The Sinclair Jewels Books One-Three: A Scottish Medieval Romance Series Bundle Page 5

  Chapter Five

  Pearl’s first indication something was wrong was the piercing whistle from the Hound. Whatever had caused the scar around his neck—and presumably was the reason he didn’t speak—hadn’t harmed his ability to make a startling, loud noise. When it rang out, sharp and clear, Pearl flinched so suddenly she almost fell off her horse.

  Of course, she’d been distracted.

  The last two days had been…well, miserable. When she’d originally left home, she’d been able to distract herself from thoughts of her decision by focusing on the strange feelings the Hound evoked in her. She couldn’t help but remember her sisters’ words that day on the hillside, about the way a man could make a woman feel.

  Pearl didn’t feel that way about her father’s mysterious guard, oh no. But…

  But he certainly was intriguing, wasn’t he? And handsome, in that roguish way. His hair was shorter than some of the other warriors, but ragged, as if he cared naught for his appearance, and hacked at it with a knife. But the length mattered not, because it was the color which was so enticing. When dirty or damp from rain, it was dark, but when the sun hit it, the Hound’s hair was the most beautiful shade of auburn. As red as the leaves in autumn. His eyes were a beautiful blue, and his arms…

  Well, Pearl had lied to her sisters that afternoon on the hill. She had imagined a man’s arms around her, imagined touching them, caressing his shoulders. He was so much larger than most men, and she’d been fascinated for some time.

  Aye, he was fascinating enough that it was easy to allow her mind to linger on him—to think about how his hands had felt against her wrist when he’d disarmed her before dinner, or the way his slight smile had made her feel, or how satisfying it had been to work beside him.

  Aye, that was the only reason she’d been thinking so much of him, surely. A distraction.

  But when he’d closed himself off from her, hadn’t even allowed her to talk to—at?—him, everything changed. He’d indicated he didn’t mind her chattering, and she’d believed him. But his actions of the last two days contradicted that, and without the thoughts of him to occupy her mind, Pearl was left to wallow in her own imagination about what the future might hold.

  And it hadn’t been nice.

  The closer they got to the Lowlands, the more worried she became that she’d made the wrong choice. Mayhap she should return home and tell Da she’d marry the devil, Laird Sutherland. At least in the Highlands, she’d have the chance to occasionally see her father and her sisters again, if her husband was kind. Aye, she’d have to leave home, but mayhap it wouldn’t be so bad. As a nun, she’d likely never see her loved ones again.

  She found herself staring at the reins in her hands, thinking, I miss Da!

  He hadn’t even come out to tell her goodbye!

  The tears had just begun to prick at the back of her eyes when the Hound’s whistle made her jump in confusion. She jerked her head up, wondering at the noise…and that’s when all hell broke loose.

  As her father’s men closed around her, the brush on either side of the road exploded with terrifying-looking men, all with wild hair and filthy clothes, waving blades and screaming battle cries.

  The Sinclair warriors had time to draw their swords, and probably could’ve fought off the group of untrained, disorganized bandits. But just when Pearl managed to take another breath, assuring herself all would be well, a rumble caused her to twist in her saddle.

  A half dozen horses galloped down the steep hill on their right, and the warriors atop them carried weapons as if they knew what to do with them.

  Pearl’s scream tore through the horrifying sounds of the battle around her, and she heard Fergus’s curse when he saw the new threat.

  Time seemed to slow as William turned in his saddle to aim his arrows at the horsemen, but the bandits had their own bowmen. Arrows arced out of the rocks ahead, targeting her guards. Instinctively, Pearl ducked, but one of the white-feathered harbingers of death slammed into Mungo’s neck.

  He made a gurgling noise and slid sideways into the fray.

  Eyes wide, Pearl found the Hound in the melee. He was on the opposite side of the road from the approaching horsemen, and was fully occupied with the attackers around him. He slashed and chopped as his panicked mare pranced, intent on knocking away the blades and causing blood to bloom. It was difficult to parry from that position, but he’d pulled the knife from his boot and moved in a strangely sensual dance. A rare sunbeam caught his skin and made him seem to glow, vicious and lovely all at once.

  Until, that is, he’d apparently cleared enough of a space around him to look up and meet her eyes.

  He didn’t speak, but the anger and fear in them were enough for Pearl to understand. The command slammed into her as sure as if he’d shouted it.

  Run!

  Her momentary shock wore off only to be replaced by terror. Just as the horsemen reached the road to her right, she kicked her mare into motion with a screamed, “Hah!”

  The animal surged into a gallop, but hadn’t taken more than two strides when it faltered. An arrow seemed to sprout from its shoulder, then another as it stumbled. She kicked it again, fear nearly consuming her mind, desperate to escape, but the animal’s forward motion became a sort of fall.

  From behind her, she heard Fergus yell, “Go! Take her, Hound!”

  Less than a heartbeat later, she was sailing through the air. Sure, the horse had thrown her, Pearl braced for the impact with the ground and prepared herself to climb to her feet and begin to run.

  But the expected fall never happened. Instead, Pearl’s breath whooshed out of her has she slammed facedown across a horse’s withers…and a man’s powerful thighs.

  Thinking only of those bandits on horseback, Pearl began to thrash. She didn’t know who these men were, but they’d worn no colors, and weren’t trained as clan warriors would be. They’d likely been after ransom, or whatever wealth her party had carried. Or…worse.

  At that thought, Pearl shook off her stunned reaction and began to struggle. She kicked and screamed, determined to throw herself off the already-galloping horse. Aught would be better than what awaited her at the hands of these bandits!

  Movement to one side drew her attention. A large hand slid down a larger leg and slipped a knife into a boot?

  I recognize that knife.

  As the moment of clarity hit, a hand rested across her back, the way it might if a man was trying to balance a sword and a struggling piece of baggage.

  The Hound.

  Pearl sucked in a breath and twisted her body to look straight up. Yes! That was the Hound’s chin, the Hound’s broad shoulders. And when something slammed into his back, forcing him forward, he made no sound.

  She forced herself to go limp, to allow him to focus on their flight. Fergus’s cry made sense now. The Hound, in his loyalty, had abandoned the fight and his men, to get her to safety.

  Pearl closed her eyes and began to say prayers for their flight and the safety of Fergus and William. Mungo was gone, so she prayed for his soul as well, and prayed the other two guards could somehow fight off their attackers.

  As the miles pounded beneath the horse’s hooves, Pearl admitted the inevitable, and began to pray for Fergus and William’s souls as well. They’d died so she could be safe. It was their mission, and they’d completed it honorably, but she still cried for them.

  It seemed like forever before she heard the sound of a sword being sheathed, and her rescuer pulled her upright with surprising gentleness. He didn’t slow the horse, but took a long look at her tear-streaked cheeks and shook his head slightly.

  For once, she didn’t know what he’d meant. He didn’t think she should cry for William, Fergus, and Mungo?

  When he pressed her face against his shoulder, she went willingly, wrapping her arms around his middle and allowing her legs to drape over one of his thighs. It was an indecent position, but the comfort was undeniable.

  They rode on.

  Gr
egor only halted when he sensed the horse was nearing exhaustion. The animal had traveled all day, the last two hours at a gallop with two riders. Besides, there’d been no pursuit. He’d backtracked a few times, to make sure they were alone. They passed through one village, and he slowed long enough to shout for help for the wounded men they’d left behind, but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t help but wonder if the night they’d spent in that village had led to gossip about their party, which had made the bandits greedy.

  Naught traveled faster than gossip in the Highlands, and one of the Sinclair Jewels would be a valuable prize.

  Swallowing down his guilt at the others’ deaths, Gregor reminded himself he’d only abandoned them because of their orders. They would each give their lives to keep Duncan Sinclair’s daughter alive, and William, Fergus, and Mungo probably had. It was just luck Gregor hadn’t been wounded and had been close enough to grab her and run when he saw her horse falter.

  And dear God in heaven, he didn’t think he’d ever forget the suffocating terror which clawed its way up his throat at the realization she was in such danger.

  It was worse than being hanged.

  He’d come so close to failing the Sinclair. Worse than that, he’d come so close to losing Pearl.

  His arm tightened briefly around her, the movement causing him to wince. If he wasn’t mistaken, an arrow had taken a chunk out of his upper left shoulder. It had stopped bleeding a while ago, but he’d need to tend to it after he got her settled.

  He’d chosen a secluded glen beside a small stream. There was some evidence of previous camps but they should be safe.

  He slid down from the saddle, then reached up for her, hiding his reaction to the stab of pain in his shoulder when he moved it. She didn’t notice, for which he was grateful, and allowed herself to be gently lowered to the ground.

  As she slid down his body, the press of her curves against his hardness caused his stomach to tighten with desire. It was nigh impossible to resist pushing her against the shoulder of the horse, lowering his lips to hers, and showing her just how damn happy he was they were both still alive.

  But he focused on his breathing and reminded himself who she was. Swallowing, he was able to step away.

  That was when he saw her expression. She looked drained. As if the day had stolen something from her. He cursed himself for thinking about his baser instincts when she was in such a condition.

  Leaving her beside the exhausted mare, he hurried to start a fire, and soon had a large blaze going. The chance they might be seen was worth it, if it made her feel better. He had to lead her by the hand to come sit beside the fire, and that was worrying. Keeping an eye on her, he saw to the horse and made sure the animal was unharmed after their hard ride. Then he sunk down beside Pearl.

  Using only his right hand, he pulled provisions from the bag he’d strapped beside his saddle. But as he chewed the dry bannock, he watched her. Her hands began to shake, and she stared into the flames. Was she reliving the danger?

  Oh God, she’d begun to cry. He felt helpless. She should be sitting on a fine chair within a keep, but instead, she dirtied herself by sitting on the ground beside him.

  And the more she cried, the more useless he felt. Finally, he reached out and touched her arm. It was all the encouragement she’d needed, for she threw herself into his arms.

  He shifted position so he could wrap his right arm around her, to keep her hands away from his wound.

  “Poor Mungo!” she sobbed. “He was so loyal and true and—and—and he made delicious stews and—God’s breath, he’s dead! They’re all dead!” She sobbed against his chest. “I didnae want this! I didnae want to leave and…and…”

  As she hiccupped against his chest, his heart ached for her. She was so pure and innocent, to see this kind of violence…their deaths, if they were all truly dead, were not her fault. But she’d been through so much in the last sennight, it was no wonder she hadn’t broken down before.

  His arm tightened around her, and she burrowed closer to him, her fingers digging into his side in desperation. He liked that she felt safe enough with him to seek comfort. In fact, despite her desperate tears, he felt himself hardening under his plaid.

  Shaming himself for his lustful thoughts wasn’t helping.

  “I should have stayed at home! Da was right! I donae want to be a nun.”

  He exhaled sharply, and she understood. Leaning away from him, her tearful eyes peered up at him.

  “I donae, truthfully! I only wanted to be allowed to continue working for my people, an’ I thought taking vows would allow me to do that forever. But I miss my father and my sisters. I miss my home!” Her breath caught on a sob, but she made herself explain, her hands dragging at his shirt now. “I want to stay a Sinclair, I want to stay in the Highlands where I belong. I donae belong here—”

  He did the only thing he could think to do to calm her; he lowered his mouth to hers.

  The kiss was over quickly, and he pulled back as soon as he realized what he was doing.

  But he didn’t go far.

  No. His lips hovered just over hers, close enough to feel her breath against his skin, close enough to lose himself in the way the firelight flickered in her wide eyes. He saw shock there, and confusion, and he cursed himself for presuming to touch her.

  But when he would untangle himself and stand, putting distance between them…her fingers tightened against his chest just briefly before she loosened her hold on him and lifted her hands to his face.

  He stilled, afraid to move, afraid to breathe.

  The soft tips of her fingers traced his jaw, then his cheeks. He held his breath, not daring to hope she might want to touch him the way he ached to touch her.

  When her feather-light caress reached his temples, she curled her fingers through his hair, tugging slightly…

  And pulled his face down on hers.

  He exhaled in surrender. Those lips, the ones he’d mourned having never been kissed, were soft and supple under his. When she tightened her grip on his hair, he was afraid he’d gone too far…but then she moaned softly, and he was lost.

  Parting his lips, he showed her how to do the same, then ran his tongue across hers. She gasped at the sensation. When her small tongue flicked over his lips, he caught it and showed her how to deepen the kiss.

  Without having to speak, Pearl understood what he was asking for, what he was giving her. She opened completely under his touch, and Gregor felt himself soaring to heights he’d never expected.

  And despite his dreams, despite his fantasies about the lass in his arms, he would’ve been content to go no further than the salty-sweet taste of her kiss. But she wasn’t satisfied. With another soft sound of need, she snaked her arms around his neck, obviously intent on pulling him even closer.

  Her hand knocked against his wound, and he stiffened, sucking in air sharply.

  She pulled back abruptly, her eyes clear despite the passion and pain he was sure clouded his.

  “What is it? Are ye hurt?”

  Using her position in his lap, and her arms around his neck, she pulled him down until she could see his bloodied shoulder.

  “Oh, Hound! I’m so sorry!”

  She tugged at the material of his shirt. That sensation, along with the knowledge she’d called him “Hound,” was as good as a bucket of icy water dumped over his head.

  “This happened as we—” She swallowed. “As we were running? From those men? I saw ye jerk, but I didnae realize…”

  For a moment, he was afraid she’d sink back into the same despair from earlier. But he’d forgotten this was Pearl. She lived to help people.

  “Stay like this,” she commanded, pulling out the small knife from his boot. “I’ll have to cut yer sleeve, but ’twill be useful.”

  She was muttering to herself again, and Gregor found it oddly comforting. Endearing, at least.

  He stretched out beside the fire so she’d have room to work, and stayed still as she used his sleeve to
clean the wound, moving between the fire and the stream countless times. The cold water numbed his shoulder, which was good, because then she began to poke and prod it.

  “The bleeding has stopped, an’ it looks superficial. The arrow caught the skin on the outside of yer shoulder and sliced it open. Ye’ll have a notable scar, but I doubt that will bother ye.”

  When he was still reeling from her teasing tone, she brushed his hair aside and traced the scar under his right ear. Years ago, the infection which had set into the deep abrasions left by the rope had ensured he’d always carry a reminder of his past sins. That, and a voice which never seemed to work quite right.

  But he’d never had anyone tease him about it.

  “The cleaning should be sufficient. I’ll take a torch to look for knitbone,” she said. “I’m sure I saw some earlier. I’ll make a poultice, then stitch the wound…”

  The injury seemed to distract her from her earlier grief, in even a way his kiss hadn’t. She might not have been the clan’s best healer, but she had a wonderful manner, teasing and poking her patient until Gregor was almost ready to smile.

  As she worked, he forced himself to relax, to just experience her touch. It was hard to enjoy it, especially after she pulled her threads from her pouch to stitch his skin, but it was…well, it was nice. He felt guilt for reveling in her light brushes, knowing someone like him shouldn’t be touching her at all.

  But he’d kissed her. Compared to that, allowing himself to enjoy her healing touch shouldn’t have made him feel guilty. His father, the thief, used to have a saying. Leif as hanged for a sheep as a lamb.

  The moment his lips had touched hers, Gregor had betrayed the trust Duncan Sinclair had showed in him. His father’s saying seemed to urge him to take pleasure where he could, and damn the consequences.

  Of course, that was before Gregor had actually been hanged for stealing sheep.

  Pearl chattered constantly while she worked, and it was nice to have that to focus on, rather than his guilt or the pain. When she was finished, she patted the skin of his arm.