A Highlander Never Surrenders (30 page)

He gathered Graham into a bone-crushing embrace. “Welcome home, ye bastard. Dinna stay away so long next time.”

Graham pounded him on the back as he withdrew and turned to Claire.

“Claire Stuart,” he presented her with a smile and reached for her hand.

Callum noted the possessive gesture and cast his friend an amused look. “I understand ye’re skilled with a blade,” he said, fixing his gaze on her again.

“I . . . I . . . my brother . . .” Och, how the bloody hell was she supposed to answer that? Was she to take pride in ambushing men and cutting their throats, when before her stood a battle-hardened warrior whose great skill at killing made even Oliver Cromwell retreat?

“She has fought blade to blade against the realm, Callum,” Graham answered for her.

“Fer what purpose?” the laird asked, sizing her up with a different kind of admiration.

“To restore the monarchy,” Claire said, unaware that the pride she took in her cause was evident in the tilt of her chin.

Callum saw it and his approval shone in his eyes. “ ’Tis a good cause, and one that I support.”

She believed him. This man was not in cahoots with Monck. He was not holding her prisoner in his fortress, but meant to protect her in it.

“Graham!”

The woman’s voice yanked away Claire’s thoughts and dragged her eyes to a raven-haired beauty hurrying toward them with a babe on her hip.

“Robert told us you were coming,” she said, stepping into Graham’s waiting arms. “It is so good to see you again, dear friend.”

Claire would have been worried if this woman was one of his wenches, for she was positively radiant, with sparkling eyes as dark as onyx and a tumble of riotous waves framing her creamy complexion. But the way the laird’s face went soft looking at her told Claire who the woman was.

“Ah, Kate, ye grow more bonny each time I see ye. Let me have a look at this babe.” Graham took the babe from Kate MacGregor’s arms and cradled him against his chest. Watching him, Claire imagined him holding their babe with such care and felt a rush of warmth course through her.

“He’s a fine lad,” Graham said first to Kate, and then to Callum while the two drew closer to each other, as if pulled by something far greater than pride over their son. “What do ye call him?”

“Robert.”

When Graham heard Kate’s reply, he gave the babe a mournful pout. “If yer parents had named ye Graham, ye would have grown into a strapping man.”

“My brother is quite strapping,” Kate said, swatting his arm before accepting her son back. “Lady Anne thinks so too, which is one of the reasons I love her as a sister already.” This set up the perfect opening to introduce herself, since it seemed to have skipped her husband’s and his best friend’s minds. Kate smiled at Claire and reached for her hand. “It is a great honor to have such a lady in our home.”

Before Claire had time to blush over the unfamiliar reverence given her, Kate closed her fingers around hers and led her away. “Come, let us get out of the cold and go inside and get acquainted, though I feel as if I know you already. Anne told me that you fight as well as a man. I have never met any woman besides myself who—”

Graham, Callum, and Jamie picked up their steps behind the two chattering lasses and followed them into the castle.

“Is it true then, what Robert says?” Callum asked Graham, cutting him a casual glance.

Graham shrugged. “What does he say?”

“That ye may have finally lost yer heart to a lass.”

On the other side of Callum, Jamie peered across the laird’s chest at his brother, his eyes wide awaiting Graham’s answer.

“Aye,” Graham said, smiling at Claire’s long braid swinging down her back. “I may have.”

The inside of Camlochlin was infinitely more welcoming than the outside. Tall candle stands and sconced torches lit the long corridors. Thick tapestries depicting battle and biblical scenes alike draped the walls, providing warmth to the drafty halls. Heavy Highland burrs permeated the peat-scented air with melody as Camlochlin’s many inhabitants made their way to and fro.

But it wasn’t until Claire saw her sister that she allowed herself to relax. Kate brought her to the main solar, where Anne sat conversing with Robert and another woman before a roaring hearth fire. At least Claire thought she was a woman. She was small enough to be a child, lost in the huge,high-backed chair where she reclined, her feet dangling a few inches from the floor.

When Anne saw her sister, she sprang to her feet and rushed to the door. “I was worried for you. Are you well?”

“Of course I am.” Claire’s cheeks flushed a bright shade of red, hoping, praying her sister did not ask for an explanation of why she and Graham had stayed behind for a full day.

Fortunately, she did not ask, but she did not have to. It appeared, by the impish grin curling the corners of her mouth, and the careful scrutiny narrowing her brilliant blue eyes, that the small lass already knew.

“Lady Stuart,” Kate said, ushering her into the room. Robert stood up immediately and took the babe from her arms. “This is Callum’s sister, Maggie.”

The wee woman rose from her chair, the slight hump of her back bringing her no higher than Claire’s ribs. Her grin softened into a welcoming smile while she sized up Claire as closely as her brother had.

“Hmm,” she voiced, making Claire feel as if she were being appraised for some higher purpose, but no conclusion could yet be made of her worthiness. “I’m saddened by the news of yer brother.”

Claire blinked at the sudden change of direction, and then nodded.

“As am I.” Kate took her hand and squeezed it. “I cannot begin to fathom how difficult his loss must be for the both of you.”

“Nor can I,” Maggie agreed with a weighty sigh.

Claire caught the loving smile Kate offered Robert while he made cooing noises at his nephew. Why the hell did she suddenly feel like weeping? She cleared her throat, but it was no use. Her eyes misted with tears. Why now? she beseeched the heavens. She’d had months to cry over Connor’s death. Why would her body betray her now in front of these women whom she did not even know?

Because they understood. They each had brothers as dear to them as Connor had been to her.

“It has been profoundly difficult,” she admitted for the first time.

Hearing the emotion in her voice, Robert looked up and Anne rushed to her side. “I miss him, too,” she said. “I have longed to speak of him with you, but you . . .”

“I know,” Claire quieted her, stroking her sister’s cheek. “Forgive me. I sometimes forget that you lost him, too.”

Anne shook her head, spilling tears over Claire’s hand. “He was your twin, and your dearest friend. I have always understood the bond between you, and have never felt slighted by it.”

Claire hugged her as the door opened and the men stepped inside.

“Well, look what the winds have dragged home.” Maggie set her fists on her hips and aimed her most disapproving scowl at Graham.

“Come here, ye wee she-devil, and admit that ye missed me.”

Without turning at first, for she did not want Graham to see her tears, Claire closed her eyes and let the sound of his voice soothe her. A moment later, she looked at him, helpless to do anything else. He’d brought laughter and purpose back to her life. Part of her had died with Connor, but Graham Grant made her feel alive again. She smiled, watching Maggie rush headlong into his arms.

Hell, but she wanted to be next.

Chapter Twenty-eight

B
ut know this, that I am a soldier with a need for nothing more.

The private chamber Claire was given boasted two monstrously big wardrobes carved from deep brown walnut with wrought-iron hinges. The two women who escorted her remained silent while they dusted cobwebs from the corners and fed wood to the giant alcoved hearth. Kate had introduced them as Glenna and Lizbeth, the tanner’s daughters. They were twins, sharing the same rich auburn hair, scalding green eyes, and pinched lips. Pretty, but sour-tempered. Claire shrugged, sitting on the edge of a massive four-poster bed. She sighed with delight at the soft feathered mattress beneath her rump. Och, but her arse was killing her from being in the saddle for so long. One of the maidens—Claire couldn’t tell who was who—stomped over, snatched up a pillow, and gave it a hearty whack. A small cloud of dust erupted and made Claire sneeze.

The twin reached for another pillow, but Claire reached forward and laid her hand on top of it. “I can manage the rest,” she said with a caustic smile. “That will be all.”

The twin straightened her spine and wiped her hands down her skirts. Her glare was razor sharp and Claire wondered what the hell she had done to anger the wenches so. She looked as if she wanted to say something, or mayhap spit in Claire’s direction, but her sister’s voice stopped her.

“Come, Glenna, leave her be. He will tire of her soon enough.”

He? Satan’s balls. Claire pounded the mattress, expelling more dust. She should have known. Would she be plagued everywhere she went by Graham’s lovers? And twins! Och, the lusty bastard. Did his decadence know no bounds? Tire of her, indeed! She fumed as the twins left the chamber, slamming the door behind them. He would be fortunate if she did not tire of him and his lecherous appetite first.

Finally alone, she looked around and took stock of her situation. So far, save for the twins, Camlochlin was proving to be quite pleasant. Everyone was painfully nice to her. Kate had done much to make her feel at home, and she liked the spark of belligerence in Maggie’s eyes. Anne seemed to take to them well enough. Where the hell was Anne, anyway? Did Camlochlin have so many rooms that everyone had his own?

Hell, she needed a bath.

There came a knock at the door and Claire looked at it, wondering if the twins had returned with a pair of matching daggers. She felt inside her boot for her own and left the bed to swing open the door.

This time a quartet of beaming beauties, each with hair a slightly different shade of blonde, met her wary gaze. They curtsied almost in unison, calling her m’lady.

“Och, well then,” one of them said, looking her over. She frowned at the kirtles draping her arm.

“Look.” Claire had had enough. She fisted her hand on her hip and glowered right back at them. “I did not force any of you into the rogue’s arms, or his bed. If I have to endure one more sneering look from his slighted lovers, I swear I will kill him myself and end all your suffering.”

One of the four gave the rest a worried look. “Does she mean Graham?”

“That is exactly who I mean,” Claire railed. “He told me he was wicked, but I had no idea . . .”

“Poor child.” The tallest and eldest-looking of the group clicked her tongue, gave Claire’s shoulder a sympathetic pat, and stepped past her into the room. “We are no’ Graham’s lovers,” she said, resting the gowns on the bed. “We’re his sisters. I am Murron.” She swung around and smiled at Claire. “That is Sineag, Mary, and Aileen.”

Claire turned to the other three, wishing a bed as big as the one in her room would fall on her. “His sisters . . . Forgive me for . . .”

“There’s nae need,” Sineag assured her, entering next.

Aileen followed, her pert golden curls bouncing against her buttocks. “Aye, we understand. Sometimes even I think Graham deserves a knife to his innards.”

“Aileen!” Mary charged in next, grasping at her throat in horror. “Ye dinna mean that!”

“Well hell, of course I dinna mean it.” Aileen waved away her sister’s concern. “But ye know as well as I do, Mary, that our brother has rutted every—”

“Aileen,” Murron cut her off with a stern glance. “Why dinna ye go have some steamin’ water prepared fer Lady Stuart’s bath.”

“But I want—”

“Aileen.” Murron’s tone was serene, but the warning to her sister not to argue was unmistakable.

Claire caught the flare of Aileen’s nostrils as she stormed out of the room. She had some fire in her, that one. Immediately, Claire liked her. She turned to Murron—who thought she needed protection from the truth.

“I know of your brother’s—” She paused, searching for the appropriate word. “—adventures.”

“But ye dinna want to be reminded of them, aye?” Murron turned back to the kirtles without waiting for an answer.

No, she did not, Claire thought with a clearer understanding now of Murron’s thoughtfulness.

“We thought ye might enjoy a hot bath and a change of clothes after so long a journey,” Murron said, holding up one of the kirtles, dyed in the palest yellow. The bodice was cut high to the waist, with thick, luxurious woolen folds cascading to the floor. “Alas,” she said inspecting Claire’s trews again, “I fear they willna suit ye.”

“Nae, they are lovely,” Claire hastened to assure her, still feeling terrible about mistaking the four women for Graham’s lovers. She hurried to the bed and swept her hand over two more kirtles of rich emerald and ruby red. There were long shifts to wear underneath, crafted in soft white linen, both long-sleeved and short. “Truly, they will suit me well.”

Murron and Sineag gave her knowing smiles, their gazes dipping to the sword hanging from her hip.

Mary curtsied again, wringing her hands in her apron. “We pray fer the king’s return soon, m’lady.”