A Highlander Never Surrenders (23 page)

There came a knock at the door, and without turning, Monck called, “Come.” The hinges creaked, reminding the general to have them oiled.

“My lord, you have received two missives from London.”

“London?” Monck turned, his dark brow furrowed with surprise. “Here, give them to me.” Reaching out, he snatched the missives from the vassal’s hand, then waved him out.

London?
he thought, breaking both seals. The first message he opened appeared to be written by a bloodied hand, the words barely distinguishable. He turned to the second, this written by John Murray, one of the two captains he had sent to London. His eyes scanned the words, then shot once again to the first parchment, which, according to Murray, belonged to Connor Stuart. It had been given to the captain by a servant in Wallingford House, the home of Charles Fleetwood. After reading it, the captain had felt it warranted further examination.

Monck agreed and held it up closer to the candle flame. Much of it was difficult to decipher, but what he read turned his blood cold.

My dearest C,

It has all gone terribly———. ———feared has come to pass. ——— all been betrayed. I had known ———. Now ———naught I can do but think on his death. Would that I were with you, ———. ——— fox’s snare. I am pla—d by the flower of Scotland crying ——— Save me from the kiss of the devil! ———escape that ——— keeps me from my utmost duty ———? ——— I myself have been deceived. Forgive me, for I ——— save her. Just as I could not ———. Who has ———the ———warrior arrayed in the frost of ———? ———has perished. And yet, he lives.

He lives? Mother Mary, was it possible? The governor rushed through the rest.

Betrayed. ———by his friend. No greater sorrow.——— enemy ———the one ——— covets the prize.
General Monck read on until he came to the end.

Your lo——brother, Conno—Stuart.

He lowered the parchment and set his eyes toward the window again. Dear God, was Stuart still alive? His stomach churned knowing the matter was out of his hands. He could not deviate from his plans, nor could he chance the truth being discovered. Not now when his armies were gathering from the four winds. Not after he had just set every plan he’d held secret for so long into motion.

He could do nothing, but there was someone who could. With no time to spare, the general picked up his quill, scribbled a few lines at the top of Connor’s letter, then sealed it with his stamp. When he was done, he pulled open his door and stuck his head out. “Send for Captain Fraser,” he commanded a passing servant, then shut the door again and paced while he waited for his second in command.

When the captain arrived, Monck shoved the parchment into his hand and told him where to deliver it. To this messenger, he gave the same orders as he’d given the first.

Claire was so happy when they stopped at a warm inn nestled within the hills of Glen Nevis, she was tempted to push a giggling serving wench out of her way so that she could get to Graham first and thank him. But Anne had taken so much pleasure in teaching her how to behave like a lady, she did not want to disappoint. Och, a bath, a warm supper, a bed! She could not wait to enjoy all three. Determined to be polite, she grinned at a swarthy lass when she offered, with a bit more welcome in her dark eyes for Graham than for anyone else, to bring them to their room. Her new manners and docile demeanor had naught to do with Graham, despite Anne’s teasing to the contrary. She simply wanted to see what she was missing, if anything. As it turned out, she was not missing much. Graham still avoided being alone with her, and instead of brooding, he looked at her with something akin to pure confoundedness animating his features. Still, she did not let that stop her from practicing her lessons in femininity, even though, by God, she hated them.

She practically raced Anne up the stairs, pausing only when Brodie, Angus, and Robert stopped at the top of the second landing. What was the bloody hold-up? Her thigh muscles were screaming for the blessed comfort of warm water. She had days of dirt to scrub off. Satan’s balls, she was itching everywhere! Mumbling an oath she almost did not care if her sister heard or not, she reached behind her and gave her backside a scratch, then peered around Anne’s back to glare at the men.

“Why have you stopped?”

“We dinna know which way to go,” Angus told her, then looked around her shoulder at Graham at the bottom of the stairs.

Claire turned her head and found Graham still conversing with the swarthy wench. That is to say, the swarthy wench was the one doing all the talking. Graham’s eyes were fastened on Claire’s hand. Her scratching came to an abrupt halt, but it was the intimately sweet smile he gifted her with that made her blush three shades of scarlet. It galled her how swiftly this man could jolt every nerve ending in her body to life. When the wench—who should have been turning down their blasted bed by now—tossed Claire’s trews a distasteful look before turning her lustful grin back on Graham, Claire struggled to remember her lessons. Ladies did not leap down the stairs and strangle other ladies, even if they were trollops with heaving bosoms twice the size of her own.

“Commander,” Claire called down serenely. “If you would be so kind as to pry yourself free of your admirer’s fingers and allow her to move her arse before I move it for her, I would be in your debt.”

His smile on her widened before he turned it on the wench blocking his path. “Ye best go, lass. Her blade is as sharp as her tongue.”

“My tongue is not sharp,” Claire said through her teeth when Graham took up his steps behind the girl. Anne shot her sister a now-what-have-I-taught-you look, and Claire feigned a more pleasant smile when he reached her. “Forgive me for frightening you both. I . . .” She glared at Anne for digging her heel into her boot. “What I mean to say is . . .” Her voice trailed off while Graham passed her without another look. Son of a . . .

“Do you smell the stew?” Anne closed her eyes and inhaled the glorious aroma wafting from the kitchen. “Heavenly.”

“Aye,” Claire breathed, forgetting about Graham for the moment. “Mutton,”

“And freshly baked bread.”

“Och, let there be honey to go with it,” Claire sighed, following the now-cleared path up the stairs. So preoccupied was she with the thought of a hot, delicious meal, she did not notice the serving wench’s brooding expression when Graham closed his door with nothing but a muttered note of thanks before sending her on her way.

As Claire had hoped, supper was delicious. She did not even mind that it was cold. The mutton was tender, the bread was soft and sweetened with churned butter, and the ale was plentiful. She did her best not to wolf everything down as fast as Brodie did. Ladies ate slowly, with delicate bites, and—as Anne reminded her before they left their room—they did not chew with their mouths open.

But hell, she was hungry! And was it not enough that her hair was flowing freely around her demure face—and in her mouth more times than her spoon? She thought about what a pity it was that in this tavern of at least three dozen wenches, there was not a single extra gown to be worn, but she was in too good a mood to let that bother her. In truth, she did not look forward to wearing one. How women breathed with the laces of their bodices drawn so tight was beyond her.

The best part of the meal, though, was the company. The MacGregors’ laughter was as boisterous as their reputation was lethal. Anne seemed to get along particularly well with Angus, which Claire suspected had something to do with their shared fondness for the Highlander’s potent brew. Did ladies get soused? Claire would have to remember to ask her later.

“Enjoy the meat now, ladies,” Robert said. The earl looked especially handsome tonight with his deep sable hair slicked neatly away from his cleanly shaven face. “There’ll be none at Camlochlin.”

“Why not?” Anne asked.

“Callum’s sister has an aversion to killing animals for food.”

“Truly?” Anne cast him a suspicious smile that warmed Robert’s eyes to a rich hazel green. When he nodded, her wide eyes opened wider. “And the chieftain indulges his sister’s wishes?”

“Near all o’ them,” Angus said, swiping the back of his hand over his mouth after a long guzzle of ale. “ ’Tis why Jamie Grant is home pickin’ flowers instead o’ bein’ here wi’ us.”

“A pansy,” Brodie reminded them all and brooded into his cup.

Claire smiled and looked up from her stew at Graham when Angus insisted he do something about it.

“I will speak to Callum,” he promised, then continued chewing.

Claire watched him eat, then blinked away when he lifted his gaze to her.

“Does Jamie mind picking her flowers?” Anne asked all the men.

Angus shook his head and belched. “Been pickin’ them fer years.”

“Then why do you want him to stop? He sounds like a very devoted husband. I’m sure his wife is most happy with him.”

“Must a lass’s happiness be bought with a man’s virility?” All eyes turned to Graham, washing down his bread with a swig of ale. He looked at Anne, and then at Claire, as he rested his cup back on the table. To his right, Brodie nodded in agreement.

“Love has no price, Commander,” Anne pointed out gently, and smiled at him. He did not return the gesture, but shrugged and went back to his stew.

“It does when the man is afraid of being
bested
by a woman,” Claire told her sister. Feeling Graham’s hooded eyes on her, she turned and offered him a casual smile. “Do you not agree?”

He set down his spoon and gave her his full attention. “Nae, I do not. A true warrior should not fear being bested by anyone but himself.”

Claire tilted her head and narrowed her gaze on his. What in blazes did
that
mean? And why was he looking at her as if she should know? Was he referring to her tiny outburst on the stairs earlier? Surely he had noticed the change in her over the last several days. She’d barely argued with anyone. Was he pointing out her inability to best her manly ways? Her hands balled into fists clutching her spoon and bread. Well, she would prove him wrong.

“You speak correctly, kind sir.” With a short smile, she severed her gaze from his and spooned her stew into her mouth. Patience, decorum, modesty. She chomped on her mutton and almost choked upon swallowing, for it was accompanied by her pride.

Chapter Twenty-one

C
,

The time has come to let the truth be known.

Kind sir?
Graham would have laughed at Claire’s strangled reply if he knew what the hell she was up to.

He had no idea what he’d said to spark those gloriously blue eyes, or why she fought so rigorously to douse the fire. Claire Stuart was many things, but docile was not among them. Since leaving Loch Tay she had done everything but curtsy when any of them addressed her. She was quiet, composed, and most disturbing, agreeable. He remembered her humble compliance when she wanted to accompany them to Edinburgh. She was a cunning little viper who would do whatever it took to get what she wanted.

And clearly, she wanted something.

What concerned Graham the most, though, was that he would likely grant her anything she wished. It was not the modest glances with which she graced him every time she caught him looking at her, or the way her lush mane of palest yellow tumbled about her shoulders, giving her the look of some wild-caught nymph, that tempted him to cast his loyalty to the four winds. No, it was the battle she fought with herself, rather than with him, that made her so irresistible.

It was what drove him to tease her.

“I want to tell ye, Claire—” He waited while her spoon paused at her mouth and she lifted her eyes to him again before he smiled. “—that I like this change in ye. It has been unusually pleasant as of late.” He noted the challenge that flicked across her steady gaze, and his smile deepened. Ah, there was his she-devil.

“When there are no men about who pose a threat”—her brow dipped over her eyes, parrying his jab—“you’ll find me quite serene and unruffled. I’m glad it pleases you.” She smiled to prove it.

What pleased him was her vicious tongue, and the strength in her eyes that promised one hell of a fight—and delivered. “What pleases me even more,” he countered coolly, “is yer confidence that I am here to protect ye, not to be a threat to ye.” He almost grinned at how easy it was to bait her.

“Protect me?”

Hell, she was utterly and completely ravishing on the verge of leaping at him.

“Why you insuff—owww!” She howled and glared at her sister, who covered up her stinging pinch with a loving pat to Claire’s arm. When Claire bolted to her feet, Anne shot her a warning look.

So, wee, innocent Anne was in on it, too, was she? Graham shook his head at the both of them. Lasses. One working against you to get what she wanted was bad enough. Two, and a man had no chance at all.

But Claire was done fighting this battle. Or was she? The daring tilt in her tight smile when she excused herself said otherwise.

Graham watched her go, enjoying the view. When she headed for the tavern doors instead of the stairs, he sprang from his chair and sprinted after her.

He entered the balmy twilight of dusk with the tip of a thin, sharp blade already at his throat. Looking over its shiny length, he met Claire’s hard gaze.

“Protect yourself.”