Highlander's Redemption: The Sinclair Brothers Trilogy, Book Two (3 page)

Morning light
crept in around the furs covering Jossalyn’s chamber window, but it was early
still. In the summer months, the sun rose earlier here in the northern Borderlands
than it had in her childhood home in lower England. She normally relished the
longer days in the summer, but for some reason, she felt like lingering in bed
today.

It wasn’t just
“some reason,” she chided herself and she rubbed her eyes. She knew very well
why she was dragging her feet. She was a coward. She had gone two whole days
without seeing Garrick, fear and shyness keeping her well away from the smithy
even though she had been in the village both days to visit her patients. How
could she simultaneously long to see him and be terrified at the power he
seemed to have over her?

Last night, she
had resolved to straighten her spine and face him. Even the thought of being in
his presence twisted her stomach into knots and made her feel foolish and
clumsy, but he might not be here very much longer—perhaps only a few more
days—and she knew she would regret not seeing him again.

There was no point
in denying, especially to herself, that she was drawn to him, attracted to him.
She wanted to know more about him, to simply feel the intensity of his presence.

And in order to do
that, she had to stop being such a ninny. She had to get out of bed, go to the
village, and stop avoiding the smithy like a skittish cat. Besides, from the
look of the yellow light coming in behind the furs, it would likely shape up to
be another beautiful summer day. She only had a few more days until Gordon was
well enough to resume his watch over her, and even though sneaking around like
a snake wasn’t ideal, at least she had freedom from her brother for a while
yet.

With that thought,
she flung off the covers and scurried to the armoire, selecting a simple blue
dress for the day’s work ahead. She quickly scrubbed her face in the cold water
left in the pitcher from the night before, but took extra time to plait her
hair, making two smaller braids going back from her temples and feeding them into
a larger braid that swung down her back.

She breezed through
the kitchen on her way to the yard, tossing an apple and a few heels of bread
into her herb basket. Then she was across the yard and past the large stone walls
of the keep. The sun was already climbing in the bright blue sky, and the air,
though cool and fresh now, promised another warm day ahead.

Before going to
the smithy, she would check on just one patient, Laura’s brother Thomas, who
had been suffering a toothache. It was on the way anyway. She wasn’t stalling,
she told herself stoutly.

Thomas was already
doing much better, so there wasn’t much for her to do besides give him some
more lemon balm. Then it was time. She wound her way out of Thomas’s hut and
through the back alleys toward the smithy. Perhaps if she approached from the
alley rather than the main village road, she would be able to see if there was
any activity going on in the workspace behind the building before having to
knock on the door.

Lost in her
thoughts and trying to rein in her nerves, she nearly walked right by the
backside of the smithy. She jerked to a halt and looked up, only to nearly gasp
in shock.

There in the small
uncovered yard behind the smithy, Garrick was working in the morning sun. Shirtless.

The rippling
planes of his torso glistened and twisted in the light as he brought a hammer
down with a steady rhythm onto the horseshoe he was shaping. Her eyes widened
as she took in every honed muscle, every perfect, sweat-covered line. His broad
shoulders and wide chest narrowed into a trim but muscular waist. His rhythm
was hypnotic, and she probably would have kept staring open-mouthed at his
unbelievably strong and honed body, but then suddenly, as if sensing her eyes
on him, he looked up and locked his stare on her.

She nearly bolted,
overcome by her own longing to drink him in with her eyes, and the
embarrassment of getting caught doing so. This wasn’t going according to plan.
Taking a steadying breath, she forced herself to close her mouth and take a
step toward him.

He could feel eyes
on him. He wished he had his bow, a knife, anything to reach for, since being
seen usually meant being dead in his line of work. At least he had a giant
hammer in his hands. Tensing slightly, he allowed himself to look up.

He nearly dropped
the hammer on his foot.

Standing like a
statue in the alley a few yards away was the impossibly enticing healer lass
again. Jossalyn. Her green eyes were wide and those pert, berry-red lips were
parted once more in surprise. A ray of morning light was hitting her from
behind, illuminating her hair like polished gold, and highlighting her
shape—rounded breasts, narrow waist, and slightly curving hips, all covered in
a fitted blue gown. She looked like a goddess of the dawn, or like the morning
sky itself.

She seemed to give
herself a little shake and began walking toward him. He lowered his hammer and
drew the back of his forearm over his forehead, though both were sweaty.

“Good morning. I
came to check on John and to see—” she faltered but recovered, “to see how you
and your cousin were getting on.”

As if on cue,
Burke pushed through the back door of the smithy, but halted abruptly at the sight
of Jossalyn standing in the small open area.

“We are fine,
thank you,” Garrick said, more curtly than he had intended. He couldn’t seem to
think straight whenever the lass was nearby.

“How thoughtful of
you, my lady,” Burke said smoothly, covering Garrick’s brusqueness. “We have
settled right in and have helped John tackle these languishing jobs. You’ll
also likely be pleased to know that John has been able to rest a bit more with
us around to help. He said this morning that his hip is feeling better, and he
has gone to deliver some of his work to his customers.”

“That is indeed
good news!” the lass said brightly, but then stood there moving her slippered
toe in the dirt of the smithy yard for several more moments.

The silence
stretched. She clearly wanted to stay, but Garrick wasn’t sure why.

“Perhaps your
visit to check on John won’t be a complete waste,” Burke said, jumping into the
silence. “Garrick, haven’t you been complaining of a sore shoulder lately?”

Garrick started to
object, but caught the sharp look Burke was shooting at him.

They had already
spoken to several villagers, casually chatting about the weather, this year’s
harvest, and then slipping into questions about the activity of the English
army, the visitors at Dunbraes, and speculations about just when war might
break out. So far they had learned that Raef Warren was away visiting
Longshanks, which didn’t bode well. Warren had grown increasingly powerful of
late. If he had the King’s ear, he was poised to launch a major attack on Scotland,
especially considering his ideal position in the Borderlands. Other villagers
had mentioned that the castle’s men-at-arms had been training more that usual
lately—another bad sign.

Jossalyn seemed
well-connected throughout the village, yet she had disappeared after that first
day. Perhaps now was his chance to probe her for information. Besides, Garrick
thought grudgingly, he could think of worse ways to pass the morning that spending
it with a pretty lass.

“Yes, my shoulder.
It’s…sore,” he said, rolling his right shoulder a few times for emphasis.

“Why don’t you two
go into the smithy while I finish up this horseshoe,” Burke said as he moved to
take the hammer from Garrick. As he released the hammer into Burke’s hand, he
gave the other man a glare in return for his earlier sharp look. Burke was
being rather heavy-handed in insisting that the two talk alone. Did he have
other intentions besides creating an opportunity for Garrick to gather
information? And why did he lift the corner of his mouth at Garrick like a damn
sly cat?

Not wanting to
draw attention to their silent conflict, Garrick let it go and instead turned and
pulled open the door to the smithy. As Jossalyn glided through the door ahead
of him, he caught that smell again—wildflowers and sunshine. Damn, but why did
the lass have to smell so good?

The smithy was
warm, as usual, but the shutters were pulled back from the windows, letting
more of the morning light in.

“Why don’t you sit
here while I examine you,” Jossalyn said, gesturing toward a footstool near one
of the windows.

He obliged,
sinking down on the low stool. As she approached, he realized that her breasts
were on a level with his face. Damn. It was one thing to go a while without
enjoying the company of a lass. It was quite another form of torture to have a
strikingly beautiful lass’s perfectly rounded breasts shoved in his face while
he was working a covert operation and couldn’t get involved.

She bit her lower
lip as she approached him nervously. Perhaps his still-naked torso made her
maidenly sensibilities squirm. For some reason, he liked that thought.

“Show me where it
hurts,” she said, a little shakily.

He rolled his
right shoulder again. “It hurts when I…move it a lot,” he said lamely.

She furrowed her
brow and placed her fingertips on his shoulder lightly. Even the soft contact
made him twitch. His muscles flexed involuntarily under her touch. Christ, he
was acting like an untried lad!

She poked and
prodded him, telling him to say when it hurt. At random intervals, he would
say, “That” or “There,” trying to guess how to fake an injury. As she worked,
she leaned over him, and her golden braid swung over her shoulder, the tale of
it brushing against his bare stomach. He gritted his teeth, resisting the urge
to wrap that blonde braid around his fist and pull her down onto his lap.

She didn’t seem to
notice how she tortured him, or perhaps she just thought that his twitching jaw
was an indication of the pain his shoulder was causing him. Either way, his
thoughts didn’t seem to penetrate her concentration. Her nervousness dissipated
as she focused on his shoulder. He could see from the absorbed look on her face
that she was lost in thoughts about how to heal the imaginary injury.

“Have you ever
hurt it before?” she said softly, her breath brushing his exposed skin.

“Nay,” he gritted
out, not caring that he had slipped into a thicker Scottish accent.

Finally, she
turned away from him and toward her basket of herbs, which she had deposited on
one of the smithy’s tables. Trying to remind himself of what he was supposed to
be doing—which was not to stare at her curved bottom—he cleared his throat.

“I’m curious—why
does John bow to you?” To be honest, that question had less to do with their
mission and more to do with his own suspicion that the lass was more that she
seemed.

She spun around,
her eyes wide, but then she casually waved her hand as if brushing away his
question. “Oh, you know. I suppose he feels grateful to me for easing his pain.
I am the village healer, and many of the people I treat do that.” She spun back
around to dig furiously in her basket. What was she hiding?

Trying to shake
his suspicion, he forced his mind back on topic. “I suppose you’ve had to do a
lot of extra healing lately, what with more soldiers moving through Dunbraes,
and the increasing number of skirmishes here in the Borderlands,” he said,
summoning all of Burke’s smoothness he could muster.

“Yes, there are
far more war wounds now, though my brother doesn’t let me—” She stiffened
suddenly.

“Your brother?”
Garrick said lightly, sensing a moment to strike.

“Um, yes, my
brother. Ranald Williams. He worries about me, that is all. He doesn’t like me
to come too close to the war, even though I could help.”

Garrick could hear
the strain in her voice, sensing a lie, or at least an omission, but he could
also hear the pain there.

“So he forbids you
to use your skills?”

She turned around,
holding a brownish-looking root. “He…doesn’t approve.” She moved to the fire,
which burned cheerily in the back wall, and tossed the root into the caldron
that hung there. Then, using the bucket next to the fireplace, she poured water
into the caldron over the root.

“But you are
clearly very talented.”

She shot him a
wide-eyed glance, but quickly averted her eyes, and he could see that sweet
pink blush creeping to her cheeks again. “Perhaps you shouldn’t say such things
until
after
I have administered my remedy to your shoulder,” she said,
her eyes still shifting away from his but a smile quirking the corners of her
mouth.

He very nearly
smiled himself, which shocked him. He couldn’t remember the last time he had
felt happy or carefree enough to indulge in a smile, let alone a laugh. Forcing
his thoughts away from the lass’s comely curved lips, he tried a new angle.

“Have you lived
here long? In the Borderlands, I mean.” Perhaps she would have English
relatives who might know something about the temperament of the country.

“Oh yes, years
now. We moved to…find work, like you. I trained with the former healer of
Dunbraes, and my brother…works in the castle.” She paused and stirred the brew
she was making in the caldron. “I haven’t seen England since we moved here. I
know this may sound strange coming from and Englishwoman, but I think of
Scotland as more of my home than England now.”

That surprised
him. An Englishwoman who cared enough about Scotland to call it her home? He
wouldn’t push the issue, though. Allegiance in the Borderlands, and during
times of war especially, was a sticky subject, one that could offend at best
and end with a hanging for treason at worst.

Instead, he
watched in silence as she rolled up the sleeves of her dress and reached for a
wooden spoon to continue stirring the contents of the caldron. Something on her
forearm caught his eye, though. Several marks, fading from purple to yellow,
marred her creamy skin. A handprint.