Kilts and Daggers (15 page)

She waited for him to return, but the night wore on. She lay down on her blanket and closed her eyes but couldn't sleep. The fire crackled and popped, and a cool breeze blew through her tendrils. At least she was not subjected to the heat in the insufferable tent.

Once again, Grace found herself wide awake and gazing at Fagan's empty blanket. Sleep would not come until this madness was resolved. She rose and stepped gingerly around the seven sleeping men. Since most of the men slumbered, that meant three of them were somewhere on guard, including the one she needed to talk some sense into.

The horses were tethered at the tree line, but all she could make out were shadowy shapes. Realizing this was another of her ridiculous ideas, she turned around to go back to her blanket.

“What are ye doing, Grace?”

She jumped and placed her hand over her heart. “Fagan? Where are you?”

“Over here.” She heard a shuffling noise and then made out his frame as he rose to his feet and leaned against a tree. “Ye shouldnae be wandering around in the dark. My men are standing guard and could have mistaken ye as a threat.”

She made her way toward him and stopped. “I couldn't sleep.”

“So ye came out here, mayhap to get me to fetch something else for ye?” His voice was laced with sarcasm.

“I only wanted you to see what you'd be getting yourself into by marrying me. You'd be spending the rest of your life bound to me. I'd drive you mad.”

He chuckled. “As opposed to ye nae already driving me mad?”

She folded her arms over her chest. “Then why go through with this idea that you must wed me? Ruairi will be cross with you, and Ravenna will be furious with me.”

“I'm nae going to discuss this with ye again. I took your in—”

Grace spoke through clenched teeth. “If you say that one more time, I'm going to—”

He pulled her close, and the caress of his lips on her mouth and against her neck set her aflame. Why did his kisses have to be so darned persuasive? When he nibbled at her earlobe, she let out soft mewling sounds that she didn't even know she made.

She felt her knees weaken, and as if he sensed she was about to fall, he tightened his grip around her. He had a way of shattering the hard shell that encircled her, and her skin continued to prickle with the heat of his touch. When he drew her even closer and she felt his hardness, she pulled away.

“We have to stop this. Now.” She pushed herself away from him. “We cannot do this.”

“We already did.” Fagan's sultry voice made her shiver in the night air.

“You cannot be my husband. You can't. This is completely absurd. I should've never let you kiss me the first time, but yet we keep finding ourselves in these moments together.”

“Mayhap the fates are trying to tell us something, eh?”

“Fagan, please, I beg you to see reason.”

“Ye cannae say that I didn't warn ye. I gave ye several chances to deny me, but ye didnae. There is nay sense fighting the inevitable. Ye are now more or less my wife. All that is missing is the formality of the vows, lass. Best ye accept that.”

Grace's annoyance increased when she found that her hands were shaking. She couldn't see his eyes, but she let bitterness spill over into her voice.

“I want you to tell me that you would still want to wed me if we did not share a bed.” When he hesitated, her temper flared. “Of course you wouldn't. Now you want to be honorable when you were nothing but a nightmare to begin with. I don't think I'll ever understand you.”

“Well, ye'll have the rest of your life to figure me out,
bhana-phrionnsa
.” The man had no idea that his righteous behavior was going to bring about his death.

She threw words at him like stones. “Let me make something perfectly clear. I am not… I
will
not marry you. Whatever you say or claim, I will deny. I refuse to spend the rest of my life in the Highlands, especially as your wife. You are completely mad.” She was so angry that she couldn't stop the next words before they flew from her mouth. “I am a lady of title and birth. You are nothing but a lowly Scottish captain, not even fit to be a pig farmer.”

She stormed away from him, until a firm hand grabbed her arm. “You're hurting me.”

Fagan spoke between clenched teeth. “Damn it, Grace! Donna push me because I promise ye that ye'll nae like the man I will become.”

As Fagan trailed back to camp in the wake of the fiery dragon, Grace sought her blanket and turned her back on him in a huff. At least they weren't yet wed. She would've kicked him out of their bed for sure. As he lay on his blanket, the woman's words pounded in his brain.
Pig
farmer?
Her venomous declaration stung and it was too late to take back now, not that she'd be willing to retract anything she'd said.

He gathered his bedding at first light, before the blazing sun rose on the horizon. He glanced at Grace, who was sleeping peacefully. Instantly irritated, he shot her a cold look of disdain. He didn't want to see her. He didn't want to hear her, and he sure as hell didn't want to talk to her. She'd said all there was to say last night—or should he say, only a few short hours ago. At least Princess Grace was able to rest with a clear conscience and hadn't tossed and turned all night as he had.

While his men cleared the camp, Fagan found himself once again in a foul mood because of a Walsingham woman. Memories of Grace's soft kisses didn't even calm him because all he could think about was her sharp tongue. He shook his head and didn't even realize he was doing it. He knew one thing for certain. Lord Francis Walsingham, Grace's father, should've placed the lass over bended knee more often than he had. Perhaps then she wouldn't be as prickly as she was now.

They rode at a hard pace for a few hours before Fagan decided to stop and rest the horses at a loch. The sky was a rich blue. Mossy, green mountains stretched into the heavens, and the clear water of the loch rippled in the gentle wind. Scotland was beautiful. No one could ever deny that, not even the English.

Fagan took off his boots and tunic, tossing them onto the grassy shore. At first, he cringed as tiny pebbles stabbed the bottoms of his bare feet, but as he waded past his knees into the cool loch, the ground beneath him softened. More to the point, the sharp pain in his feet didn't compare to the dagger Grace had thrust into his heart.

The water was colder than he had anticipated, but he needed something to cool his ire. He dove in and held his breath as long as he could. When he surfaced, warm air brushed against his skin. He combed through his hair with his fingers, smoothing it over his shoulder. As he made his way back to shore, Grace stood on the bank with an unreadable expression on her face. He prayed the daft beauty had enough sense to stay away from him, but as she approached him, he knew she was asking for nothing but trouble.

* * *

Grace had finally fallen asleep in the carriage when she was jostled awake. She hadn't slept all eve. She knew her angry retort had hardened Fagan against her. She didn't want to hurt him, but he needed to give up this notion that she was his solely because they shared a bed—well, a pallet—for one night.

She took a moment to compose herself. Deciding to give Fagan some room to breathe was likely a wise decision. She climbed out of the carriage and stepped down onto the grass. After ambling away from the men and into the brush to see to her personal needs, she walked back toward the water. All was quiet, calm. She closed her eyes and basked in the solace that enveloped her.

With the warm breeze blowing through her hair and the sound of water lapping against the bank, she sighed. Something rustled in the branches not far from where she was standing, and she opened her eyes to find a little bird staring back at her.

A small dunlin was perched on a tree branch with top feathers the color of rust and a rounded, black belly patch underneath its small body. For some reason, she knew these birds could be found near the sea. She also knew the birds preferred estuaries to seek out insects—the kind that flew and the ones that generally had six legs and crawled. She crinkled up her nose in disgust and made herself think of something else.

Like
the
bare-chested man who was walking out of the
water.

Fagan was wet from head to toe. His hair was straight, reaching the middle of his upper arm. His broad chest glistened in the sun. Her gaze lowered. A thin line of hair traveled from his navel down to the dripping kilt that rode low on his lean hips. Praise the saints. Did she actually hear herself swallow?

The Highland Adonis reached the shore. As he was bending over and picking up his tunic and boots, it was pure torture to watch the muscles that rippled across his back in a dazzling display of manliness. But then he rose to his full height and shot her a cold look, and each of them assessed the other's anger.

“By the expression on your face, I must look damn good for being lower than a pig farmer. Wouldnae ye say?” He thundered past her, and she could feel his hostility toward her.

“Wait!” She wasn't surprised when he didn't stop, and she had to increase her gait to keep up with him.

Raising his hand in the air as a firm warning, he kept moving farther away from her. “Donna come closer. I donna want to talk. I donna want to see or hear ye. We are done talking.” His voice rang with command.

“Does that mean you've come to your senses?”

He stopped dead in his tracks and whirled around on her. “Nay, it means ye'd better come to yours. Since ye seem to be taking the time to figure out ways to annoy me, why donna ye spend your time more wisely and find out how ye're going to be a dutiful,
obedient
wife when we are wed.”

The man turned his back on her, and that's when Grace's temper flared. Her voice went up a notch. “What did you say?” When he didn't respond, she ran to catch up to him. She firmly placed her feet in front of the large wall that was Fagan.

He briefly closed his eyes and then glared at her. “If ye donna want me to throw ye over my shoulder and smack your wily arse like some insolent lassie in front of my men, I suggest ye clear my path.”

Shock yielded to fury. “You wouldn't dare.”

“Lest ye forget. I am but a lowly captain of the Sutherland guard, but I will do whatever needs to be done.”

When he stepped around her, she thought it best to leave him alone. She also believed it was in her best interest not to wait around to find out if he would follow through on his threat. Needing to give Fagan more time to cool off, Grace walked back and stood at the water's edge. Suddenly realizing she'd give anything for a bath right now, she sat on the grass and removed her boots. Her feet were much cooler as the air brushed against them. Standing, she brushed down her skirts to remove the grass and then lifted them, wading into the water.

“Grace…”

She glanced over her shoulder to see Fagan standing on the bank. She lifted a brow and spoke with an air of indifference. “I thought you weren't speaking to me.”

“My men are with me. If ye wish to bathe or wash up, now is the time.”

She nodded and watched his broad back as he walked into the clearing. No matter how much she wanted a bath, she couldn't bring herself to remove her clothing with ten men standing nearby. With her luck, one of them would stumble across her and she'd never live through the humiliation.

Bunching her skirts up to the side, she moved farther into the water. Tiny rocks poked into the soles of her feet and slowed her pace. She stopped when the water reached mid-thigh because that was as far as her skirts would allow her to go without becoming wet. As she stood in the lake, feeling fresh and recharged, she cast another quick glance over her shoulder. No one was in sight. Hastily, she lifted her skirts higher around her waist and walked deeper into the water before anyone saw her bare bottom. Her body was still tender from her time with Fagan, and the soothing coolness of the lake was just what she needed.

A skipping stone danced across the water and sprayed droplets into her face. She stumbled, fumbling for her skirts, and almost dropped them into the lake. She turned around in a huff to see Fagan trying to mask a smile.

“We are about ready to depart.”

“All right.” She paused, and the man didn't move. “Are you going to stand there, or are you going to let me come out?”

“Aye. I'm going to stand here and watch ye come out.”

“Fagan…”

“Ye donna have anything new to show me that I havenae seen before.”

Grace was in no mood to argue. She took a step forward, and Fagan held a gleam of something in his eyes that irked her. When certain parts of her skin started to show, she dropped her skirts in the lake and walked out of the water in a huff. She refused to give the beastly man the satisfaction.

“Are ye going to ride in wet skirts?”

She picked up her boots from the grass and bristled past him to the carriage. “Come now, Mister Murray. I'm no fragile flower. Your men are ready to ride, are they not?”

* * *

Fagan had changed into a dry kilt and couldn't believe the stubborn lass was riding in the carriage in a wet dress just to spite him. At least the top half of her wasn't soaked. What was he going to do with Lady Grace? She'd definitely keep him on his toes, not to mention the fact that he'd have to sleep with one eye open.

Calum reined in beside him. “The lady doesnae seem to think verra highly of ye, eh?”

“Aye, well, she has her reasons.” Fagan kept his expression composed.

“Will the lass be returning with us to Scotland?” When Fagan lifted a brow, Calum added, “I heard ye say as much to her.”

“Aye, 'tis part of why she'd like to remove my head.”

“Must we even travel to England then, captain? Cannae we return home?”

“There are things I must attend to in England. Our stay will nae be long. I promise ye that.” Fagan's mind started to wander off when, without warning, eight men clamored out of the trees with swords drawn. At the same time, four riders approached on horseback from the path ahead.

Fagan and Calum unsheathed their weapons, but before they could even make contact with a single blade, sounds of metal on metal rang through the air behind the carriage. Men bellowed, and the echo of death sent a shiver down Fagan's spine, especially because he wasn't sure if the fallen men were his.

He kept a tight rein on An Diobhail. Using the breadth of his horse to his advantage, Fagan urged his mount forward. An Diobhail pounded one of the men in the shoulder with a heavy thump, making the man unsteady on his feet. The colors of the man's plaid were black and blue, the tartan of the bloody Campbells. The same color Fagan would bestow on his enemy if he didn't kill the bastard first.

Fagan and Calum continued to thrust and parry with the four men on horseback. Three of Fagan's men were engaged in battle on foot, but he didn't have time to turn around and see what was happening behind him. He had to trust that Grace knew to stay in the carriage.

He heard a grunt and turned as one of his men fell to the ground in a pool of blood. He pushed An Diobhail closer to the enemy and impaled the bastard on his sword. At the same time, Calum groaned as he received a slice to the upper arm. When Fagan turned his mount to aid Calum, his throat ached with defeat.

A man stood to the side of the carriage with a blade pressed to Grace's throat. The bastard had long, black hair and wore the bloody Campbell plaid and a dark tunic. He had a large scar over his left eye that traveled down the length of his jaw. At that moment, Fagan realized he was looking at the same man who had given chase to Grace on the beach—one of the mercenaries.

“Fagan…”

He didn't miss the unsteadiness in Grace's voice, but he refused to take his eyes from his enemy. “Let her go.”

The man laughed. “Let her go? She's who we came for.”

Calum sat on the ground, holding his arm, which bled like a river. Another one of Fagan's guards lay slain in the grass and two others on the path. He looked back at the man with a steely gaze. “Where are the rest of my men?”

The man nodded over his shoulder toward the back of the carriage. “Dead.”

“What do ye want?”

“I already told ye what I want.”

Fagan's eyes narrowed. “Ye're nae leaving here with her.”

The man's voice hardened ruthlessly. “I am nae leaving here without her.”

“Ye need to listen to me verra carefully. I am the captain of the Sutherland guard, and I have the entire force of the clan at my back. Ye have killed my men and your death is inevitable. Leave now, and let the lass go. Mayhap ye—”

“Na can an còrr! Tha sin gu leòr!” Say no more! That is enough!

Grace's eyes widened, and that was the last Fagan remembered before he embraced the darkness.

* * *

Grace screamed when Fagan fell to the ground with a thump. He didn't move, and blood spilled through his hair from his wound. Her heart shattered at the sight before her. Without hesitation, the same bloody coward who'd knocked Fagan over the back of the head had the audacity to grab An Diobhail's reins. The man strutted toward her with a sly grin and the horse in tow as if he'd won Fagan's mount as some great prize. Grace wanted nothing more than to kill the bastard herself.

The incorrigible man at her back removed the blade that rested against her throat, but not before nicking a piece of her soft flesh. He replaced his weapon with a sack over her head. He lifted her onto a horse, and she knew the mount was An Diobhail. She felt as though a hand had closed around her throat. Discreetly, she reached down her right leg and made certain her skirts covered the dagger that was still strapped to her thigh.

“Give me your hands.” As he bound her wrists, he added, “I give ye fair warning nae to be foolish. If ye try to escape or scream like that again, I will nae be so kind. Do ye understand?”

“I must know if the captain is all right.” A hand slapped her hard on her left thigh, and she cried out. When An Diobhail shied, the bridle jingled, and a loud crack came down somewhere near the horse's head. Not only did these Scottish hounds kill Sutherland men and hit Fagan over the head, but now they resorted to hurting an animal. She shouldn't have been surprised. The devil had a special place for men like this.