Highland Brides 03 - On Bended Knee (5 page)

Broc chuckled. “Gone with the women,” he revealed, to which Colin replied with a muttered curse.

There was something inherently wrong with this scene; a bunch of witless men warming their arses by the fire and not a woman to be spied! Christ! The women had been smart enough, at least, to steal away before morning light and were likely all sleeping sweetly with their blushing cheeks lying upon soft pillows while the men were left here to pick rocks from their arses and burn their nuts on hot coals.

He spied his tunic balled up beneath Cameron’s head and his breacon laying over Broc’s legs and spat another string of oaths. He marched over and yanked the tunic from under him and the breacon from his legs.

“Well, ye werena using it!” Cameron said in self-defense, and it was less what he said and more the look upon his face that struck Colin wrong. Colin snarled at him and Cameron added sullenly, “I need to take a piss.”

“Aye, do that!” Colin urged him, eyeing him with rancor. “And take your time while you’re at it!”

Cameron leapt up from his bed upon the ground, dusted himself off and walked away into the woods to relieve himself. Colin shook his head as he watched the lad go. “If he were not your cousin…”

“He’s young,” Broc replied. “Give him a few years.”

Colin cast Broc a glance. “For what?” he snapped, and pulled his tunic over his head.

Broc shrugged.

“Anyhow,” Colin advised, straightening the wrinkles from his tunic, “’tis not me who needs to be wary o’ that boy.” He nodded in the direction of the woodlands where Cameron had gone. Merry lifted her head and peered back at him, as though sensing his gaze. “Seems to me has his own ideas about how things should be done. I see that look in his eyes.”

Broc shrugged again. “He’s at that age, Colin. Full o’ piss and
vin aigre
, and thinks the old ways are dead.”

Merry sat and whined for attention. Broc snapped his fingers and she came loping toward him. He reached out to stroke her back and she sat upon the ground between his legs.

“With those damned Sassenachs invading our lives, he may well be right!” Colin remarked. “Soon they’ll have no need to raise swords against us! They’ll breed us out of existence! Think we are stupid, do they? That we dinna know their plan! King David is a bloody fool, or a Sassenach one!”

Broc ignored his dire predictions. He glanced again in the direction of woodlands where Cameron had disappeared, still contemplating his cousin. “He has not taken to Iain’s new wife.”

“Oh?” Colin lifted both brows. “Why not?”

“Well… I dinna ken exactly, but I think he does not trust her. He blames her for coming between Iain and Lagan is my guess.”

Lagan was Iain MacKinnon’s cousin. All Colin knew of the man was that he had tumbled from the cliffs at Chreagach Mhor soon after their return from England. The details, however, were obscure at best, for the MacKinnons were good about keeping their secrets. He would ask Broc, but even as good of friends as they were, Broc was a MacKinnon through and through.

Colin nodded. “I canna say as I blame him for that. I do not like it much that my sister has wed a gadamn Sassenach, but I would not like it at all were Leith to do so. There is a difference, I think, between a Sassenach bride and the Sassenach bride of a laird.”

Broc gave him a knowing glance. “Aye, well, soon enough you’ll not have to worry about that. He’ll be wedding MacLean’s daughter.”

“So it seems,” Colin agreed, dismissing the topic, uncomfortable with it. He was aware of Broc’s continued scrutiny but ignored it.

That his brother was wedding Alison MacLean did not disturb him in the least. He didn’t want the girl any more now than he did before. That Leith had stepped forward to wed her when Colin could not even abide the sight of her made Colin feel the lesser man. So what if she had crossed eyes? She was sweet and kind, as Meghan had oft pointed out, and Colin didn’t like that part of himself that could not see past her silly imperfection. He had hurt her, he knew. His sister was right; he was a shallow brained oaf.

“At any rate…” Colin shrugged away his thoughts, “…why should Cameron like her simply because she is Iain’s wife?”

“’Tis not simply a matter of liking her or not liking her,” Broc revealed. “He does not accord her the respect due her as his laird’s mate. Iain’s patience grows weary.”

“Then let him suffer Iain’s wrath. Mayhap it will humble him. He could use a bit o’ that, I think.”

Broc cast him a troubled glance. “I am responsible for my cousin. When his da died, he was left to me to protect—he and his wee sister, Constance, though I do not know what to do with that one! She runs about nakey most o’ the day, chasing after Merry, and there is no one about who can keep her clothes on.”

Colin chuckled. “And what of Page?” he asked. “Can she not see Cameron is just a boy and simply give him time?”

Broc frowned. “It isna Page he angers. In truth, she pretends not to notice, but I can see verra well it pains her. Ye canna understand, Colin, and you do not know the whole story. You canna blame FitzSimon’s daughter for what passed between Lagan and Iain simply because she is English. Page had nothing to do with it.”

Colin cast him a curious glance. “Mayhap, but since when do you go about defending Sassenachs?”

Broc, Colin knew, had more right than any to loathe them. His own father had been murdered by one—Cameron’s, as well—in defense of their land. Broc had made a lifelong vow to avenge his da. Whatever had happened to change that, Colin didn’t know. He hadn’t seen Broc at all since their return from England where they’d gone to retrieve the MacKinnon’s son from FitzSimon’s treacherous clutches. But somehow, his friend seemed changed upon his return.

“’Tis what Cameron asked me as well.”

Colin studied his long-time friend, looking for some clue as to his change of heart. “And what did ye answer?”

“I have no love for the English,” Broc admitted. “But I do not think they are all evil.” There was a pause of reflective silence. “Not anymore.”

Colin had heard rumors about Lagan and Iain, that they were in fact brothers and not cousins. He was curious, as was everyone, to know what had really happened that night when Lagan had gone over the cliff, but he wasn’t certain whether to ask. He didn’t like to put Broc in a position to have to refuse him confidence. Friend or nay, Broc’s first loyalty was to Iain MacKinnon and it was unswerving. As it should be. Colin accepted that, and more he respected it.

“Did ye ever find Lagan’s body?”

Broc nodded, wincing, but wouldn’t elaborate. He eyed Colin pointedly, changing the topic. “You’d do well to give Montgomerie a chance, Colin. He canna be so bad if Meghan loves him.”

Colin turned away. “Mayhap, but I do not like the way he wooed my sister. My sister deserved better than to be carried away like some sack of meal! I know Meghan, and she did not want to wed at all!”

“Aye, but she did,” Broc countered. “And she did it of her own free will.”

Colin scowled. “Aye, she did.”

“Then mayhap she found something in Montgomerie to love?”

Colin said nothing to that because it was true.

“She did not look to me like a woman forced into her marriage bed,” Broc pointed out. “She looked to me like a woman in love.”

Colin cast his friend a beleaguered glare.

“Ye know… I wasna willing to give FitzSimon’s daughter a chance, either… in the beginning. But she proved to be true of heart and Iain canna have found himself a bride so fair and kind, and brave, as she is. Mairi, God save her rotten soul, could not have walked in her shadow.”

Iain’s first wife. MacLean’s eldest daughter. Mairi died after giving birth to Iain’s son, flinging herself to her death from a tower window right in front of Ian’s eyes. Still, Colin has never met a Sassenach he’d ever liked. He turned to look at Broc, raising a brow.

“’Tis the truth,” Broc persisted. He leapt to his feet, ready to do battle though none was waged. His overreaction took Colin by surprise. Merry too. Startled, she bolted away. “Any man would be proud to call her wife, Sassenach, or not!”

Colin watched the dog bound away, tail between her legs. She halted at a safe distance and turned to look with confusion at her master. Colin did as well. “Christ and be damned, Broc. Settle yourself down. It sounds to me as though ye have more than a liegeman’s heart for the wench.”

Merry whined.

“Nay!” Broc denied at once, though without anger, seeming to realize suddenly how his reaction might have appeared. “I do not,” he assured Colin.

“Are ye certain?”

Broc grinned suddenly, changing the subject. “As certain as your balls are not shriveled!”

Colin screwed his face. “Whoreson bastard,” he said without anger, then laughed.

Broc sat once more and Merry returned to her spot between his legs. Broc resumed petting her and she turned on her back, offering her belly. She wagged her tail happily, and Broc peered up at him. “Though I do hope to find someone like her some day,” he confessed, red faced. “She’s beautiful, she’s brave and full of spirit!”

Colin sat as well. “Och, now, but I do not know a single woman I would call brave. Soft and sweet, mayhap… even canny… but brave?” He raised a brow at Broc.

“Aye,” Broc maintained. “Brave! Ye should have seen her!” He grinned. “She did not cow before Iain, nor did she blink an eye to look at me.”

“Hate to tell you, but you’re not so bloody frightening, Broc,” Colin countered, grinning. “You like to think so, but your face is as sweet as a lassie’s.”

“Page called me a behemoth,” he said proudly in defense of himself.

Colin’s smile widened. “Baby-faced behemoth.”

Broc narrowed his eyes. “You’re a bastard!”

Colin laughed.

Broc lapsed into silence a moment, then said, “Imagine what it might have done to you to be spurned by your da. That bastard did not even want her, Colin.” He shook his head in disgust. “He told us to keep her or kill her, he cared not which. What sort of man does that, tell me!”

Colin didn’t have to imagine it. His da had never been satisfied with his sons. He’d found fault with everything Colin had ever done. Nothing ever pleased him. Meghan and Gavin had been spared his wrath and heavy hand, but he and Leith had borne the burden of their father’s expectations. Still, not even his own da could have been so cold. “A cruel man,” Colin replied.

“Well, Page never let it conquer her spirit,” Broc said, with admiration. “The lass has the heart of a saint behind the armor of her tongue. Och, but she can kill with a look. I pity Iain when her temper is roused!”

Colin chuckled at the image of Iain MacKinnon cowering before his lovely wife, and he was reminded suddenly of his mystery woman. “Saucy wench,” he said, remembering her cutting glances and snappy tongue.

Damn but those lips had been sweet… even if her tongue was not.

He’d like to have tasted that tongue, he thought, and felt himself stir at the images that came to mind.

Who was she?

“Aye, she is,” Broc said, thinking Colin was still speaking about Page. “Ye should have seen her challenge Iain. Och, but, nay… ye should have seen her challenge the bloody lot of us!” He chuckled to himself. “The pawky wench! She kept us awake singing lullabies and stole our bloody horses, had us chasing her bare arsed across the border!”

Colin frowned, too preoccupied now with his own thoughts to focus upon his friend’s tales.

Whatever had happened to the girl from last eve? He’d looked for her all night, listened for her voice, searched through the crowd to no avail. She had simply vanished.

And then he had become sotted with drink, and had made a bloody fool of himself. What was wrong with him that he’d had to prove himself…
unmarred
?

He winced as he recalled the rumors… shriveled nuts had he? Who would say such a vicious thing? Who would be so spiteful as to cast doubt upon his ability to father a child and bed a wife?

But it angered him more that he seemed to need to prove the rumor a lie!

He should have let them all think what they would, and carried on as he had always done! Why should he care what anyone thought?

He didn’t like that about himself, that he was constantly proving himself though no one asked it of him.

“What the hell is taking him so long?” Broc asked, casting impatient glances at the woods. “He said he was only going to piss—how long does it take?”

“Ehhh, leave him be. Mayhap he drank too much and finds himself in need of a good purging.”

Broc made a disgusted a face. “Aye, well, ye ought to be spewing your guts out this morn, too, ye drunken arse!”

God’s truth, he might still. He was suddenly not feeling so well. Damned rotgut
uisge
.

The sound of the arrow as it embedded within the tree sent Cameron stumbling backwards on his arse.

He saw it belatedly, wobbling ominously mere inches from where he had stood relieving himself. He hadn’t had time even to feel the leap of his heart before he was at once surrounded.

Englishmen.

Dressed in tunic and breeches and armed to the teeth, seven of them stood glaring down at him. He might have been afraid in that moment, except that he recognized the oldest, stoutest of the group. He met the man’s eyes, not bothering to rise from where he sat.

“We’ve been waiting for you,” the older man said smugly.

“’Tis no way to greet a man!” Cameron spat, annoyed by the smirks upon their faces.

The older man’s brows shot up. “Man?” he said, and turned to look at his companions. “Did he say man?” The rest of them laughed. It grated on Cameron’s nerves.

“I see no man here!” said one of his lackeys, and then the man sniggered.

Cameron glowered up at them.

Stinkin’ Sassenachs, all of ‘em!

It didn’t matter. They were his means to an end. And they needed him as much as he needed them. With that in mind, he rose, unfazed by their leers. He slapped the dirt from his hands and then his bottom, meeting their leader’s gaze with as much swagger as he could return.

“FitzSimon,” he said in greeting to the man. “You’re a bloody fool for not taking her last night when ye had the chance!”