Chapter 2
Colyne MacKerran, the Earl of Strathcliff, shifted to his left side. Pain tore through his shoulder. On a curse, he rolled onto his back, and his body nudged against a soft, pliable form.
What in blazes?
Groggy, he opened his eyes and sat up. Sunlight streamed into a cave he had nay memory of entering. Ashes of a recently used fire smoldered a short distance away. And at his side slept an incredibly beautiful woman.
A woman he’d never seen in his life.
Hair the color of honey tumbled in a silken mass around her, and her full mouth was curved into a smile as her lithe, shapely body pressed against his. A sword’s wrath, who was she? He would have remembered bedding such an enchantress.
More importantly, how had either of them ended up here?
He fought past the pain in his shoulder as he searched his blurred thoughts to remember.
Like a merciless assault, images knifed through his mind.
An oath sworn to Douglas, as his friend lay dying, that he’d deliver the writ to King Philip.
Being pursued by the Duke of Renard’s men.
An arrow shot into his shoulder and his narrow escape.
Then blackness.
The writ!
Like a madman, Colyne grabbed his undershirt, thankful when his fingers bumped the concealed document. Careful to keep quiet, he withdrew the bound leather and removed the rolled parchment.
Robert Bruce, Earl of Carrick, Guardian of the Realm of Scotland’s seal remained intact.
Grief burned his throat at thoughts of Douglas. He hadna even had time to bury his friend. A sword’s wrath, his life wouldna be given in vain. The writ to King Philip of France would be delivered!
The woman at his side released a long sigh.
He shot her a hard look. Had she seen the writ? If so, she’d left it untouched. Where had the lass come from?
Her simple garb attested to her life as a beggar.
Or mayhap a servant. From her healthy glow, he’d choose the latter.
Had she stumbled across him while out gathering herbs for her lord and saved his life?
If so, he would thank her. But before he allowed her to leave, he would discover whether she had seen the Guardian of Scotland’s document.
After concealing the writ, Colyne nudged the lass.
Her nose twitched in a delicate flare and she continued to sleep.
“Lass,” he muttered, mistrust roughening his words.
“Qu’est-ce que tu fais?” she murmured.
Stunned, he narrowed his gaze. What was a Frenchwoman doing in the dense forests of the Highlands?
Disquiet edged through him. The French king’s bastard daughter had been abducted by the English duke’s knights and hidden in the Highlands.
This was the very reason he carried the writ to King Philip, to explain the Scots were nae behind this treachery.
Could this be Lady Marie Serouge?
Again, he assessed the dozing lass in her mundane garb.
He scoffed. Aye, as if the English duke would allow his captive, dressed in little better than rags, to be roaming the hills without an escort.
A wash of dizziness swept him, and Colyne struggled to clear his mind.
Wherever the Duke of Renard held the king’s bastard daughter, she was well guarded.
As if a fairy summoned, the woman’s brow wrinkled in a delicate arch as she lifted her lids. Eyes the color of moss leveled on him and cleared. Surprise, then fear widened them.
The lass shoved to her knees and started to scramble back, but Colyne caught her wrist. “I am nae going to harm you.”
“Release me,” she gasped.
“You tended me?” he asked, his voice rough with impatience.
Shrewd eyes studied him as if deliberating the wisdom of a reply.
“Fine, then. First, promise nae to run.” His shoulder ached from his meager exertion, and he inhaled a deep breath to remain alert as her image began to blur.
Slowly, his vision cleared. Bedamned, with legs as long as a king’s prized filly if she fled, Colyne doubted he’d be able to pursue her, much less remain conscious.
Before he passed out, he needed to discover whether she posed any kind of threat to his mission.
She angled her jaw. “I could have left you alone and injured.”
Which spoke well for her character. Or indicated her presence here was planned. “But you did nae.”
“Non.” Her gaze flicked to his fingers curled around her wrist. “Now release me.”
“I will have your word that you will nae run.”
After a long moment, she nodded. “You have my word.”
Colyne let her go and braced his hand on the ground. “Why did you care for me?”
“You were hurt.”
The sincerity of her words surprised him. “Most would have left a wounded man to die. Especially a stranger.”
Her eyes narrowed. “I explained my reason.”
A reason that invited more questions.
“You need to rest, monsieur. If you move about, you will reopen your wound. Please. The arrow went deep. Your shoulder will take time to heal.”
He stiffened. Time he didna have.
An angry mark across her cheek caught his attention. Colyne skimmed his finger atop the darkening skin, curious as she jerked back. “You have a bruise.”
Her lashes lowered to shield her eyes, but nae before he saw the fear. “ ’Tis naught.”
“You have been hit,” he stated, incensed that any would dare touch this gentle woman who had offered aid to a stranger?
“ I . . . fell.”
Fell his arse. By her evasiveness, neither would she admit the truth. Colyne studied her, and his gut assured him that something was amiss. Long ago he’d learned to heed his instincts. Until they parted, he would keep her under close watch.
The woman started to rise.
He caught her arm. “Your name?”
“Unhand me!”
At the dictatorial slap of her words, he obeyed and she stood. What the devil? He shoved to his feet, wove, and steadied himself. She’d spoken to him as a woman used to giving orders and having them followed.
Was she in league with Renard? Colyne’s suspicions grew tenfold. Had she turned against her king and joined England’s fight to claim Scotland as its own? If so, why hadna she broken the writ’s seal, read the contents, and then carried it to the English duke while Colyne lay unconscious?
He shoved to his feet and stepped closer, dwarfing her in his shadow. “Who are you?” At her hesitation, he shot her a fierce scowl. “You will answer me!”
“I—I am a missionary,” Marie blurted out. Mon Dieu. Though the knight’s frown declared his confusion, judging from the intelligence in his eyes, he wasn’t a fool. But a servant of God was the first logical explanation that had come to mind.
“A missionary?” the Scot repeated, his brogue rich with doubt.
“Oui.” Please believe me!
“A French missionary in the Scottish Highlands?” He shot a skeptical glance toward the cave’s opening, then back to her. “Alone?”
She fought for calm. What more could she say to convince him? Though he looked like a god, with his eyes the deep blue of the ocean and his cheeks hinting of dimples, the warrior’s sharp gaze assured her that he was not a man to trifle with.
“I am waiting,” he stated, his tone dry.
“It is difficult for me.” An understatement.
His expression darkened. “I am nae going anywhere.”
Neither, it appeared, was she. At least not until he’d received an explanation that left him satisfied.
Once she’d appeased him, she would allow him another day to recover.
Then, that night while he slept, she’d slip away.
Though with the men scouring the area to find her, travel would be difficult.
Through lowered lashes, she regarded the fierce knight, a man with the power to intimidate and the strength to back his claims. His finely crafted mail, which she’d set against the rocky wall of the cave, bespoke wealth. Surely he carried the funds necessary to arrange for her passage to France.
Marie hesitated.
Was this man too dangerous to risk not only her life with but the safety of Scotland as well? Perhaps ’twould be better if she traveled alone.
But as a Scot, he would know the terrain and, if necessary, places to hide.
In addition, his presence would add another layer of safety.
The knights searching for her sought a woman alone.
Regardless, she must keep the truth of her royal lineage hidden.
Though a Scot, he could still be an enemy of her country.
“While returning from Beauly Priory, our party was attacked and our people were slaughtered.” Marie closed her eyes against his stare, her pain real in that if she failed to reach her father and tell him who’d abducted her, more Scots would die.
Silence.
Marie lifted her lashes and found his gaze skeptical, though not totally dismissive. “During the attack, I escaped,” she continued. “I was terrified.”
He nodded. “Aye, you would be.”
“I—I went back to . . .”
At her shudder, he lifted her chin, his eyes dark with regret. “Oh, God, lass. ’Tis nae the likes of what a woman should witness.”
Caught off guard by his sympathy, for a moment she leaned closer.
Shaken to be offered trust when she’d earned none, she stumbled back.
“I am sorry,” she said, fiercely regretting her lie.
She despised untruths, but life had shown her the lengths to which people would go, lying, cheating, and murdering to achieve their goals.
“Do nae be.”
The sincere concern on his face tempted her to admit the truth, but she remained silent.
She knew nothing about this warrior, except that his actions deemed him a man of compassion.
Did his conduct extend to honor as well?
“I must return home to my family.” Her quiet words echoed between them, and his gaze softened.
“I understand.”
Hope ignited. “Then you will help me?”
The warmth in his expression faded to caution. “Help you?”
“Oui. As you are aware, travel for a woman alone is dangerous.” Refusal crept into his eyes, and she spoke faster. “I only need your escort to the closest port. From there I—”
“Nay.”
She touched his arm. “But you must.”