he had no alternative.

He let all this
slide through his mind like sand through his fingers as he homed in on his
target. He always found this sanctuary of calm right before he let one of his
arrows fly. He was totally in the present, letting sensations and thoughts wash
over him as he became completely focused.

Just as he reached
this internal refuge, Jossalyn wrapped her hand around the arrow and pulled it
out of line with his target.

“No!” she
breathed, her voice breaking through the silence in his head.

The arrow’s jerk
sent a slight ruffle of movement through the branches of pine needles blocking
the shelter’s entrance. Warren’s head whipped around, either sensing the
movement of the branches or hearing Jossalyn’s whispered plea.

In a flash, Garrick
released his bow and pulled her back against his chest. He wrapped one large
hand around both of Jossalyn’s wrists, clamping the other over her mouth. It
was probably too late, but he held her still, trying to quiet even their
breathing. He could feel her breath hitch and knew that she, too, was staring
at her brother, whose eyes scanned their area.

Time stretched. It
felt like Warren was looking right at them, his eyes boring into their shelter.
Garrick again visualized taking on all these men, but this time without the
element of surprise. Warren would give the signal at any moment, and all those
armored soldiers would come crashing down on them. He might be able to get a
few shots off, but it would come down to his six-inch fletching dagger. It
would be a lost cause. He and Burke would be killed quickly, and the Bruce
would never get his information in time. And Jossalyn would either be killed or
dragged back with her brother, probably to be locked away never to see the
light of day or use her healing skills again.

He tried to savor
this moment, since it would likely be his last pleasant experience on earth. Jossalyn’s
hair was brushing his nose, and he inhaled her scent—wildflowers, as if she had
rolled in a field of them. He closed his eyes for a second and let himself
drink in the image of tumbling with her through a springtime meadow in the
Highlands, the sun warm on their skin and the sweet new grass cushioning them.

He released his
hold on her wrists and slowly reached for the dagger in his boot. She stayed
motionless, her slim back pressed into his chest. If he had to die, at least he
had known a sliver of happiness in Jossalyn’s presence. She was like a balm to
his black soul, making him feel like he was a good man, or at least that he was
better than he thought himself to be. He had put her in the middle of this
chaos, though. He could only pray that she would be safe after he was gone.

“Lord Warren!”

Garrick snapped
his eyes toward the voice. One of the soldiers had broken rank and was riding
toward Warren. Reluctantly, Warren broke off his searching gaze and turned
toward the soldier who had called him.

“What?” he hissed
irritably.

“The men must
rest, my lord,” the soldier said in a low voice. “We cannot search every inch
of the forests of Scotland, at least not without getting some sleep and giving
the horses a break.”

“How dare you
question my orders?” Warren wheeled his horse around so that his back was to
the shelter and he was facing the soldier. “You
can
and
will
keep
searching.” Then he turned to some of the men in the fanned arc and said, “You
there, on the end! Quit lagging! I said a northwesterly angle!”

The soldier at
Warren’s side looked tense. “This is a fool’s errand, my lord. This rain is
washing away any tracks, and there is no way we will catch up to them if we
keep zig-zagging like this.”

Warren clumsily drew
his sword with his bandaged hand, then swung it at the soldier’s neck, halting
just inches before making contact. “Are you calling me a fool, Samuel?”

The soldier, whose
eyes were wide as he tried to look sideways at the blade at his neck, said,
“No, my lord.”

Warren let the
blade rest near the soldier’s neck for another moment, then sheathed it with a
hissed curse of pain for his hand. “If I knew exactly which angle at which they
were riding, we wouldn’t have to keep cutting back and forth across this damned
wilderness, Samuel,” he said, attempting coolness. “I won’t just plow north like
an idiot. It’s what those bastard Scots would want me to do, so they could lay
a trap and double back on us.”

“And you’re sure
they were Scots, my lord?” Samuel said carefully.

Warren signed
exasperatedly like he was explaining something to a child. “They fought with
the large broadswords of the Scots. They headed north. And they took my whore
sister with them. She has always been overly sympathetic to the barbarians and
their rebellion, and she likely aided them in their attack.”

Garrick felt
Jossalyn jerk uncontrollably at her brother’s words, but she didn’t make a
sound. Christ, the bastard was cold-hearted. Warren’s words were more than
insulting, though. If Warren believed that Jossalyn was sympathetic to the
cause for Scottish independence, or worse, that she had something to do with
his and Burke’s attack and flight, she was in more trouble than he had
originally thought. She wouldn’t just be locked away at Dunbraes—she could be
hanged for treason.

“Is that clear
enough for you?” Warren went on. Not waiting for an answer, he shouted to the
others, “Keep moving!” He rode back to the front of the arc of soldiers, apparently
letting his initial suspicion about the area drop.

The soldiers
continued their slow and weary march heading northwest. Garrick still wouldn’t
let himself move a hair until the sight of the soldiers was long gone and he
could no longer hear them in the distance.

What seemed like
ages later, he eased his dagger back into his boot and released Jossalyn from
his hold. She scooted around to stare at him wide-eyed, her features hard to
read in the growing darkness. He was sure that she was still reeling from all
that her brother had said, but he suddenly felt his anger rising, and something
else—betrayal.

“You damn near got
us killed,” he said in a low but heated voice.

She inhaled
sharply, caught off-guard by his anger. But she recovered and retorted, “You
were about to kill my brother!”

“Yes, I would have
killed your bastard brother if he had spotted us. Would you have preferred for me
to wait for him and his men to be on top of us with their swords drawn first?”

“No, but—”

“Why would you
protect him at all? He hurts you, denies you the ability to practice healing,
and has publicly proclaimed you a traitor!” he interjected. His blood was about
to boil over and he realized that this was why he was so heated—because she had
chosen her brother over him. Some small voice of reason in his head screamed
that he was being ridiculous, that she hadn’t “chosen” her brother
or
him, that she likely hadn’t wanted
anyone
to get hurt, but he quashed
the voice ruthlessly.

“He’s my brother!”
she shot back, her voice rising. “I hate him, but he is still my brother!”

In the back of his
mind, something clicked into place. Through the fog of anger, he could
understand her reasoning. He loved his brothers and would protect them with his
life, but even if he hated them, they were the only family he had. They were
his blood, no matter what. But the haze of fury still clung to him, and no
amount of reason or logic would cut through it.

“You are too naïve
to understand. Just because he is your brother doesn’t mean that he shouldn’t
pay for his evildoing.”

“And just because
I am not a cold-blooded killer like you doesn’t mean I’m too naïve!”

He recoiled as if
she had slapped him. Her shot had found its mark, and he guessed from her heavy
breathing and hurt-filled eyes that his had too. He had in effect called her
foolish and blinded by compassion, and she had called him what he feared to be
most—just a killing machine. He had no heart, no happiness. His whole life
could be summed up by his kills. Perhaps they were both right. He had been a
fool to hope to be anything better. Even worse, he had been a moon-eyed
idealist to think that she could care for him as he was.

She, too, seemed
to sense that they had both crossed a line, brushing too close to the truth, or
at least too close to each of their feared flaws. She pressed her lips together
and averted her eyes, despite the fact that there was barely anything else to
look at but him in the cramped quarters inside the shelter. Finally, she broke
the tense silence.

“I need to check
on Burke.”

“I’ll get a fire
started again and prepare some bandages. The English likely won’t cut back
eastward for several hours, if not a day, and they’ll miss us to the north
anyway,” he said gruffly.

She nodded and
crawled out of the shelter. He followed her out, but forced himself not to
watch her as she went to Burke’s lean-to. The rain had finally let up, and the
deeper darkness of night was settling in on them. At least it wouldn’t be
raining on him as he slept out in the open on the sodden ground, he thought
grimly.