A Highlander Never Surrenders (34 page)

“My sister is a most fortunate lady, indeed,” she told him, and laughed when Anne threw herself into her arms. “You love him,” she whispered close to Anne’s ear.

“With my whole heart.”

“Then I shall happily tell our brother that we have chosen for ourselves.”

Anne smiled at Graham a few steps away, oblivious to what they spoke. Claire had fallen in love with him—the poor man.

Chapter Thirty-two

N
ae! I shall ride forth and obliterate the shame that has been brought upon the father.

The stench of rotting corpses and moist mold had stopped turning Connor Stuart’s stomach months ago. He’d sworn never to grow cold to the terrible wailing from the other prisoners in the cells around him, but he’d had to in order to save himself from going mad. Most days—or nights, he could not tell the difference—he prayed for death to claim him. But still he lived, as if his sole purpose for being on the earth was to frustrate Lambert and the rest of the generals. He was no longer afraid of his punishment for not telling them what he knew. He welcomed it, hoping the next blow would be the one to finally kill him.

He’d even stopped worrying about his sisters. It took him a long time, but he’d finally come to accept the fact that he would never see them again, could not help them. The paths he had chosen for them had already begun. But dear God, why had he not given Claire to James, instead of Anne? At least then, he could die knowing Claire would kill the bastard—most likely a few hours into the marriage.

There was one other thing keeping him alive. Revenge scored his heart, slashing it afresh with each and every endless moment of his miserable existence. He ate, drank, shyt, and slept thinking up different ways to repay his closest friend for what he’d done, not only to him but to his sisters.

A rat scurried across his foot and he kicked it away as the heavy wooden door of his cell creaked open. The light from the single candle flame on the floor beside him flickered. He knew it wasn’t the guard with his gruel by the polished sheen of the wearer’s boots clicking across the floor. Which general was it today? he wondered, not bothering to look up.

“How are you today, Connor?”

Lambert. Connor smiled into his bent knees, remembering how many of this general’s men he had killed.

“Do you hunger?” He crouched before Connor, stinking of the sweet perfume of noblemen, his sharp features illuminated by the flame. “I purloined this from Fleetwood’s own plate.” He reached into a pouch on his shortcoat and produced a half-eaten pear. “Would you like it?” When Connor nodded, Lambert handed it to him without hesitation. “There is more,” he said while Connor sank his teeth into the ripe fruit. “Puddings and warm tarts lathered in honey, fresh venison and cool ale to wash it down. Anything you desire, and all you need do to have it is tell me why Monck kept company with rebels.”

“I cannot speak now. My mouth is full.”

Lambert laughed, but the sound grated like sandpaper against Connor’s ears. “Come now, Stuart. You must realize by now that your cause is hopeless. You are going to die here, and for what? Some false sense of loyalty to a man who betrayed you?”

Connor chewed quietly, unfazed by Lambert’s words, for he knew who had betrayed him.

“Why do you not simply tell us what we want to know? What were your secret meetings with General Monck about? You are Charles’s cousin, a Royalist rebel to the death, aye? What have you and Monck in common?”

Satan’s rancid balls, could not even one of these sons of whores think up a fresh query to put to him? It was always the same thing, day after day, sennight after sennight. Could they not get it through their thick skulls that he was not going to tell them anything? No matter how they tortured him, no matter what they promised him, he would not betray his king. Tossing the pear core to the side, he gave the same answer he’d been giving since they locked him up in this Godforsaken place. “You have been misinformed. There were no meetings.”

Lambert stood to his feet, his sickeningly sweet tone replaced by rage when he spoke again. “Buchanan has told us . . .”

“Then ask Buchanan, for hell’s sake, and leave me alone.”

The boot to his gut almost brought what little of the pear he had eaten back up. “Still an arrogant son of a bitch,” Lambert growled above him. “I am going to enjoy watching you hang.”

Connor fought to keep from passing out and finally raised his gaze to his enemy. There was no fury, no promise of retribution burning in the fathomless clear blue depths of his eyes, only the calm satisfaction of a truth Lambert and his minions had revealed to him. “As much as I enjoy learning how desperately you fear Monck?”

Lambert was a small man, but his fist came down like a hammer on Connor’s bearded jaw. “I fear no man,” he snarled, clutching handfuls of Connor’s filthy tunic and lifting him off his rump. “I shall prove it to you when I bring you with me on my march into Scotland.” He sneered into Connor’s face. “We shall learn then how much Monck values your life when I take it before his eyes. Aye, that will be quite telling indeed. If he supports the king’s rebellion, as he does Parliament, I will see him hanged.” He yanked Connor forward and then smashed his head against the damp wall behind him, knocking him unconscious. “Guards!” he called out over his shoulder. “Take him to the stables.” He stepped away, smiling, as he left the Tower. “Mighty rebel, indeed.”

Claire swept her earasaid across her thighs in an effort to drive out the chill of the dark November night and the bleak despair it brought with it. They’d left Skye three days ago, and with each league that brought them closer to England, her hope of finding her brother alive faded. How long ago had he penned his letter to her? She had no way of knowing. She wanted to believe he still lived, but it had been three months since he’d been captured. What if it was too late? What if she’d been too busy seeking revenge on Monck and trying to save Anne, while her brother was being hanged? And if he was still alive, how much longer would he remain so? It would take them at least three weeks to reach London, two if they continued traveling as they did.

It was Graham’s idea to ride through the night without pause. Fortune, he’d told her, was on their side. The full moon provided enough light to travel safely while she slept cradled in his arms for a few hours, after which time he woke her, secured his horse to hers, and slept in his saddle while she led them over the moonlit moors.

Claire was glad he was with her. By day, his light conversation and warm smiles kept her thoughts off the fate of her brother. When she did voice her concerns to him, he was quick to reassure her that he believed Connor was alive.

They did not speak of what had happened between them in Skye. In fact, he avoided the topic of marriage altogether when she’d brought up Robert and Anne’s nuptials. For the first few days of their journey Claire was too occupied with thoughts of Connor to care. But at night, as now, when she rested against his chest, his strong arms wrapped so snugly around her, keeping her warm in her thick earasaid, she wondered if his claim on her had less to do with arrogance, and more to do with his heart. What would become of them after they found Connor and killed James? Would Graham let her ride out of his life when they were no longer in the Highlands and their union was deemed invalid? She didn’t care about General Monck’s plans for her to wed Robert. He might truly be Connor’s friend, but he was not her king. And besides, Robert and Anne were likely married by now. But what of Charles? If he was restored, would he allow her to wed Graham? Would Connor? Aye, her brother would help her convince the king that a union between the Stuarts and the Highlanders was in the kingdom’s best interest.

The thought of never seeing Graham again was more agonizing than when she’d first learned of Connor’s death. And now she knew why. She loved him. Damn it to hell, she loved him more than she could have ever thought possible, more than she would ever admit to him. How many women had whispered that they adored him in his fickle ear? How many times must he have had to pry their needy fingers off his heart and make a mad dash for the nearest door?

She sighed against him and closed her eyes, praying for sleep to overtake her troubled heart.

“All will be well, Claire,” he spoke tenderly behind her, smoothing his hand over the top of her head before he pressed his lips there. “Ye’ll see yer brother again, I vow it.”

He spoke of Connor and she smiled, wanting, needing to believe him. But . . . “What if you are wrong?”

“I am not. Monck has long been silent on the issues that plague England, setting himself apart from the others. The army captured, but did not kill the leader of the resistance, the only other man who—they were informed by Buchanan—knew what Monck might be planning. Would yer brother break upon torture?”

Claire’s eyes darkened with the threat of a torrential downpour of tears, but she held them back and shook her head. “Nae, he would not.”

Graham’s voice went soft along her ear. “Then he is not dead.”

He was right, Claire thought, heaving a great weight off her shoulders. Pitiful or not, she would always love Graham for coming with her, for never once chiding her for who she had chosen to be, and for not letting her believe the worst about her brother’s fate.

“They are keeping Connor alive because what he knows is too valuable.”

“Aye.” Claire smiled and nestled closer against him. “You have been a good friend to me, Graham.”

She felt him go stiff behind her. He moved his face away from her and made a sound as if her words caused him pain.

“Can ye not sleep?” he asked a moment later, shifting uncomfortably.

“Nae, I cannot. Why do you not sleep first? I can see perfectly well and will not lead us into a tree, like last eve.”

Immediately, his arm curled tighter around her middle. “I am fine where I am.”

“You sound weary.”

“I am not.”

“And short-tempered.”

He tossed back his head and muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “blasted stubborn wench.” When her spine went straight, he dragged her back hard against his chest. “Cease arguing with me.”

Claire pushed off him and tossed her head around to offer him a pointed look. “Are you trying to distract my thoughts away from Connor by tempting me to hurl you off my horse?”

He smiled, then laughed quietly and bent his face to hers. His breath warmed her mouth and she parted her lips, waiting, wanting him to kiss her. But he moved away, leaving her with the alluring scent of his neck.

“Ye speak of yer fears regarding yer brother, but ye do not speak of him. Tell me of the man who came into the world with ye.”

She hadn’t spoken of Connor with anyone, and she needed to. Saints, she needed to. “What do you wish to know?”

“How did he gain such favor in yer heart?”

Leaning her head back against Graham’s shoulder, she closed her eyes remembering. “My childhood was difficult. I had nothing in common with the other young ladies at court. Not even with Anne. While they were learning how to embroider and play the lute in their immaculately fitted gowns, I was being tossed, with my brother and his friends, at my father’s feet, accused and guilty of bullying the other boys of the parish. My punishments were harsh but swift, for I believe that beyond my father’s shame of me, it pleased him to know that I was as courageous as his son. He never admitted it, though, and always insisted that I behave more like Anne. I confounded my mother and every other mother in our household, and finally they began to keep their daughters away from me, lest they develop the unnatural desire to wear their brothers’ clothes and swing a sword.

“The only place I fit in was with Connor, and he took me with him every day without complaint and without quarrel. He was pleased with me the way I was.”

“He knew ye were perfect, then.”

Claire opened her eyes and smiled at him. “He knew I wasn’t, and he still loved me.”

“I think I will like him,” Graham whispered against her temple.

“I think so, too,” she answered, loving him all the more for his steadfast belief that they were not too late to save Connor.

At Camlochlin, she had not gone to his bed, trying, for the first time in her life, to behave like a woman of nobility. Graham would never know how difficult it had been for her to stay away from him. How she had lain in bed next to Anne, night after night, thinking of him. He had not touched her since the day they’d arrived in Skye. And now, with their time together possibly nearly at an end, she wanted more than anything to kiss him again, to feel his hands on her. She didn’t care if she was a pitiful wench, a royal trollop, she wanted to make love to him one more time, whether he loved her or not.

“Is there an inn close by?”

“Aye, there is one a few leagues from here,” he told her. “D’ye want to stop? ’Twill slow us down, but . . .”

She silenced his words with a tender kiss along his jaw line, and then another, until she felt his heart beating hard against her. “Take me there.” She smiled when his mouth descended over hers.

Aye, she loved him more than anyone else in her life, and if she was too afraid of his reaction to tell him, then she would show him.

Chapter Thirty-three

B
e patient. Be vigilant. For there is as much honor gained by suffering wants patiently in war, as by fighting valiantly.