Highlander Most Wanted (The Montgomerys and Armstrongs #2)
Page 19“I would send word to my own father,” Brodie spoke up. “I would apprise him of the events so that he too may render aid to us. I will need to inform him of the man we lost, and he’ll likely send reinforcements along with food and goods.”
It was on the tip of Bowen’s tongue to refute that he needed anything from the Armstrongs, but he must remember now that the two clans were now allies, bonded by marriage.
Teague didn’t look any happier about it, but he too remained silent. He’d already humbled himself enough by asking that Brodie remain behind to help Bowen.
“I will stay on until support from Graeme arrives and we receive his directive. He’d not want me to leave you when you’re injured and in danger of another attack.”
Bowen nodded at his brother. Then he turned back to Brodie. “Your father, as well as Graeme, will likely send immediate word to the king. Such an upheaval will surely reach his ears, and he’ll not like the clans warring when he went to such lengths to end the fighting between the Montgomerys and Armstrongs. He’s determined to bring peace to the Highlands now that his truce with England has been reached.”
Brodie scowled. “As long as our king doesn’t interfere. His meddling has become a nuisance.”
It was obvious that Brodie still had not forgiven their king for ordering the marriage between Graeme and Eveline, even if the end result had achieved precisely what the king had wanted and the marriage had resulted in a happy union for both Graeme and Eveline.
Bowen couldn’t say he blamed him. He’d not liked the edict any more than the Armstrong clan had when it had first been rendered.
Brodie rose from his chair, swinging his leg over before pushing the chair back against the wall.
“ ’Tis time I seek my bed. Rest easy and heal, Bowen. There is still much to accomplish.”
Bowen nodded at Brodie. Teague offered his good night, and then the two brothers were left alone.
As soon as the door closed, Teague turned to Bowen, his brow wrinkled in consternation.
“What of Genevieve? Did you not confront her? What was her part in Eveline’s abduction?”
“I have not had the opportunity to discuss the matter with her,” Bowen said in a low voice.
It was a lie, and he had no love of deceiving his brother. But he knew if he told Teague the truth, the lass would be condemned in Teague’s eyes, and Bowen wasn’t ready to have judgment rendered on Genevieve. Not yet. Not when he had yet to discover why she would do such a thing.
He was still mulling over all that Brodie had related. If Brodie was to be believed, Genevieve had saved Bowen’s life. And she’d killed Patrick McHugh—a feat neither he nor his warriors had managed in the mayhem.
She was a perplexing puzzle, and one he had every intention of deciphering. He wanted time to do so before he made a rash and hasty decision on her fate. If he confided what he knew to Teague, Graeme would most assuredly find out, as would Brodie and the rest of the Armstrongs. They’d want to seek vengeance, and the idea of more pain being heaped on Genevieve turned his stomach.
“I thought you were going to seek her out,” Teague said, still not satisfied with Bowen’s words.
“Aye, and I did. I found her bathing in the river. I was set to discuss the matter, but the call to arms was sounded. I took Genevieve to the keep and ordered her to seek refuge within.”
“An order she clearly obeyed,” Teague said dryly.
“ ’Tis glad I am she didn’t. Mayhap I would not be alive if she had.”
Teague fell silent. Then he shifted in his chair, his lips pressed into a tight line. “Aye, if Brodie is to be believed, you indeed owe your life to the lass. If she killed Patrick McHugh, the Montgomerys and Armstrongs alike owe her a debt.”
Still, Bowen couldn’t help but think that he didn’t have the whole of the story, and, until he did, he refused to condemn her to the rest of his clan. Or Brodie’s.
Teague’s sharp gaze found Bowen. There was something akin to fear in his brother’s eyes, and Bowen’s brow furrowed as he stared back.
“How bad is it, really, Bowen?” Teague asked softly.
Perplexed, he answered, “What do you speak of?”
“Your wound. ’Tis the truth that my heart nearly stopped when we were chased down by the riders and told that the keep had been attacked and that you’d been injured. They knew nothing of your condition, and I feared to find you dead when I arrived.”
“ ’Tis naught but a scratch,” Bowen said.
Teague uttered a hmmmph. “A scratch that required extensive stitching, from what I can see. You scared me, Bowen. I’d not lose you. Especially not in a cause such as this. I’d rather lay waste to the entire clan and those who oppose us than have you struck down by a cowardly act.”
Bowen smiled. “Rest easy, brother. I’m harder to kill than that. It would seem the lass was determined that I not go down that day. Though, even if I had suffered a dagger in my back, ’tis just as likely I would have survived.”
“I’d rather not chance it if ’tis all the same to you.”
Bowen nodded wearily. “Aye, neither would I. ’Tis the truth this paltry cut pains me greatly, but I’ll not say anything lest I have another potion poured down my throat. I’ve been insensible for two days from that poison they keep feeding me.”
“I’ll leave you to rest,” Teague said, rising to his feet. “On the morrow, I’ll meet with Brodie to determine if more needs be done to ensure the safety of the keep. If it’s not too much trouble, perhaps you could remain abed and out of trouble.”
Bowen grinned and raised his arm to clasp his brother’s. “I’m glad you returned, even if I have no liking for the circumstance that prompted it.”
Teague grasped Bowen’s arm in his firm grip. “Well, don’t be surprised if Graeme himself makes an appearance after he’s heard all there is to hear.”
Bowen groaned. “God help us.”
Chapter 22
The next morning, Bowen slowly attempted to rise from his bed. Movement stretched the flesh sewn together, and he winced as he righted himself.
He pressed a hand to his chest, feeling the wound and testing to see how tender it was.
While he certainly wouldn’t be back on the battlefield this day, he could at least take himself from the bed before he became a permanent part of it.
He staggered to the washbasin and cleaned his face. What he needed was a good bath. He still smelled of sweat and blood. There was a layer of grime on him that only a good scrubbing would take away.
Throwing a tunic on over his head, he searched for a clean pair of leggings and decided not to bother with boots. He’d retrieve them after he’d washed.
Geoffrey was alone in the hall, and he stood at attention the moment Bowen stuck his head out.
Bowen shook his head. “Nay, I’m going to bathe.”
Geoffrey fell into step behind him and the two went down the stairs to find the hall empty, not yet alive with the day’s activities.
Bowen continued out the back of the keep, deciding that he’d make use of Genevieve’s stream.
The chill would certainly wash away the remnants of sleep, and his head needed a good clearing.
The brisk morning air hit him as soon as he stepped outside. He inhaled deeply, enjoying the lavender-painted sky that heralded the coming sun.
He’d nearly forgotten that Geoffrey was just a few steps behind when he topped the slight hill overlooking the stream. The sight that greeted him halted him in his tracks.
Genevieve was in the stream, her hair pulled over her shoulders as she rinsed the strands.
He turned sharply to Geoffrey. “Return to the keep at once.”
Geoffrey looked startled, but Bowen knew the moment he saw beyond to where Genevieve was bathing. The younger man’s cheeks reddened and he looked hastily away.
“Of course, Laird,” he mumbled, even as he backtracked as fast as he could.
Satisfied that Geoffrey could no longer see Genevieve, Bowen turned back to the river and pondered whether he should intrude yet again on her bath.
She was a lure too strong to ignore. He should be gallant and step quietly away, but instead he moved forward, his gaze never leaving her.
“It seems to be a habit, my finding you here,” he said mildly when he was within hearing distance.
Genevieve’s startled gaze shot up, and she immediately covered the upper portion of her body with her arms. The action made the soft mounds bulge upward, so that the pale globes were readily visible.
“What are you doing out of bed?” she demanded. “ ’Tis too soon for you to be moving about. What if you tear the stitches?”
“I have it on good authority that the person who set the stitches did an excellent job.”
She stared cautiously at him, her eyes dark and wounded. She expected the worst and, in a way, he couldn’t fault her for that. She’d only been given the worst thus far. Ian McHugh certainly hadn’t shown her any kindness, and, from what he’d witnessed, neither had most of the McHugh clan.
“ ’Tis freezing, lass. What are you doing in the river at this hour?”
“I needed to clean the dirt and blood from my hair,” she said in a low voice. “I would do so in privacy, if you please.”
“Well now. It would seem we have a bit of a problem, because I came here myself to wash.”
“Turn your back then, please, so that I may leave the water and dress, and then I’ll leave you to your privacy.”
He willed himself to regain control, but his body clearly had other ideas. His mind was filled with images fired by his imagination. And he had a rather vivid imagination where Genevieve was concerned.
Still, it made no sense that he had such a strong reaction to her. She bore the mark of another man—a man who’d made her his whore. There was much for her to answer to in regard to his clan, and yet he found himself making excuses for her. His mind sought a reasonable explanation for her actions, when there was nothing reasonable about her placing Eveline in such grievous danger.
Aye, she was all wrong for him, and yet he was drawn to her like a moth to flame.
“You can look now,” she said, annoyance still evident in her tone.
He swiveled around to see her perched on one of the boulders overlooking the water. She had a drying blanket wrapped fully around her, and he wondered if she’d bothered to dress or if she was unclothed underneath.
Her hair lay bedraggled over her shoulders, still wet from the washing and as yet uncombed. She looked like a nymph from the sea. A scarred nymph, with secrets swirling in her eyes.
Bowen moved toward the water’s edge, pulling his tunic over his head as he went. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Genevieve hastily look away. He’d planned to bathe in his leggings, but if she was going to afford him privacy, he’d fully strip and enjoy a good scrubbing.
When she started to move, the protest was out of his mouth before he could call it back.
“Nay,” he said. “Don’t go.”
She glanced back with a startled expression, which quickly became wary as she studied him.
“I would leave you to bathe, Laird. ’Tis not seemly for me to be present.”
“Aye, ’tis the truth—’tis probably not. But I would talk with you here, away from all the others.”
His hands paused before pushing down his leggings, and he looked in her direction. “Look away lest you be offended by my nudity.”
She nearly fell off the boulder, so hastily did she yank herself around. And yet, while he watched her as he removed the last of his clothing, she turned slightly to regard him over her shoulder.
He smiled, taking in the furtive glance. She looked shy, and he found it oddly endearing. Surely he would burn in hell for being so bold, all but inviting the lass to look at him. A better man would have walked away the moment he saw her bathing. But he wasn’t a better man, because he wanted nothing more than to spend a few moments with Genevieve, away from the prying eyes of others. Away from the judgment that awaited, and away from his duty not only to this new clan but to his own. Always his own.
He owed absolute loyalty to Graeme as laird of the Montgomery clan. He was Graeme’s representative, and he couldn’t fail to seek justice for wrongs done to his clan.
But who had ever stood up for Genevieve? Who had sought vengeance for all the wrongs done to her?
He couldn’t understand why the lass didn’t want her family to know she was alive, but then he could hardly understand the depths of all she’d endured. He understood pride. He understood it all too well. Every time he looked at her, he was struck by the unflagging and almost stoic pride with which she carried herself. Like it was all that she had left and she refused to be stripped of it.