Her lips tasted of salty tears. That thought cut through the roaring inside Jerome’s head as he kissed Elaine.

Bloody hell, he was making a damn fine mess of things.

He had told her everything. His father. Tavish. George. Laird Munro. Of course, plenty of people in his clan knew what had happened fourteen years past. Word had even spread to a few of their neighbors in the Highlands. Owen Munro’s name was synonymous with traitor. And many knew of his one surviving son, the lad who’d grown into a fiercely loyal man determined to prove everyone wrong.

But Jerome had never willingly told anyone what had happened, and why he remained so haunted by his father’s legacy. Yet Elaine had been so warm in his arms, and he’d longed to draw her closer, to let her see all the way into his heart.

And it had terrified him. Aye, big-hearted and deeply feeling that she was, she’d understood his pain all too well—he’d seen it in those vibrant, tear-filled blue eyes. Yet she had also been too discerning, too quick to draw the correct conclusion: that he could never outrun the shadow of his past. Which meant despite what he felt for her, she would always come second to his need to prove himself.

It wasn’t fair to her. She deserved so much better than that—better than him.

Yet some selfish, aching part of him was only too glad for another excuse to be kissing her again. Only for the mission, he told himself. Only to uncover what de Soules plotted.

But in the deepest, darkest corners of his heart, he knew the truth. It was so much more than that with Elaine, curse him to hell.

Like a man dying of thirst, he drank her in, angling his mouth over hers. Unbidden, one of his hands slipped from the reins to cradle the back of her head, his fingers burrowing in her copper tresses. She softened against him, surrendering to the kiss, losing herself in it just as surely as he did.

Whatever burned between them, it wasn’t controlled by logic. Nor did thoughts of his duty to King and country cool his longing for her. Even as he fought to build a wall around his heart, to keep her at arm’s length for the sake of his mission—and his sanity—he feared it was too late. The stones were already crumbling. His heart was already lost.

King Philip’s amused chuckle shattered the moment, saving him from the dark longing dragging him downward. He dropped his hand from Elaine’s hair and lifted his mouth, willing his eyes to remain detached as he gazed down at her.

She, however, couldn’t mask the storm of emotion playing out on her features. Her guileless eyes met his, and he could clearly see the pain and confusion he’d caused there.

“There, see now?” the King said with a smile. “You make things more complicated than they need to be, mes amis. A kiss accomplishes more than a thousand words spoken in frustration.”

“Aye, Majesty,” Jerome replied, forcing his mouth into a grin.

“Let us stop for a repast and refreshments,” the King called to the rest of the party.

The others reined in and dismounted. Jerome carefully guided his horse to the outskirts of the group to give himself another moment alone with Elaine. He swung from the saddle and helped her down after him.

“Elaine,” he began, keeping his voice low. “I hope ye understand that—”

“Munro.” Kieran was suddenly at their side, his thick arms crossed over his chest. The man’s mouth was turned down and his eyes were narrowed on him.

“What?” Jerome snapped at the giant Highlander.

“I heard ye last night. Talking with de Soules.”

Jerome’s frustration instantly evaporated, to be replaced with icy trepidation. He felt Elaine stiffen next to him, and he silently prayed she could guard her features.

“Aye, I went to take a piss and came upon him returning to camp.” He kept his voice casual, but his gaze sharpened on Kieran.

“I heard ye slurring yer words as if ye were drunk, but when I left ye a moment before by the fire, ye were clear-eyed and had yer wits about ye.”

Thus far, Jerome had felt an easy affinity with Kieran. Like him, the man was a Highlander and a warrior. But Kieran’s towering height and heavily muscled frame had given Jerome the impression that he wasn’t a man of particularly sharp wits or keen observation.

From the look in Kieran’s pale blue eyes, Jerome had made a grave error with that assumption.

“Aye, well, I—” Jerome began, but Kieran cut him off.

“Ye arenae telling me something, Munro.” His gaze flicked to Elaine. “What are the two of ye about?”

“Naught,” Elaine blurted. Jerome barely stifled a curse.

“Oh aye?”

Though Kieran remained rooted in place, Jerome instinctively took a half-step in front of Elaine, shielding her from Kieran’s scrutiny with his body.

“Strange,” Kieran went on, his voice deceptively easy. “Because I’ve seen ye casting stares at William de Soules’s back for the last two days, and I didnae miss the look that passed between the two of ye last night when the King mentioned de Soules’s estate. Then ye pretend to be drunk and try to find out where he was all night.”

Sharp apprehension stabbed Jerome’s gut. His instincts told him he could trust Kieran, but if he was wrong, he risked destroying his chance to thwart whatever de Brechin and de Soules plotted. He met Kieran’s hard stare, wordlessly urging the man to abandon this line of interrogation.

“I dinnae claim to be a particularly clever man,” Kieran continued. “After all, I was only meant to be the muscle on this mission. But ye’d be surprised how much a thickheaded brute can notice when no one is paying him any mind.”

Now Kieran dropped all pretense of mildness. His features hardened into a fierce glare.

“But ken this, Munro. If ye do aught—any wee thing—to endanger this mission, ye will regret it. I dinnae ken what ye are about, but I willnae let this go.”

Despite the taut antagonism thickening the air, Jerome took strange comfort in Kieran’s reaction to the prospect of a threat to the mission. It meant his instincts had been right—Kieran was a man of honor. Yet Jerome couldn’t risk getting him involved, for the fewer who knew that some underhanded scheme was afoot, the safer.

“Forget what ye think ye saw and heard,” Jerome said, his voice a low warning. “Dinnae entangle yerself in a simple lovers’ quarrel—for that is all this is.”

Kieran’s nostrils flared in frustration. His sharp gaze flicked between Jerome and Elaine once more.

“I’ll be watching ye,” he said darkly before turning and stomping off toward the rest of their party.

 As he left, Elaine let out a slow breath. “He doesn’t seem to suspect the truth—yet.”

“Aye,” Jerome replied. “But I fear it is only a matter of time.”

And though it had been a relief to realize that Kieran was just as determined to protect their mission as Jerome was, the last thing they needed was to draw the Highlander’s attention.

Which meant they hadn’t been careful enough. If Kieran had sensed something was off, it was only a matter of time before de Soules would realize it too.

And when that happened, all could be lost.