Chapter Three
Richard Og de Burgh hiked up the willing Lady Grace’s skirts and found, to his delight, that she had worn nothing under them. “You,” he said, pressing his mouth to her ear, “are a most naughty lady-in-waiting to the Queen of England.”
“And you,” she said, “are a noble dutiful to the king and queen and a naughty husband. I doubt your wife would be pleased to learn you are joining with me.”
All of Richard’s good humor left him in a flash. He grabbed Grace’s lovely neck and squeezed. “Are you threatening me, Grace?”
“Richard, no,” she said, her voice pleasantly beseeching. “I was teasing you. Only teasing, my love.”
Love. He hated that word. His wife bemoaned the fact that he did not love her. His willful daughter Elizabeth bemoaned the fact that he asked her to wed as he needed her to for the good of their family, even if it included the wretched Bruce. Elizabeth wished for love. Bah! And his niece, Lillianna, ironically, could not seem to find love.
By God, the one time he’d hoped for it for someone! He had even fallen on his knees and prayed to God to bestow it upon her so her powers of sight would come to her. Damn Lillianna’s dead mother! Richard was certain that his weaker brother Brice’s now deceased wife Kara had somehow put a curse on Lillianna so that the girl would not find love. Damn the word love. Damn the concept of it. Damn all the weak people in the world who were ruled by it. And damn the Brooch of Lagothmier, which he had spent a year searching for since Brice had admitted to him that Lillianna was really a MacLeod.
“Richard?” Grace whined, annoying him.
He set her down hard and motioned to her. “Leave me.”
His appetite for her was gone, his mood dark once more. His time was at an end. He could no longer delay telling King Edward that he had failed to find the brooch that would bring the seer power to his loveless niece.
“Richard, let me please you,” Grace begged, which only irritated him further. He hated beggars.
“Get out before I have you flogged,” he threatened, enjoying the fear that suddenly lit her eyes.
She gathered her slippers and raced to the bedchamber door with them in her hands, but at a knock, she suddenly turned to him, looking like a scared doe. He despised fear almost as much as he despised love.
“Open the damned door,” he ordered. She did so, skirting Donovan, the guard who stood in the doorway, and then she disappeared down the hall. Richard frowned. “Why are you bothering me at this hour?”
“I received a message I thought you would like to read,” Donovan said, smiling.
Richard waved the man in with a frown and watched Donovan stride toward him. The man was bold. Perhaps too much so. Maybe he should kill him? No. He’d already thought about this. He had not killed Donovan when he had delivered the news that the spy Richard had sent to Laird Drumlan’s castle in Scotland had failed to find the brooch. He’d allowed Donovan to live because he could be quite useful. Perhaps one day Richard would send Donovan to kill that nasty Scot Drumlan. Richard would wager his life that the man had the brooch. It made the most sense since Kara had been seen wearing it years before when Drumlan had captured her, according to Brice. But when she had escaped and then Brice had gotten his clutches on her, the brooch had been gone. Brice had been such a damned fool to believe he could make Kara MacLeod love him and gain her powers. His brother had been an even bigger fool not to confide all this to Richard before last year. Maybe if he’d known sooner, he could have retrieved the brooch.
Donovan held the note out, and as Richard grasped it and turned it over, he saw the seal of the spy he’d sent to Drumlan’s castle right after Richard had found out about Lillianna and the brooch. Richard frowned. Thornsby was supposed to be imprisoned for failing to find the brooch. “What’s the meaning of this?”
“It seems that Thornsby escaped the prison some months ago, according to his note,” Donovan said, taking a step backward, as if he expected Richard to lash out at him.
Richard chuckled, but his humor was short-lived as he considered the news. He unfolded the note and began to read of the escape. Then his breath caught.
I have seen the brooch, my lord. It is in Drumlan’s possession, but his castle is well guarded. If you are reading this note instead of my telling you in person, I have been killed. I beg you, as I proved your loyal servant, to take care of my wife and my son. Send them the money you promised me.
Your humble knight,
Thornsby
Richard smiled slowly, his heartbeat speeding up. He folded the note and glanced up at Donovan. “Bring me Lillianna. I cannot wait to see her face when she understands she has been outwitted by me. I have the lady, and soon I will get that brooch, even if I have to storm Drumlan’s castle myself.”
As Angus rode away from the Palace of Westminster and into the woods with the lass Lillianna by his side, he looked back over his shoulder. He did not like leaving Robbie alone with their enemies, but the time to argue had passed. Robbie had decided, against Angus’s advice, to trust Lady Elizabeth. Now Angus would do the best he could to ensure he did not lead the king’s men directly to Robbie’s vassals hiding in Ettrick Forest. Those men were outlaws because they had followed Robbie and Angus and the other Renegades in revolt against King Edward, and Angus felt a deep responsibility to do all in his power to ensure they were not killed or taken prisoner.
He scanned the lush, green forest around them, searching always for enemies and a way out in case they were attacked. He was not yet willing to dismiss the notion that Lady Elizabeth might be scheming with her father and her godfather, and that the scheming included her lying to Robbie to make him believe the king knew where Robbie’s men were hiding. If Angus were the King of England—
“What are you scowling about?” Lillianna asked.
He looked to his right where she rode on her horse. He was not in the habit of revealing his inner thoughts to a lass, and he was not about to change that now, especially not with a lass as alluring as she was. Yet, he had learned over the years that one could often discern truths one’s enemy wished to hide by revealing a bit of oneself.
“I was just thinking that if I were the King of England, I would have instructed my goddaughter to convince Robbie that I kenned where his men were so that my knights could follow him or one of his comrades when they went to warn those in hiding, and then ambush them.” He arched his eyebrows in expectation of her response, but when she arched hers back at him, he had to bite his cheek against the unexpected desire to laugh. He’d give the lass this—she didn’t seem to scare easily. She had to know he was accusing her and her cousin of scheming with the king. “Is that what is happening here?” he pressed.
She quirked her mouth into a half-amused, half-contemptuous look. “Do you honestly think my cousin would send me with you if she was conspiring with her father and the king to lead you to your certain death?” He opened his mouth to answer, but Lillianna spoke before he could. “Elizabeth loves me, and she would never put me in danger, which is why she sent me away even though she is putting herself in peril by doing so.”
He could not deny that Lady Elizabeth did seem to care for her cousin. Still, he knew from experience that lasses could be deadly deceptive. “I dunnae ken what to believe. It would seem yer cousin cares for ye, but can ye say for certain that I’m nae being used to lead the king to my comrades in hiding?”
Her gaze grew almost frigid, her knuckles white where they gripped her horse’s reins. She appeared frightened, but the expression swiftly disappeared and a steely look, one he could hardly believe such a gentle-looking creature could conjure, replaced it. Cool air hit his teeth, making him startle. He was not sure a lass had ever caused his mouth to gape with such surprise.
“I can say nothing with full certainty,” she said. “I do not have the power to see the future, nor am I currently or was I ever privy to the plots of the king and my uncle.” She paused and stared at him for a long silent moment, as if she were trying to discern something about him.
“I did nae guess ye to be lippy,” he grumbled to cover up his continuing desire to laugh. He was surely going daft. The lass had not given him an answer; rather, she had very cleverly made her point.
He should be irritated, not amused. And he should be wary, as there was something about a beautiful and highly intelligent woman that stirred his blood. The thought had him sitting rigid in his saddle. The only other time a lass had affected him like lightning striking through his veins had been Isla, and that she-devil had robbed him of his good sense, the consequences of which he had to live with every single day.
He stole a sidelong glance at Lillianna and found her staring back at him, distrust in the depths of her gaze. Her vulnerability struck him hard in the chest, making it tighten. It called to mind Robbie’s earlier words.
Devil take it! He was a warrior, not a man to be brought down by lust. Because that’s what was attempting to invade his body, mind, and soul—desire. Nothing more. It was entirely too bad that Lillianna was not the sort of lass with whom to have a romp in the hay. If she were, he could do so and then be rid of the desire she had ignited.
“How long do you think the journey to Ettrick Forest will take?” she asked.
“A sennight,” he replied, his voice gruff in an attempt to cover any hint of what he was feeling.
She frowned at him. “And how long will we ride until we stop for a respite?”
“One stop at midday and then tonight,” he said, motioning to a branch hanging low in their path so she would duck.
She did, her hair cascading over the side of her face to hide it for a moment, but when she sat upright once more, she shoved her hair back and scowled at him. “One stop,” she echoed. “Will not the horses get tired?”
“Aye, but they are bred for war and used to riding for long periods without rest.”
Her forehead creased, and she nibbled on her lower lip, as if concerned about something.
“Can ye nae ride that long?” he asked. He’d not considered it at first, but it made sense. She was not a warrior. He assumed that she’d never ridden from somewhere possibly pursued and hunted, and most definitely not without the luxury to halt for a respite. But no matter her answer, they could not stop, so if she said she did not think she could manage it, he would have to put her on his horse with him, in front of him, between his thighs.
God above…
He mumbled a prayer for sense and strength as images of her lush bottom pressed invitingly against his groin filled his head and heated him. He had been without a woman for too long. That had to be why she was affecting him this way. He was not normally like a whelp who had not yet had his first tumble in the hay.
She lifted her chin. “Of course I can,” she assured him. “I was merely worried for the horses.”
Her suddenly splotchy neck revealed her lie, but he did not dispute her words. In fact, a bit of admiration filled him for her willingness to try to ride for that length of time. Most women he had known in his life would have put up a fit upon hearing the news that they would stop only once before nightfall. There was a full day ahead, after all. His youngest sister, Mari, would have been wailing at the discovery of how long she was expected to ride, but then, she was a particularly spoiled lass. It was his fault for indulging her. He’d always felt so guilty for her having to grow up without their father and mother. He had a sudden memory of seeing his father lying in his own blood from the wounds he’d received in the battle that Angus had missed. Guilt battered him and grew stronger when an image of his mother, wasting away of heartbreak after his father’s death, filled Angus’s head. He forced the memories down and thought upon his sisters. Mari was the baby of the family—if one could still call a lass of eighteen summers a baby—and he’d treated her as such. Greer, his other sister, was different. She was as tough as any warrior he knew—except himself, of course.
“Glad to hear ye will nae have trouble staying upright upon yer horse, for ye likely have all the morning and into the afternoon to do so.” He watched her face, eager to see her reaction. The lass was not particularly good at disguising how she felt, which suited him perfectly.
Her eyes narrowed, and her lips pressed into a hard line. Clearly, she did not like seeming weak. That was good because she was soft and feminine, and therefore, naturally weak, but if she was prideful and she wanted to be strong, she had a much better chance of survival.
“Oh, that’s perfectly fine. I’ll have no trouble,” she replied.
The quiver in her voice contradicted her bold words, and for a brief moment, he considered offering to put her on his horse right then. But three things stopped him: the longer they could travel on two horses, the better to keep from overtiring one horse; the more distance he could maintain between himself and Lillianna, the easier it would be to control his desire; and lastly, he needed her to have a burning desire to survive because he had a gut feeling they were going to come up against not only severe conditions but battle.
He glanced up toward the sky and thought about the best way to get to Ettrick Forest. From here to Ettrick, it was nothing but land controlled by King Edward. “We’ll have to keep to the woods and remain guarded at all times,” he said. “If ye feel weak and need to stop, simply say so.”
“I will not feel weak,” she grumbled.
The lass had fire, which he was purposely stoking because she would need it. They had hard riding ahead of them for the sennight it took to get to Ettrick Forest, not to mention a lass such as she would not be used to cold winter nights in the outdoors. She’d likely never slept on the hard ground in her entire life.
“Let’s see what ye’re made of then,” he said, goading her.
She thrust back her shoulders, and he could practically see the determination coursing through her. “Do you fear we will be pursued? Is that why you don’t wish to halt for respites?”
“Partly,” he said. “But I also need to warn my comrades as quickly as possible.”
She nodded, then cocked her head in apparent thought. “My uncle will not bother himself to come after me, so you can at least set that worry out of your mind.”
Pity stirred in him that her uncle, her blood, obviously did not care for her. “What of yer father?” he asked, guiding his horse toward a path that looked more traveled and would be less dangerous to set the horses to a gallop. When she didn’t answer, he looked to her. The scarlet tint coloring her cheeks revealed her embarrassment.
“My father will not be coming for me. He…he simply won’t, so you have no need to fear him.”
Angus had a sudden desire to learn the details of her relationship with her father, but he clamped his teeth together on the question. The first rule of not becoming entangled with the lasses he joined with was to only ever join with lasses who clearly seemed to only want him for his body. The second rule was to never ask—or answer—personal questions.
“That’s good,” he said, instead of telling her he was sorry or asking any questions. As the trail opened up before him, he felt relief to be able to ride so fast that all he could concentrate on was that. “We gallop!” he announced, then nudged his horse and took off without glancing back at her. He did not need to look back. Her horse’s hooves pounded behind him, but even if he could not have heard them, her presence warmed his back like a beam of sun, silent, unseen, yet encompassing. It was disconcerting and alluring at the same time.
Lillianna gritted her teeth at the constant jarring motion that sent pain through her tailbone and seemed to reverberate up her spine. She glared at Angus’s back as he rode ahead, his dark hair fanning behind him with the fast pace he had set them to hours ago. The high-handed Scot had simply announced what they were going to do and had not even bothered to wait for her reply. He’d taken off like a blur and had them galloping across the hardest terrain she’d ever ridden in her life.
Her hands were cramped from her death grip on her reins, and the skin stung as if it had been chafed raw, but she dare not look to confirm her suspicions. She was certain Angus was testing her to see just how long she could ride. She would stay on the blasted saddle until he called for them to halt or she fell off from exhaustion. She was heartily sick of feeling that she had no value beyond the powers she might possess, and now that she was leaving England, she would prove otherwise. She stared at Angus’s back. She was going to show him—and herself—that she was no millstone.
So when Angus picked up the pace even more, she squeezed her thighs together on her destrier and pressed her lips shut on any desire to utter a complain. Yet, as morning slid toward day, the tender skin of her inner thighs throbbed and burned, and she feared what sort of chafing she would find there when he did finally call for them to halt.
As he rode them through valleys thick with trees, the little bit of sun that was out became hidden and the temperature dropped. Her teeth chattered as they galloped across the rocky bank of a stream, and the water splashed up on her skirts, soaking them and causing gooseflesh to sweep across her entire body. Not daring to release her reins to warm herself, she hunched forward, nearly touching the horse’s mane with her nose.
“We’ll stop here,” Angus suddenly barked from ahead of her. Before she could even so much as right herself, Angus had halted his horse and whipped around to look at her. “That’s nae a proper way to ride,” he announced.
Multiple sarcastic responses flowed through her mind, but first she had to stop the chattering of her teeth. She clenched down hard on them, sat up, and rubbed her hands vigorously over her arms to warm herself while Angus stared at her. A frown appeared on his face, which deepened to almost comical proportions, except she was entirely too cold to laugh.
“Ye’re cold?” he asked, sounding astonished.
She forced her freezing lips into what she hoped was a smirk. “Of course not,” she replied, purposely exaggerating her words. “My teeth always chatter, and I always rub myself like I’m trying to put out a fire on my skin.”
“I suppose I should nae be surprised,” he said, managing to sound utterly insulting. “Ye people who are nae full blooded Scot are nae made of hearty stock.”
Fury blazed through her, and before she knew what she was doing, she had taken off her slipper and threw it at his head. He caught it easily, but he gaped at her, his astonishment clear. Frankly, she was shocked at herself, too. She’d never allowed herself to lose her temper with a man in her life. She’d never dared for fear of the punishment she would receive, but for whatever reason, she realized with a start, she did not fear Angus would harm her. Was it because he claimed not to believe in the legend? It was foolish to let down her guard because of that.
“Lippy and bad-tempered,” he grumbled, waving her slipper at her.
“I’m neither of those things,” she bit out. “I simply do not like being seen as a burden. I’m plenty hearty, and I’ll prove it.”
“Oh, aye? This should be entertaining,” he said with a chuckle as he dismounted his horse and walked over to her. He looked at her for a long moment, and as his gaze held hers, a flame sparked in his eyes, warming her. Slowly, he held her slipper out to her, but when she grabbed it and went to tug it away from him, he held firm. “If ye intend to harm someone when ye throw something at them, ye need to be quicker about it.”
She felt her eyes widen in shock that this gruff man was giving her advice. “I was not intending to harm you,” she replied. “I lost my temper.”
His lips pulled into a smile that contradicted his mostly cold attitude—thus far—and made her heart stutter. His smile was teasing and slightly dangerous at the same time. “I ken,” he replied, “which is why I’m willing to offer ye advice now. If ye are intending to harm someone when ye throw something at them, never hesitate. Acting quickly is the best way to overcome their defenses. And aim for the middle of the forehead.”
“I’ll remember that,” she said, her curiosity awoken by him. He showed the world a gruff exterior, but he seemed to be hiding a naturally protective side that hinted at some softness. “Do you have sisters?” she asked, thinking perhaps that’s what made him so protective.
His eyebrows dipped together. “Aye. Why?”
“Well,” she said, leaning to her right to try to put her slipper back on, but when she started to tilt a bit, she instinctually held her hand out to stop her fall and met with what felt like rock. Her eyes flew from her foot to Angus’s chest where she half clutched her slipper and him. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled, trying to push away, but he caught her wrist, snagged the slipper from her clutch, and bent down. Before she knew what was occurring, his fingers, strong and warm, encircled her ankle.
She stilled, but her heartbeat exploded at the contact of his hands on her ankle. Never had she been touched there by a man. Her belly clenched, and heat pooled deep. She was not naive. She had heard the servant women gossip and giggle about men and desire, and she knew unequivocally that’s what she felt in this moment. Did he know? God, she hoped not! She did not dare look at him, but suddenly, his jagged inhalation caressed her ears, and his fingers, which were curled around her ankle, momentarily tightened, as if he too had some strong emotion coursing through him.
“There ye go,” he said, the slipper sliding onto her foot. His voice was rough and strained to her ears. Instantly, he released his hold and stood. “Why did ye ask me if I have sisters?”
She immediately looked down and fidgeted with her reins, trying to think how to pose what she’d thought, without revealing too much. She could feel his stare upon her head like a fire at her back, unseen but no less hot. Swallowing hard, she forced herself to look up and meet his gaze. The intensity of it stole her breath.
“I… Well, you seem to have a gentle side,” she blurted, thinking of his offer to teach her the proper way to hold and use a dagger, and then his advice on the best way to throw something at someone with the aim of injuring them. His appalled look at being called gentle made her want to chuckle, but she suspected he would not appreciate that.
“I dunnae have a gentle side,” he replied, as if the word were an insult. “Dunnae mistake my nae wishing ye to die under my care for a soft side. Can ye dismount without aid?”
“Of course,” she said breezily, biting her tongue on pointing out that an inconsiderate man, a hard man, would likely not even have asked that question. He gave a curt nod, turned, and started toward his horse. Lillianna set her palms, which were almost numb from the cold, to the horse’s flesh to shove off and dismount, but a niggling pain through both her palms stopped her.
She turned her hands over and gaped. The flesh was raw, cut and bleeding from gripping her reins so hard. She hated being so cold, but in this instance, it was a good thing because it numbed the pain. Yet, now that she was aware of her wounds, they started throbbing. She clenched her teeth and once more positioned her hands to dismount, but as she swung one leg over the horse, excruciating pain raced from her inner thighs to her mind and made her want to scream. She barely contained it and was rather proud of herself for her show of fortitude. But the moment her feet hit the ground, she knew she was in trouble. Her legs buckled, and she grasped the horse in order not to fall flat on her bottom.
The beast neighed a startled protest, and suddenly, heat consumed her from behind and the smell of pine surrounded her. “What’s wrong, lass?” Angus asked, not touching her, yet he may as well have been. Her body tingled in memory of his hand on her ankle.
“Nothing,” she said, her voice sounding thick to her own ears. “My legs are a little numb from all the riding, but I’m good.”
“Ye’re certain?” Angus asked, his warm breath tickling the back of her neck. She willed herself not to react to him. “Did ye hear me, lass?”
His breath whispering across her neck made her shiver. She nodded. “I’m perfectly capable of standing on my own two feet,” she snapped, irritated at herself that he made her react to him at all. She shoved away from the horse, and her legs promptly buckled again. She flailed her hands in the air to try to grasp the horse once more, but Angus’s arms slid deftly around her waist, and before she could protest, he had hauled her off her feet. She found her legs caught by one of his arms, her right shoulder pressed against his chest, and his other arm securely across her back with his fingers curled around her shoulder.
She struggled to put space between herself and the hardness of Angus’s body, but it was no use. He pulled her a little closer and tighter. “Quit squirming,” he ordered.
She’d been ordered about all her life by her father, his men, and then her uncle. She refused to be dictated to any longer. This was a new start to her life, and she was going to take it. She was no longer a burden, no longer meek, no longer afraid—well, except to let herself love, but that was not fear, that was being prudent.
“Put me down,” she responded.
“I will when I’m certain ye can stand,” he replied.
“What do you care if I can stand or not?” she asked, poking his sculpted chest. Angus had to spend hours every day training with his sword to be so cut. He was like a rock that had been chiseled with the utmost attention.
“I care,” he replied, surprising her when he hooked a finger under her chin and forced her gaze to his, “because if ye fall and hurt yerself, ye will become even more of a burden to me.”
“I am not a burden,” she bit out, smacking his hand away from her chin. Pain lanced through the cut on her hand, causing her to wince. When his gaze darted to her hand, she drew it protectively to her chest and laced her fingers.
He stared at her for a long moment, his brow furrowing. She was sure he was going to demand to see her hand, but then he said, “So ye keep saying. Yet here ye are, unable to stand on yer own two feet.”
She would have been offended by his words, except his cool, gray gaze grew smoky with what appeared to be merriment. “I had a moment of needing to adjust,” she said, lifting her chin. “There is no shame in that. I’ve not ridden as long as we just did in quite a while.”
“How long?” he asked, hitching up his dark eyebrows.
Not since she’d been ten, but he did not need to know that. When her father had decided she was leaving her girlhood behind, he had ordered her contained to the grounds of his estate until the day she had been sent to live with her uncle. She recalled well the day her father had given the dictate. He had told her it was because his castle was on the border of England and Scotland, and he feared the savage Scots would abduct her.
Initially, she’d been touched by his admission and hope that he might truly love her sprouted within her, but then he had gone on to say that he could not have someone taking her and her potential powers from his control. Her heart squeezed at the memory, but she steeled herself against allowing any pain to seep from the old wound.
“How long?” Angus repeated.
“At least several fortnights,” she lied.
He gave her a disbelieving look, and she held her breath, waiting for him to accuse her of lying, but then that same gentle look from before settled on his features. “When ye ride for a long time, ye must be certain to loosen yer grip on the reins or else they will cut into yer skin as sharply as a well-honed blade.”
Now he told her. Inhaling a long breath, she said, “Yes, I’m aware.” She had to get him to put her down so she could get away from him and see how bad her injuries were. “I can stand now. Please—” she swallowed against a wave of pain “—put me down.”
There was something wrong with the lass. All the color had left her face, and she was digging her nails into his shoulder as if she was struggling to suppress something. She was injured. He was almost certain of it, but she’d never readily admit it. And she had been lying about her experience riding long distances; her chest and neck had become splotchy with her attempt to deceive him. He’d learn why after he found out what was wrong with her.
Without a word, he set her down, grasped her wrists, and turned her hands palms up. Deep gashes ran the length of both her palms. “God’s teeth!” he roared, more worried for her than angry. “Why did ye nae ask me to halt? Why did ye nae tell me ye were injured?” It was one thing to want the lass to try to be strong, but it was quite another to allow her to injure herself badly in the process.
Her chin came to a stubborn tilt. “Because I did not have need.”
Guilt slammed him in the chest. He’d done this. He’d goaded her, thinking to make her stronger, but this was foolish. “Ye had need, lass,” he said, gentling his tone. “If these cuts become infected ye’ll grow verra ill, and then we’ll have to halt for certain. And for a much longer time than we can spare.”
“Oh!” Her cheeks pinked. “I’d not thought of that… I’ll find a stream to wash the cuts and then bind them.”
“I’ll aid ye. We will set out again after.” She’d have to ride with him to protect her hands now, but he suspected she’d fight him still, so he’d simply not tell her. He’d sling her on the horse, and that would be that.
“You’ll aid me?” Her eyes had grown wide, and a distinctly uneasy look crossed her face. “I do not need your aid.”
“Nay?” He cocked his head. “Do ye ken the healing arts? Are ye so impressive that ye can bind yer own hands?”
Her shoulders sagged, but then her brow furrowed. “Do you know the healing arts?”
He chuckled. He couldn’t help it. She sounded so completely surprised. He was aware it was unusual for a man to know the healing arts. He’d received this reaction many times in the past. “Aye,” he said. “In truth, I ken just a bit. Enough to keep me alive if my wounds are nae too grave. If the wounds are dire, then I’d need a true healer like my sister Greer.”
“Is your mother a healer, then? Did she teach you both?”
He hesitated. This was a personal conversation, but as it was not about his feelings—or lack of them—he decided it was all right to answer her. “She was a healer. She’s dead.”
“Oh. I’m so sorry.” She reached for him then, her fingertips grazing his arm before she let her hand quickly drop away. His skin tingled where she had touched it, and the genuine sorrow in her voice wormed its way into his chest and made him feel oddly as if he wanted to soothe her.
He shrugged. “Dunnae be sorry,” he said, intending to leave it at that.
“You don’t care about your own mother dying?” she asked on a gasp.
“I do,” he assured her. But he refused to be baited into any more personal conversation.
She stepped back, a look of fear sweeping across her face, and he let out a disgruntled sigh. He’d have to give the lass a few details, so she didn’t think she was traveling with a cold-blooded man who she needed to fear. Not wanting to be entangled with lasses was one thing, but scaring them witless was another.
“Her death was a blessing of sorts,” he explained slowly, watching Lillianna’s face for any sign that she was more at ease. As soon as he saw it, he’d give no more details. “She fell verra ill with grief after my father was killed, and she could nae even get out of bed.”
The memory of it struck him like a swift punch to his chest. He’d never talked of his mother’s death, nor the guilt he felt over it, to anyone, not even his siblings. His shame for his actions, his decision to go to Isla to ensure her safety instead of riding to his father to aid him in battle against the Belfaine, ate at him daily. He had been distracted by Isla, as she had intended, and he had failed to see that he was being deceived. He had failed in his duties as the laird’s son. He had failed his family.
He blinked, focusing on Lillianna once more. “My mother stayed in her bed for months, just wasting away. She would nae eat. I forced broth in her mouth, but eventually…” He swallowed, his throat suddenly very tight. He looked down at his hands, guilt pressing ever more heavily on him. It was his fault his father had died, and therefore, it was also his fault his mother had died. “Eventually she died,” he finished.
“I am so very sorry, Angus.”
Her trembling voice caused him to look up, and he was shocked to see her eyes glistening with unshed tears. She was a tenderhearted creature. He purposely never bedded such lasses; they were not the sort to want to join simply for pleasure. He felt a strong desire to shield her from harm, both physical and mental. This is what personal conversations would get him.
“Thank ye,” he said stiffly, needing to reconstruct the barrier between them.
She exhaled a long, slow breath, her gaze moving past him as if looking somewhere else. “I cannot imagine feeling a love that powerful.”
“A curse to be certain,” he said. He shoved his own memories away, as her eyes met his. He expected her to refute what he’d said, as his sister Mari always did. She was a tenderhearted lass, too.
“I could not agree more,” Lillianna replied, shocking him for the second time in a very short expanse of time. “Shall we find a stream to cleanse my wounds?”
The woman was perplexing, and he could not help but think that figuring out a complex creature such as Lillianna would be rewarding, almost like winning a battle. He scowled at the weak thought and turned from her. “Follow me,” he said, determined not to allow them to get to know each other any further. She was a mission, plain and simple.