Chapter 3
He was by far the biggest man Elizabet had ever encountered, but his coos as he spoke to Harpy were gentle as a dove’s. He knelt at a distance, coaxing Harpy to come to him, and his size was evident even crouched upon his haunches.
“Here, doggy,” he was saying. He clapped his hands. “Here, doggy, doggy!”
Despite that it appeared he was trying to steal her dog, Elizabet swallowed her protest as she watched him, fascinated by the juxtaposition of his size and his gentility.
Deep golden hair framed a face that was almost too lovely for a man, and even in the twilight, she could clearly see the brilliant blue of his eyes.
Fireflies twinkled between them, giving Elizabet the dizziest sensation as she stared.
She had to remind herself to breathe.
He was wearing the most barbarous garment—something like the ancient togas she’d seen depicted in the drawings in her mother’s manuscripts, but with brilliant color.
And his legs were bare, thick and muscular.
His arms were uncovered, too, as was most of his chest. And his only accoutrement was an enormous sword in his scabbard.
“Lord!” she whispered, remembering herself suddenly.
She scrambled behind the nearest tree, though somehow, she didn’t quite fear him. Something about his demeanor and the good-natured look in his eyes set her at ease. Still, she peered at him around the tree trunk, her heart hammering fiercely. “Sweet Mary,” she said low.
He must have heard her, because he glanced in her direction suddenly.
Their eyes met.
Whatever words Elizabet might have uttered in that instant were forgotten as she stared into those clear blue eyes.
Copper hair, chiseled brows, and lips so full and red they appeared painted were Broc’s first impressions of the girl.
He didn’t recognize her though he knew most folks in these parts, except for a few who had settled here with David’s Lyon—the Englishman who had earned a piece of this land through his sword arm, and then kept it by his wits.
His marriage to a Brodie would never have bought him loyalty but it seemed he had earned it just the same.
Curiosity needled him and he found himself wishing she would come out from behind the tree so he could get a better glimpse at her.
“Who are you, lass?”
She gave him a narrow eyed look from behind the tree. “Why should I tell you?”
English by the sound of her voice, he surmised and he reasoned she must belong to Lyon Montgomerie—though what the hell was she doing alone this far on MacKinnon land?
He peered about for some sign of her companions but the woods were empty save for the woman, her mangy hound and Broc. “Because,” he said, “we Scots dinna like outlanders in our home.”
“Your home?”
She ventured out from behind the tree, looking more contrary than she had a right to and threw her arms out to indicate the surrounding woodlands. “I would hardly call this anyone’s home!”
Her long, copper hair was bound in a single thick braid generously woven with luminous golden ribbons. The style was thoroughly ruined by the wayward curls that escaped confinement and framed her lovely face.
And she was, indeed, lovely.
Broc experienced a surge of lust so unexpected that it took him aback.
Christ, but were all these Sassenach women alike?
“Every tree in these woods is mine!” he enlightened her. “Every leaf you spy upon the ground belongs to my brothers.”
She cocked a brow. “My what a possessive family you have!” She stood straight, hands on her hips, challenging him, and Broc tried not to laugh. “Perhaps you should tell your brothers when you see them that it is far more blessed to share.”
The wench was taking him far too literally. “I dinna have any brothers, woman.”
“Nay?” She lifted her brows. “Then you should have listened to your mother when she advised you never to lie.”
“I dinna have a mother, either,” he said more sullenly than he’d intended to, though she seemed to appear far more offended than compassionate over his declaration.
“Everyone has a mother!”
“Aye, well, mine is long dead,” he informed her, hoping to shut her up. The subject remained a painful one even after all these years. He had, in fact, just come from the cairn he had built in her memory. No matter how many years passed, it never lessened the pain of his loss.
“So is mine!” she argued. “But I would never be so ungrateful as to claim I had none!”
Broc merely stared at her, bemused. Only Page FitzSimon had ever dared speak to him so impudently—and not since first meeting his laird’s wife had he encountered a tongue so bloody sharp.
What the hell did they feed these English lasses to make them so bitter—and for once he couldn’t blame it on Seana Brodie’s damnable uisge though there must be something in the water there.
He nearly laughed out loud at the absurdity of it all. She was hardly small for a woman, but neither was she any match for any man—much less him—yet she stood there, antagonizing him as no man ever dared.
Broc scratched his head. “Who the hell did you say you were?”
She hitched her chin. “A substitute for your manners, since you seem not to have any!”
Stubborn wench.
Broc resisted the urge to walk over and toss her lovely bottom over his knee. God’s truth, if he were some ruffian, she would lose more than her tongue for her impudence. “Speaking of manners, lass, did no one ever warn you to mind yourself before strangers?”
She ignored his rebuke.
“That is my dog,” she informed him tautly, pointing at the dirty beast at his feet. As though it understood, the animal turned to face her, but didn’t move. “Come here, Harpy!”
Harpy sat stubbornly.
Broc quelled his laughter, but his shoulders shook with mirth.
In his present mood, he nearly called the hound just to spite her. He’d always had a way with animals, and he had no doubt the hound would come to him, particularly if he were to pat the pouch at his waist, tempting it with more food.
“For the last time, wench, who are ye?” he asked, more firmly this time.
Little good it did him.
“Who I am is none of your concern!” She puffed her breast in a show of bravado that merely managed to draw his eyes to her luscious bosom. Broc blinked.
She was blessed in a way few women were, with full breasts and a tiny waist that was emphasized by the golden girdle that hung low on her hips.
A woman like her could make a man forget his manners.
His body hardened at the thought, surprising him again with the reaction.
He couldn’t remember the last time a woman had stirred his blood so easily.
God’s truth, he loved a woman with sass, but the borderlands, despite the newly forged peace between their clans, were no place for a female alone.
“Come here, Harpy!”
The hound remained stubbornly at Broc’s side, peering up at him and wagging its tail amiably.
Good dog, he thought a little smugly and turned to study his guest a little closer while her attention was on the hound. She looked a little like a courtesan, he mused—richly dressed to attract her pigeon. Though something about this woman’s eyes seemed far more innocent than her dress proclaimed.
She would be easy prey for men with ignoble intentions. “These woodlands are no place for a lady,” he apprised her. “All manner of dangers lurk here.”
She came nearer, her gaze shifting between Broc and the hound. “Aye, well something tells me that if you’re the worst the Scots have to offer, I suppose I shall have naught to worry about.” And she called her hound again to no avail.
Suddenly Broc didn’t feel the least bit charitable.
Beautiful though she might be, she was the most cantankerous female he had ever met.
He ought to teach the wench a bloody lesson, never mind who she was.
And the fact that she thought him harmless annoyed him beyond measure—especially if she was in fact a bloody Sassenach.
She damned well ought to worry as he wasn’t the only one in these parts who loathed the English.
Their love for Page MacKinnon didn’t particularly lessen their hatred of her countrymen.
He narrowed his eyes at her. “Haven’t ye heard, lass… we Scots feast on stray women, bairns and helpless dogs? Lucky me, I seem to be blessed with two out of three and I’m a verra hungry man.”
She stopped in her tracks and blinked. He tried not to laugh at her answering expression, the way she cocked her head so uncertainly.
But she read the lie in his expression, and lifted a brow. “Even if I knew what a bairn was, I don’t believe you!”
“Why would I lie?”
“To frighten me, of course!”
If she had any sense at all, she would, indeed, be frightened. “Is it working?”
“No!” she declared.
Broc frowned. “Are you certain?”
She crossed her arms. “Do I seem frightened to you?”
Not nearly enough, Broc decided.
With a fearsome growl, he suddenly lunged at the hound.
The animal yelped, bolting closer to its mistress, and Broc couldn’t hold back his laughter.
Meager thrill though it might have been, it took the edge off his unwanted ardor.
The last thing he wanted was to be attracted to a bloody English shrew.
Rushing forward, the woman fell to her knees, hugging the hound’s neck protectively, completely disregarding any threat to herself.
He frowned at her response.
Her eyes flashed with disdain. “You are a very churlish man!”
Broc grinned. “So I’ve been told. But of course we Scots are all ruthless barbarians, don’t ye know.”
“’Tis true,” he persisted when she cocked him a dubious look. “We eat our bairns when they’re born weak and use entire trees for toothpicks after.”
She frowned. “That is utter nonsense!” she proclaimed.
Broc crossed his arms, standing his ground.
She gave him a coy little glance. “Though I have, indeed, heard you toss whole trees at each other in silly contests to prove your manhood.”
Broc lifted a brow at her reply. “Did ye now?”
She was a delightful contradiction, this woman. Dressed as befitted a queen, she knelt in the muck like a beggar beside her hound, hair mussed, eyes glittering with the spirit of a warrior.
He almost wished she weren’t a bloody Sassenach.
Though his days of loathing the English simply because of their birth were done, he placed about as much trust in them as he did his laird’s wife’s bastard da.
Page’s father was the epitome of those he’d come to despise—those who had murdered his parents.
And yet, because of Page, he no longer heard that distinctive accent and saw black rage, though neither did he feel at ease in their presence.
This woman was no exception.
She was a Sassenach and where there was one there were bound to be more. He scowled at that thought. Like vermin, they traveled together in bucktoothed packs. While he was standing there admiring her bosom they were like to be preparing to pounce upon him and rob him to his bloody teeth.
In fact, he didn’t recall her from Meghan and Lyon Montgomerie’s wedding and that fact niggled at him…
Feeling suddenly wary, he turned to study the woods from where she’d appeared.
His neck prickled as he examined the forest surrounding them. His warrior’s intuition told him there was someone there... in the trees... watching...
He spied the man nearly hidden by a cluster of oaks. An Englishman, no doubt, by the manner of his dress. He was standing, bow in hand, ready to loose an arrow. At first Broc thought himself the quarry, but the man was so fixed upon his target that he didn’t even realize Broc had spied him.
He was after the woman, he realized.He stood there an instant too long. The arrow flew.
Broc didn’t think, only reacted. He hurled himself at the girl.