The Highlander's Warrior Bride (2 page)

Crouched in the woods, sans his horse, but with two dozen warriors from Robert the Bruce’s camp, Ronan had the element of surprise on his hands.

He watched as one particularly vile man entered a tent surrounded by a wall of warriors.
In his hands was a mug and bowl. A meal for himself or someone within. Judging from the fence of men, it had to be Ross’ tent, no one else needed that much protection. The bastard most likely expected an attack, which meant he was on alert. Male laughter sounded from within the tent, and then the man left, spitting on the ground.

Ronan looked to the side, making eye contact with one of his men and nodded. They retreated back to their horses.

“The tent surrounded by warriors has to be Ross’ tent,” he said. His men nodded in agreement. “I counted a dozen men lining the tent. Plus another two dozen milling about the camp. There are at least another half dozen scouts.”

“Aye, and dinna forget those that sleep within the erected tents.”
Graham was Ronan’s second and he trusted him with his life.

Ronan nodded.
He’d spotted tents surrounding a cooking fire. Not a large army of men, but enough to do damage. “I know we are far superior in skill, and we have the element of surprise on our side. Think ye can take on at least four to one?”

All of his men smiled wide in response. They loved a challenge just as much as he did. Ronan could
take on half a dozen men at once; he was that confident. His men practiced daily in fighting several men at a time. In a battle situation, one never knew how many men would be on the opposing side. The more men a warrior could fight off, the better chances he had of surviving, especially since the English swarmed the country like ants on a discarded meal. Ronan imagined that all the English did was breed, feed and fight.

Ronan
tied his hair back with a leather thong. “I say we make the Ross pay for attacking us. For stealing our women. For siding with the fucking English.”

Two dozen men raised their fists in
a silent cheer.

“Mount up. We’ll surround the camp. But I want three of ye with me to attack Ross’ tent. If he’s got a dozen
guards on the outside, there are probably more on the inside.”

They approached the camp on horseback with such stealth that his men were able to surprise the scouts perched in the trees and those upon the ground.
No one to warn the Ross of their impending attack. Five down.

A light wind whistled through the trees skimming over his heated flesh, cooling him, and then leaving him with the sense of calm he needed to attack methodically, not emotionally. Julianna was most likely fine. She had to be. Hadn’t she attacked dough with a vengeance and faced down the Bruce as though he were a child in need of scolding? The woman had guts. There was no doubt about it. She was safe. He had to keep telling himself that. Julianna would fight with everything she had. She wouldn’t let anyone harm her.

But if they had…

Ronan growled, and spurred his mount forward. As they neared the edge of the woods, his men fanned out to encircle
the clearing where Ross and his minions had made camp. Why in blazes would they set up camp here? Was it some sort of strategy? It made no sense, why would they choose a spot where they could be so easily surrounded? It was either a very stupid move, or a smart one.

But, Ronan couldn’t think on that now.

He narrowed his eyes on the men who surrounded his enemy’s tent. Did the tent just move? For a brief moment he thought it was his imagination, that his eyes were playing tricks on him, but they weren’t. The tent wavered, sending a guard careening forward. Ronan pulled his horse to an abrupt stop, and stared. What the hell? Was the guard pushed? Did someone inside the tent do it? Julianna? Could it be her?

Was it possible?

Were the men surrounding a prisoner and not their leader?

Was that prisoner Julianna?

Ronan held up his hand for his men to stop. He needed to reevaluate the situation before all hell broke loose.

Chapter Two

J
ulianna lost her balance. The solid warrior was bigger than she expected—or she was more tired than she realized. She stumbled backward, trying to catch onto anything that would hold her steady, but only managed to grasp the wooden stake that held the tent up in the middle.

Splinters sank into the tender flesh of her palms and she bit her cheek
to keep from crying out. Warriors didn’t scream from splinters.

The entire structure wobbled.
God’s bones
. The last thing she needed was for the tent to collapse. She’d be suffocated or pounced on by angry warriors. Neither option was even remotely appealing. There was nothing else she could do. No other choice. With a shocked cry, she let go of the pike and fell to her bottom on the hard, cold earth. All the air burst from her lungs in one painful, whoosh. She couldn’t breathe. This wasn’t good. Calm. She had to be calm. If she panicked, it could be bad. She closed her eyes and tried to take a few quick breaths. They burned. Oh God, what was she going to do? She had to get out of this tent.

Shouts sounded all around her
and Julianna gaped as warriors began pouring into the tent. The sun beamed through the opening with a blinding glow. After letting her eyes adjust, Julianna ripped one of the long pins from her hair and sliced into the first man’s chest. Her pins were specially coated with dried poison. A trick she’d learned from the herbalist in the castle she’d grown up in. The man dropped within seconds, foaming at the mouth.

’Tw
as potent—crushed poisonous mushrooms.

The next warrior who lunged at her got spiked in the neck, dying more from the perfect hit to his pumping vein than from poison.

Julianna whipped the sword the hilt at her second victim’s hip and somehow managed to garner up enough strength to arc it in the air and end her next assailant. Normally, the task would have been easy, but she was feeling more and more depleted as the minutes ticked by.

The next warrior glanced at the downed men and charged, fury in his eyes. He made a fatal mistake. The most important rule of war, and the first one she learned—never allow your emotions to take over your actions. A lesson this warrior learned as she ran him through. Blood soaked her trembling fingers and she dropped the sword and stole a dirk from one of the men’s sleeves. Her arms burned. There was no denying it, she was exhausted. She wasn’t sure how much longer she could go on. Maybe the dirk would make defending herself less of a challenge.

When the next man entered, she reacted before thinking and flung the knife through the air. Her vision blurred. Something familiar.

The warrior ducked, then cursed when the weapon sank into hi
s shoulder instead of his heart, where she’d aimed.

“Ye’ve wounded me!” The voice was familiar.
But who was it? Her mind was hazy.

She swayed. Felt her body sinking. Her knees hit the ground and she stared at her bloody hands, then at the man who stood in front of her, gripping the hilt of the knife she’d driven into his shoulder.
Blood poured from the wound turning his white
leine
shirt red. Chiseled face. Fierce green eyes that reminded her of spring. Lips that made her tremble, for they were made for kissing. No…

“Ronan?”

“Aye, woman. When did ye learn to throw like that?”

She smiled wanly, little black dots floating before her eyes. “At least it wasn’t one of my pins.”

“Pins?”

Laughter echoed in her head
. Or had it come from her lips? “My pins have poison on them.” She was delirious. Sharing secrets with a stranger. No, not a stranger. It was Ronan. Wasn’t it? Her vision left her. She would die. Any thought to lick the poison from the pin and die before she could be tortured was stopped by Ronan’s voice.

“Yet another way ye astonish me.” His touch caressed her wrist and she realized she’d reached up to grab the second pin from her hair. “Ye’d kill yourself?
After I’ve come to fetch ye? The Bruce will not be pleased.”

She wanted to know if
he
would be displeased. Wished he’d tell her. She longed for him to pick her up and carry her away from here. Desired nothing more than for him to take her to a place where they could change who they were.

“I need ye,” she murmured, her voice feeling exceptionally slow, muffled. Her tongue was dry, heavy.

“I’m here, lass,” he said.

Julianna was suddenly weightless, and she realized it was because Ronan had lifted her into the air.

“Your shoulder,” she whispered, feeling all her strength leave her. She was so tired. So thirsty.

“’Tis nothing.”

He lied. She’d seen it buried deep in his flesh. Witnessed the blood. Julianna tried to shake her head, but it ended up flopping back and forth against his uninjured shoulder.

“Dinna fret, lass. Ye’re safe.”

Idiot. She fretted for his safety, not hers. He could die from blood loss or infection. The man shouldn’t be carrying her. Not to mention they were surrounded by Ross warriors. Why the hell had he come alone? And why had she fantasized about it?

“Put me down,” she said.

“Hmm?”

Well, she thought she said it. In actuality, she wasn’t sure words were passing over her numb tongue.

“I need water,” she croaked.

Her body swayed with the movement of his walking.
Battle sounds faded in and out of the background. He’d brought more men. She knew he would. Why had she questioned that fact, even for a moment? Ronan was no fool. He was a seasoned warrior. He wouldn’t charge in head first all emotional for anyone. Not even her.

Julianna felt herself being tossed over a horse. Her belly hit the leather, and she let out a whoosh of air. Was there a man alive who knew how to be gentle?
God’s teeth.
He could have broken her ribs. Then again, she supposed she couldn’t expect much gentleness from a man whose shoulder still held the dagger she’d put there. Thank the Gods it was not her own poisonous weapon. Or he’d be dead.

The saddle shifted as Ronan climbed up, cursing from the pain in his shoulder. He grabbed the dagger, yanking hard and then tossing the weapon. He pressed firmly to his wound, sucked in a breath before pulling her into his lap. Water dribbled over her cracked lips and onto her cheeks and chin, when he pressed something to her mouth.

“Open, lass, or the water will do ye no good.”

Julianna concentrated on opening her mouth and felt the drops of cold liquid hit her parched tongue. Ronan tilted the skin and it poured down her throat. She choked, and sputtered. Was he
trying
to drown her?

“Easy, lass, easy,” he crooned.

His voice was calm, and soothing. So, maybe he wasn’t trying to drown her after all. She focused on his encouraging words, and figured out how to swallow as though she were a babe. The cool liquid branded a path down her throat and settled like ice in her belly. Her muscles constricted, and she forced herself not to vomit.

“When was the last time ye had food or drink?” An angry edge rimmed Ronan’s words.

Julianna tried to shrug. She wasn’t sure she could speak.

“Ye look half wasted away,” he muttered. “Let us get ye back to Eilean Donan.”

“Ross…” she choked out. She’d not been able to hear her voice before, but this time it was loud, somewhat raw, but intelligible.

“He ran. But we cleaved two-thirds of his army from his grip. The bastard canna run forever.”

They’d failed. Ross would come after them again. A ruthless, vicious man, she doubted he would take his failure lightly.

She certainly didn’t.

“Shh…” Ronan said, his grip on her tightening. “Dinna work yourself up over it, lass. I swear to ye, Ross will die by the
blade of my sword…or yours.”

The conviction in Ronan’s voice was enough to calm her. She would concentrate on regaining her strength, making sure Ronan was healed, and then she would hatch a plan to dispatch of Ross herself.

For Robert the Bruce’s sake, if nothing else.

Hell and damnation!

Ronan’s shoulder hurt like the devil. He managed to pull the blade free, but with Julianna across his lap, wrapping the wound had been impossible. Signaling to his men, he spurred his mount on. They would follow when they finished with the camp. Their victory was already assured.

Except Ross had run again. Bastard! He was a cruel coward who felt no remorse inflicting pain on others, but never stuck around to accept the consequences. He was the worst type of evil. One who brutalized with pleasure but wasn’t willing to pay the ultimate price.

Without a doubt, Ross would always run. Having sided with the English, the man thought himself invisible.

Ronan’s men would hunt him down and bring him back a prisoner.

“
Mo creach
.” A spasm of pain overtook Ronan’s shoulder and fresh blood oozed from the wound.

Julianna must have severed
a vein. Weakness threatened his limbs, but he forged ahead. Eilean Donan was not too far from where Ross had made camp. When he arrived he’d be sure to send out more men to scour the woods.

Ross would not be allowed to run forever. He’d not make it back to the fortifications of his castle.
Or to the vile English. He would pay—and suffer—sooner rather than later, and Ronan would see that it happened.

As s
oon as he got his shoulder taken care of.

He
peeled back his woolen plaid that wrapped around his shoulders to keep him warm. The linen of his shirt had turned red across his chest and down the length of his arm. Blood loss. A lot of it.

H
e widened his eyes, forcing himself to remain strong. The pain subsided, now it felt numb around the edges…and on his fingers. That couldn’t be good.

Good Lord, what a pair
he and Julianna made.

The beauty in his arms, passed out—most
likely from the onset of starvation. If she didn’t ingest something within the hour she might not survive. And he was losing blood faster than his heart could replace it.

Ronan should be
furious with her for injuring him, but he wasn’t. He was in awe of the lady. Running around Eilean Donan like a drill sergeant dressed as a kitchen maid. He couldn’t figure her out. She could knead bread and chop carrots like no other. Yet, when the Bruce spoke with her in private, he always came back to the men with sound advice. Sometimes better advice than even Ronan or William Wallace gave him regarding plans he had for fighting the English, training his men or fortifying the castle.

Julianna was an enigma.

He might not know who she was, but for certes she was no ordinary kitchen maid. No matter how decadent her rosemary garlic bread was smothered in melted butter.

His stomach growled. A welcome sensation. He wasn’t dead yet. And
though his shoulder and arm were numb he still had feeling in other areas.

Ronan groaned
. Julianna shifted restlessly in his arms. Her body temperature had risen since he’d found her and heat seeped from her flesh into his. She was feverish. That had him worried. But he was also worried about how her fevered flesh and lush curves were affecting him. Blood rushed straight to his groin. Damn. He needed that blood!