Chapter 7
The sun was high overhead when Deidre reopened her eyes. She did not immediately remember why she was in the middle of a forest instead of sleeping on her saggy straw mattress. As the events of the past few days came back to her, calm came with them. They were out of danger and away from Alastair. She owed that largely to Ewan. Ewan. More recent memories came back. She turned her head, searching for him. He was gone.
He’d said his help had come without a price. She supposed this would be an excellent test of the truth of that statement. He had been kinder to her than anyone she’d ever known, and she had tempted and tortured him in a fit of wounded pride. Even now when he should by all rights be furious with her, his plaid was tucked neatly around her and there was a primrose resting a few inches from where his chest had been.
She’d left him miserable and wanting and he’d left her a flower.
Mixed in under all the guilt at the way she’d treated him, a tiny part of Deidre was—what was she? Had she ever felt this way? Had anyone ever given her a token without also trying to get under her skirts? She picked it up, gently touching the petals. It had no purpose, except to be pleasing. Was it a message? Was he suggesting she should be more pleasing? No, not with the plaid wrapped around her with such care. Its purpose was to please her. It did.
Pulling on her clothes, she went in search of the man who’d left it for her. He couldn’t be far—wherever he was, he was only wearing his shirt. She hiked up to where they’d made camp and found him packing up the horses to leave. When he saw her, he smiled.
She handed him his plaid. “You might need this.”
“Oh, aye. I’ve scandalized yer brother and my fair share of critters already.” He knelt, setting the pleats that would turn it back into a garment.
She wasn’t sure how to say what she was feeling—wasn’t certain she wanted to—but she couldn’t just leave it at that, either.
“The flower is lovely,” she said, twirling the stem slowly between her fingers.
“May I?” He held out his hand for it.
She couldn’t see what he was doing, but when he held out his hand, the stem was interlocked with itself into a ring.
“So ye can wear it, if ye want.”
“If you want,” said so innocuously. What she wanted was becoming murkier by the second. It sat in the center of his palm, waiting for her to decide.
“Wear it, Dee.” Tristan’s voice next to her ear startled her. “Purple suits you.”
She took the ring from Ewan, trying not to think about the way her heartbeat fluttered, or the way her pulse jumped at the touch of their hands. She hurried to slide it onto her finger. “We should probably be off.”
Once they were mounted and Ewan was out of earshot, it didn’t take long for Tristan to start in on her.
“That’s moving along quickly. He’s giving you rings already?”
Deidre ignored him. If she didn’t encourage him, maybe he’d let it go.
“Jewels would have been better, but admittedly, he’s making do with what he’s got out here.”
She glared daggers into the back of his head.
“Kind of sweet, isn’t it? That’s probably worth a tumble all on its own.” He went on, oblivious. “If he just happens to fancy it enough to make you his mistress, well then—”
She cuffed his ear.
“Ow. Christ, Dee. What the hell is wrong with you lately?”
“What the hell is wrong with me?” She changed to their mother’s language as she jabbed him between the shoulder blades. “What the hell is wrong with you? What business is it of yours whether—”
“You’ve made it my business, haven’t you? You dragged me out here for God knows what reason. I was perfectly happy where I was.”
“Perfectly happy?” Her voice rose a notch. “They were going to kill you, Tris.”
“That’s not true.” He pulled their horse up short, twisting in the saddle.
“It is true.”
“Alastair would never—”
“You think he’s your friend? You think he cares about you? He’s using you to keep me in line, and you’re stupid enough to let him,” she shouted.
She shouldn’t have said it. She knew she shouldn’t the second it left her mouth. All his hurt, all his anger, was right there on his face for her to read.
“Get off.”
“Tris—”
“Everything all right?” Ewan asked as his horse approached theirs.
Tristan said nothing, staring forward with a stone face that couldn’t hide anything.
Perhaps it would be best to give him space. Unlike the city, the road had nowhere for him to go when they couldn’t stand each other anymore.
“Ewan, could I ride with you awhile?”
He looked between the two of them. “Aye.”
As soon as she was clear of the stirrup, Tristan kicked the horse into motion.
“Tris—”
“Let him be. Angus will keep him out of trouble.” He pulled her up, settling her in front of him.
The temptation to lean back against his chest was strong and she gave in to it. His arms came around her, closing out everything else. Her world became the solid wall of his chest, the loose fists resting atop her thighs with reins in hand, and the stubble of his beard against the side of her face. Deidre knew it was a temporary respite. Her troubles would still find her, no matter how strong his arms were, but for a moment she was content to pretend.
“Will he forgive me?” She shouldn’t have asked but she was indulging in the fantasy of his arms.
“Aye, he will,” Ewan said. He sounded certain. “Will ye forgive him?”
For a moment, she thought he’d heard the beginning of their argument but he couldn’t have. “For what?”
“For making ye weak.”
“He doesn’t—”
“Aye, he does. It’s nae a criticism. Family does that. They make ye stay when ye should go, make ye go when ye would stay. Most dinnae even notice, they just accept the burden.”
But she noticed and resented it. That was the implication. Tristan was four when they’d lost their father, younger still when their mother died. Would she have done things differently if she hadn’t needed to look after him? Would she have led a different life?
“I love my brother.”
“I dinnae say otherwise.”
Hadn’t he?
“If ye dinnae love him, they couldnae use him against ye. Ye’d wash yer hands of his sulking and his debts and leave him to fend for himself.”
Would that she could. Would that she could deem Tristan a man, free to make his own choices and suffer his own consequences, and wash her hands of all of it. “If he were your brother, what would you do?”
“Whatever I had to.”
***
When they stopped that night, Ewan took the watch alone. By the light of the campfire he took the letter from his sporran. He ran his thumb against the worn creases. He didn’t need to look at it to know what it said—he’d read it a hundred times since Morag first forced him.
Please help us. I know you do not care for this place or its people, but we desperately need you.
Broch Murdo had fallen into disrepair. The surrounding lands had become lawless. The cave-riddled stretches of beach below the cliffs had been taken over by smugglers. Farmers and tradesmen had all but abandoned the region. The letter begged him, as lord, to claim his title and make Broch Murdo fit for decent people to live in again.
It had never been fit for decent people.
Ewan blamed his father for the events of twenty-five years ago, but he had plenty of blame left to spare for the bystanders. They had looked the other way while Hugh MacMurdo destroyed everything Ewan loved, and now they were begging him for help. There had been no help for his mother. No help for a terrified six-year-old boy.
The crack of a branch pulled him back to the present.
Ewan cursed as he turned, a rough-looking man appearing on the edge of the firelight. He was sizing the stranger up and liking his chances even with his wound still recovering, when two more came from the shadows to his left. One had a gun pointed at Angus, forcing the old Highlander and Tristan to walk in front of him.
The other held a knife to Deidre’s throat. She looked terrified. There were tears streaming down her cheeks and she was trembling.
“Take yer hands off of her.”
The man smirked at Ewan. He let his free hand roam, groping her while she squirmed under the knife. “She an’ I are gonna be real good friends, and ain’t nothin’ ye can do about it, guv.”
Ewan vowed to kill that man very slowly.
“Please, sir,” Tristan begged. “My sister is a kind soul. Gentle and sheltered. Please don’t hurt her.”
Gentle and . . . Ewan realized what Tristan was up to. These men weren’t Alastair’s—they must have come across them by chance. They would assume Deidre was just another terrified female. Ewan wasn’t entirely certain she wasn’t. If her fear was a ruse, it was extremely well crafted.
“Curtis. Round up their horses and anything that looks valuable.” The man with the knife gestured to Ewan. “Ye, over there with the other two.”
“Why do I gotta do all the heavy work?” the first gunman asked.
“’Cuz I said so. Just bleedin’ do it, Curtis.”
Curtis disappeared in the direction of the horses, leaving them three men—well, two and Tristan, whose usefulness was still untested—against one gunman and one man armed with a knife. If that knife weren’t resting against Deidre’s throat, he and Angus could have resolved the situation in short order.
“No trouble from you three.” The leader followed Ewan’s thoughts, dragging the flat of the blade down Deidre’s cheek. “Or this one won’t be quite so pretty anymore.”
Ewan watched the knife’s path, noticing the cheek it traveled down was now dry. He raised his eyes to Deidre’s. She rolled hers impatiently, and promptly let her body go slack.
“What in the—”
The highwayman moved to catch her, changing his hold on the knife to a less menacing one. Deidre twisted in his grip and slammed her forehead into his nose. The stream of cursing from both parties caused the remaining gunman to turn his attention to them. Being the closest, Angus made quick work of disarming him.
“Ye fucking bi—”
A well-placed knee from Deidre silenced the ringleader, sending him to the ground in a heap.
“Novices,” she said with a shake of her head. She picked up the knife. “Tristan?”
“Yeah, yeah,” the lad said as he headed off into the dark after the third man.
The blood from the highwayman’s broken nose was smeared across Deidre’s brow like some savage tribesman. Ewan moved to wipe it away. “Deidre—”
She held up a hand, silencing him. Her head tilted to the side as she listened for something. A surprised shout, followed by a crash, came from the direction Curtis and Tristan had disappeared to. Deidre called into the trees in a language Ewan didn’t recognize.
More words he didn’t understand called back with Tristan’s petulant inflections.
Her posture relaxed. “Yes?”
He once again found himself at a loss for words.
Angus had no such trouble. He dragged his captive over, shoving him down next to his compatriot. “Nae bad, lass.”
She shrugged. “These fools have no idea how to run an operation.”
Tristan reappeared, gun trained on Curtis, who now sported a rising knot on his forehead. “Honestly. What do you reckon, farmers? Fisherman? They’re not proper criminals, that’s for certain.”
Curtis took offense. “We ain’t farmers. We’ve got a proper outfit, and when the boss finds out—”
“Curtis. Shut yer goddamn mouth,” the man on the ground growled.
“When yer boss finds out what?” Ewan demanded. He’d had about enough of being snuck up on and robbed. If there was another fight coming, he’d prefer to take it head on.
“Stuff it, Curtis, or I’ll fu—” The man on the ground gasped from the impact of Angus’s boot.
Deidre advanced on Curtis with a gentle smile and sultry sway of her hips.
Ewan almost felt bad for him. Almost.
“I don’t want to hurt you, Curtis.” She patted him gently on the shoulder. “You seem much nicer than your friend, and smarter. So why don’t you just tell us who you work for?”
Curtis clearly didn’t like pain and he wasn’t overly fond of the man on the ground, either. His decision didn’t take long. “I’m sure he’ll go easy on ye. He’s got a soft spot for pretty lasses.”
Who doesn’t, Ewan thought.
“I believe you,” she told Curtis. “Who is he?”
“Lord Broch Murdo.”
The air left Ewan’s lungs. His father. Had the letter been a lie? A trick? His father was still alive?
Deidre frowned at her hostage. “Curtis, why would you lie to me?”
Curtis sputtered. “I dinnae lie.”
Tristan leaned in. “Lords don’t run petty thieving gangs, Curtis.”
“He is a lord! Lives up at Castle Broch Murdo and everything!”
Angus joined the group surrounding Curtis. He drew a knife and rested the tip against the man’s chest with quiet menace. “Think hard, lad. Does he look like my big friend over there?”
Curtis turned to Ewan, blinking. “No. His hair’s dark and he’s shorter.”
Breath returned. That was not Ewan’s father. So who in the bloody hell was impersonating the Earl of Broch Murdo—impersonating Ewan apparently. There was really only one way to find out.
“Pack up and bring them. We’re going to the castle.”