Highlander's Redemption: The Sinclair Brothers Trilogy, Book Two (2 page)

Burke had warned
him not to try to skirt the village on the west side, for the path was nearly
overgrown by the forest. But Garrick had insisted that they would be less
likely to be spotted, and so had forced their horse and wagon down the almost
invisible path. It would look better for them to enter the village from the
south, he had insisted, so that it would appear like they had already spend
time in the area and weren’t coming straight from Scotland.

He had gritted his
teeth at the conditions of the path, if it could even be called that, and
silently dared Burke to make a comment so that he would have an excuse to
unleash his annoyance on his cousin. It wasn’t Burke’s fault, of course, but
Garrick was strung tighter than his bow—which he had been forced to leave back
at the safe house—and anxious to get this entire mission over with.

He had been so
distracted in his thoughts, however, that he failed to see the lass until it
was almost too late. Luckily, his reflexes were sharp enough that at the first
flash of golden hair and dark green skirts, he pulled up hard on the reins,
forcing their enormous draft horse and cumbersome wagon to a halt before they
squashed the lass like a bug.

As it was, she
looked squashed anyway. She had crumpled into a bush and was struggling to
right herself. Feeling like an arse for not paying attention, and dreading
having to beg apology from this lass he had nearly run over, Garrick swung out
of the wagon and strode toward her. Her hair, which sparkled like gold in the
sunlight, had slipped from its braid and partially obscured her face, but her
eyes followed him as he moved.

“Are you all
right, lass?” he said in his least-Scottish sounding voice, coming to a halt in
front of her.

She shoved her
golden hair out of her face with one hand to reveal flawless strawberries-and-cream
cheeks. Her eyes widened, and Garrick suddenly found himself swimming in their
emerald depths. Maybe drowning was more like it.

His eyes traveled
down to her berry-red lips, which were parted in a surprised
O
, and his
mind went instantly to thoughts of how soft and sweet they might taste.

He viciously
ripped his mind away from such idling. He wasn’t here to seek pleasure with a Borderlands
lass—no matter how incredibly enticing she was. And yet, there he stood,
staring down at her like a dumbfounded lad. For some reason he couldn’t get his
tongue to work. All he could seem to do was drink in the sight of her on the
ground, rumpled, surprised, and just as speechless as he was.

Burke cleared his
throat from where he stood behind Garrick, which caused him to snap his head
up, breaking the spell.

“Our apologies, my
lady. We are unfamiliar with these paths. Are you hurt?” Burke said smoothly,
hiding his brogue far better than Garrick had.

Burke’s words made
Garrick feel even more like an arse. Here he was, enraptured by this lass’s
finely formed face while she was toppled over in a bush, struggling to get to
her feet. He quickly extended his hand to her. She shifted her glance between
the two of them, seeming to weigh Burke’s good manners against his poor ones.

Finally, she
placed her delicate hand inside his. He wrapped his other hand around her upper
arm and hauled her out of the brambly bush she had fallen into. But he
overestimated the force required, and ended up yanking her clear off her feet. She
screeched as she came hurdling upward and toward him, but the sound died when
she bumped into his large chest.

Christ, this
wasn’t going well, he thought with annoyance at himself.

Thankfully, she
bounced off his chest and landed on her feet, though she wobbled a bit. Placing
his hands on her shoulders to steady her, he took a step back so as not to
intimidate the lass—or inflict any more of his “help” on her.

“I apologize for
startling you, my lady, and for, er—for flinging you,” he said through gritted
teeth. Damn, but he did feel like a lad—one who had been caught with his hand
in the honey pot.

The lass seemed to
be gathering whatever shred of dignity and level-headedness she had left. She
smoothed her dark green skirts with her slim hands, which Garrick noticed
trembled ever so slightly.

“Yes, well. You
should drive more slowly on these overgrown paths,” she said. Her voice was
strained, but her English accent was clear. So, she wasn’t from the Borderlands
as he had initially thought. He felt himself grow slightly more guarded.

“Again, we deeply
apologize, my lady, and beg your forgiveness,” Burke said with a regal bow. “As
I mentioned, we aren’t from here, and were trying to find our way to the
village at Dunbraes.”

“Ah, well, you are
nearly there. The village is a stone’s throw from here,” she replied, then
hesitated for a beat before going on. “May I ask what your business is? You
see, I know the village and its people well, and could perhaps point you toward
what you seek.”

That sounded
innocent enough, but Garrick suspected that his stronger Scottish accent was
making the lass curious at best—or worse, suspicious.

“How fortuitous!”
Burke said, plastering a smile on his face, though his thoughts likely ran in
the same direction as Garrick’s. “We are blacksmiths from a small village farther
north. Though we were both apprenticed with our uncle with the aim of taking
his place, he has stayed on as the head blacksmith back home, and sadly there
wasn’t enough work to keep us employed. We were hoping to find more work in a
larger village.”

Some of the
tension went out of the lass’s shoulders. Burke had managed to easily explain
both their accents and their large, muscular frames, all while keeping a
friendly smile on his face. Damn, he was good.

“Hmm, John may
welcome the extra help.” Her brow furrowed slightly as she thought. “In fact,
he should be giving his bad hip a rest anyway.” Seeming to decide something,
she gave a little nod. “I can show you where our village smithy is and make an
introduction. I need to check on him anyway.”

Garrick felt his
own curiosity pique. Without thinking, he said softly, “
Check
on him?”

The lass blushed
prettily and lowered her eyes under his gaze. “Yes, I am—I am a healer.” Though
she tried to steady her voice, it nevertheless faltered. Now it was Garrick’s
turn to furrow his brow. What would cause the lass to feel embarrassed to name
herself a healer? What was she hiding?

Perhaps he had
spent too long alone in the field. Here he was, growing suspicious of a lass
just because she blushed under his hard stare. He was likely scaring the wits
out of her. Even without his kilt, metal-studded leather vest, sword, knives,
and bow and arrow, he probably didn’t look like the friendly villagers she was
used to seeing.

“May we offer you
a ride back to the village, my lady?” Burke said. “At least then you’ll know
you won’t be run down by a few country bumpkins like us!”

Country bumpkins? Even
in their simple English clothes, Garrick doubted they could pass for bumpkins. But
despite his skepticism, Burke’s charm worked yet again. The lass cracked a
small smile, and his stomach pinched. Her green eyes danced and those rosy,
supple lips arched into the perfect curve.

“I suppose I could
accept a ride. But not from strangers,” she said.

Burke matched her
smile and swept another gallant bow. “I am Burke Ferguson, and this is my
cousin, Garrick Ferguson.” They had decided to use their first names to avoid
any dangerous slip-ups, but had chosen a nice, safe Lowlander surname, despite
how ridiculous their names now sounded to his ears.

She bobbed a
curtsy to them. “And I am Jossalyn W-Williams.”

Garrick didn’t
miss her little hitch—the second one in mere minutes. Now he was suspicious.
Good thing his mission was to ask questions around the village and gather
information. He would have to keep a special eye on this lass—not that such a
task would be hard.

After she had
collected her basket full of herbs, the three of them walked over to the wagon.
Before Burke could prove himself a gentleman and make Garrick look like a
bumbling arse again, though, Garrick wrapped his hands around the lass’s slim
waist and lifted her onto the bench at the front of the wagon. Then he swung
himself into the driver’s seat, leaving Burke to take up a perch in the back of
the wagon, which was mostly empty except for some supplies to give the
appearance that they had traveled from a nearby village.

As Garrick took the
reins in his hands, he was acutely aware of the lass’s presence next to him, in
no small part because she smelled incredible—like sunshine and wildflowers. He
gripped the reins hard, trying to get his hands to stop tingling from the
memory of the feel of her trim waist and that perfect spot where it flared
gently toward her hips.

Aye, he would be
staying close to Jossalyn Williams—for the mission, he told himself firmly.

Jossalyn tried to
still her racing heart, but it hadn’t stopped pounding wildly since she had
laid eyes on the two Scotsmen—well, only one of them had her chest hammering,
actually.

Even now, as the
one named Garrick turned the wagon down the cart road that ran through the
middle of Dunbraes village, she couldn’t quite seem to catch her breath or
think straight.

It was because she
had nearly been run over, she told herself for the umpteenth time.

It was because he
had wrapped his large, strong hands around her waist and lifted her like a
feather. Men simply didn’t touch her like that; she was Raef Warren’s sister
after all, and a lady.

It was because she
had nearly let her name slip, then lied badly to cover up a mistake that would
have likely ended her forbidden foray into the village to see to the ailing.

But a little voice
inside whispered that the uncontrollable fluttering in her chest was actually
because the man sitting mere inches from her in the wagon was the most
stunningly, strikingly, dangerously handsome man she had ever seen.

His eyes—which had
appeared nearly black at first, but had revealed themselves to be a steely gray—cut
into her like a knife. He seemed to be able to see directly into her, knowing
her lies and understanding her girlish blushes. And his body—he was built like
stone but moved like silk. She had seen muscular men before—after all, Dunbraes
was one of the central gathering points for English troops before they advanced
into Scotland. But something about his build sent shivers through her like no
other. It made sense that he was a blacksmith, for nothing but warfare or
smithing could hone such a physique.

Something tickled
her mind about such a thought, though. Why hadn’t these two brawny, able-bodied
men in their prime been drafted into either the English army or the Scottish
resistance?

Perhaps it was because
they were Borderlanders. These unfortunate people in whose midst she lived had
suffered the worst of the conflict. They often got hammered by both sides, and
had to maintain fluid alliances just to survive. Jossalyn could understand not
wanting to join the fight and risk everything if—or rather, when—the tide
turned to one side and then the other. She had seen enough of the cruel
treatment by the English against the peaceful farmers and villagers in the Borderlands
to know just how dangerous it was to be Scottish, let alone a supporter of the
Scottish cause for independence, in these times.

These two men were
likely just trying to survive, even if it meant working in an English-held
region. Plenty of other Lowlanders had done the same, so why did she keep
feeling that tickle in the back of her mind? Something about these two—and
particularly Garrick—made her curious. She had a hard time picturing him as a
simple blacksmith from a small village. He seemed too—dangerous.

So lost in her
thoughts was she that she nearly forgot to instruct Garrick to stop as they
approached John’s smithy. Without thinking she gripped his forearm as she
pointed to the smithy and told him where to guide the wagon so that it would be
out of the way. His hard muscles flexed under her touch, and his skin was warm
and smooth where her fingers brushed past his rolled up sleeve. She jerked back
as if burned, but he didn’t seem to notice—or at least he pretended not to for
her benefit.

Garrick pulled the
draft horse to a halt where she had indicated, then swung out from his seat. Before
she could begin her own descent, though, he moved like lightening to her side
of the wagon, extending those large hands toward her to help her down. She
placed her hands on top of his shoulders, feeling the ripple of his muscles as
he tensed under her touch. Then those hands were on her waist again, sending
waves of heat from where they firmly gripped her. She could feel another blush
creeping up her neck and willed it away, but to no avail.

As if she weighed
next to nothing, he lifted her first up so that her feet would clear the
wagon’s bench, then down until her feet gently touched ground. For some reason,
though, she felt like she was still floating in the air. His hands lingered for
a moment, and his steel-gray eyes collided with hers. His look was unreadable,
but there was something fierce in it, though she didn’t know why.

A quiet cough from
Burke, who had already started walking toward the smithy, snapped both of their
eyes away. Garrick’s hands instantly left her waist. She could still feel where
they had been, though, as if she had two large handprints branded into her now.

Garrick gestured
for her to lead the way, and she grabbed her basket and moved past him, trying
to keep her chin level and her cheeks from flaming again. Crossing the wagon
road, she tapped on the smithy door lightly. When she heard John’s bellow to
come in, she pushed the door open.

Despite the
brightness and warmth of the summer day outside, the interior of the smithy was
dim and roasting hot. A large fireplace with several tools sticking out of it
dominated the back wall, and except for a few tables strewn with more tools,
the only other feature of the room was the huge anvil in the middle, where John
was currently working.

John squinted into
the light of the open door, his bald head dripping sweat. When he recognized Jossalyn,
he tossed his tools down immediately. “My lady! What brings you here today?” He
gave a quick bow, then straightened, moving around the anvil toward her. She
took note of the slight limp and the way he was favoring his right hip.

“I’ve come to make
an introduction. John Elliot, these two men are here to inquire about work. This
is Burke and Garrick Ferguson, from a village to the north.” She stepped aside
to let each of the large Scotsmen enter the smithy. John removed one of his
gloves and extended his hand to each man, then grunted in satisfaction.

“Well, you’ve got enough
hand strength to work for me, and that’s a start,” he said with a nod.

As Burke explained
their circumstances and their desire for work, Jossalyn began digging in her
basket. Though most of her attention was taken trying to find the comfrey root
that would ease John’s hip pain, she could feel Garrick’s eyes on her,
following her movements. Her fingers fumbled slightly, but she took in a
steadying breath. It must be the heat from the fireplace that was making her
cheeks feel so warm.

Burke concluded
and the smithy fell silent as John considered them, one hand rubbing his square
chin. Finally, he spoke. “I’ve had a few jobs piling up ever since this old hip
of mine has kept me from working like I used to. It won’t be permanent, mind
you, but I suppose you lads could help me get caught up.”

“That sounds fair
enough. We’d be much obliged, even if it’s only for a few days or a week,”
Burke replied.

“Now that that’s
settled, I have one more matter of business with you, John,” Jossalyn said
firmly, putting on her most serious face. She handed him the comfrey root.
“Boil this in water until it turns into a thick paste. Then soak a cloth in it
and wrap the cloth around your hip. That should ease the pain, especially when
the fogs start to roll in.”

She turned and
nearly ran into Garrick’s broad chest. She hadn’t realized it, but he had taken
a step closer toward her as she had been speaking.

“I—I have to go,”
she managed to get out as she quickly skirted around his towering frame and
toward the door. “I have other patients to see. Good luck with your work.” She
didn’t know who these last words were directed at, but she felt so flustered in
such close proximity to Garrick that she rushed toward the door, longing for
the fresh air outside.

“How would you
lads like to get started right now?” She could hear John’s deep voice behind
her as she passed through the doorway. She felt Garrick’s eyes following her,
the sensation burning into her back even as she hustled down the road.

Hours later, when
she was on the other side of the village in Laura’s small but cozy hut to
administer a fennel tea to Laura’s colicky baby, she could still feel those
hard gray eyes boring into her, searching her, flickering with—something like
heat.