Highland Brides 04 - Lion Heart (5 page)

Tomas waited for his companions to leave and then came from his hiding place among the trees.

They would go after the mounts first, he knew, and then ride after Elizabet.

He went quickly to Edmund’s body to see if he still lived and finding him dead, he smiled in satisfaction. His task would go all the easier now. The last thing he wished was for Edmund to witness what he must do next. Edmund was the only one Tomas might have had to worry about. The other two were stupid fools. If he told them the Scots idiot had sliced John’s throat, they would believe it. And if they didn’t, he would make it worth their while to keep their stupid mouths shut.

He hurried, then, to where John lay and saw that the milksop still breathed. He turned John’s head, searching for a wound, and found nothing but a graze at his temple. Damned woman was what he was! The man didn’t deserve to live.

He peered at John in disgust.

If Tomas allowed it, every cent of Margaret’s money would end in the bellies of her husband’s children, and Elizabet, his bastard daughter, would place her dowry in de Montgomerie’s purse. But he wasn’t going to allow it. And Elizabet’s purse would be an added reward for protecting Margaret’s interests.

He was certain Margaret had never intended for these two embarrassments to reach their destination. Every one of the old man’s children was a burden upon his stepsister’s coffers. But until now, he’d failed in every attempt to eliminate these two leeches, and he was growing vexed. Every time he’d thought himself at an advantage, Edmund had managed to foil him.

He peered back at Edmund’s body.

The fool would no longer trouble him. The Scotsman had seen to that well enough. His aim had been deadly and true. And now, thanks again to the Scot, he had witnesses who would claim the man had murdered John, as well.

It couldn’t be more perfect.

As for Elizabet… He glanced into the woods.

Her fate would be determined by the brigand who had stolen her. God’s truth, the Scotsman could keep her or kill her, it mattered not which, just so that she never returned.

And to make certain, Tomas intended to remain in Scotia long enough to make sure the slut’s daughter never returned. Her dowry was his now, every last jewel, every last coin. Her stupid bitch of a mother must have spread her legs for every man who had passed through Henry’s court.

Tomas had even had her once, and if he recalled aright, she had charged him double what she’d charged his friend. Apparently, she hadn’t liked him any more than her daughter seemed to, though she had been far too greedy to turn him away. Well, the joke was on her, because he was going to have his money back and then some!

His only regret was that he couldn’t return to Margaret the golden crucifix that Elizabet wore—the one he had so stupidly given her mother in an attempt to win her favors. More than that, he’d love to gift her with Elizabet’s unruly tongue on a platter as proof of her demise.

Elizabet was a termagant if ever Tomas had known one, stubborn and defiant every moment she breathed. His sister had developed a particular dislike for her. Tomas had, as well. She had treated him with the cool disdain with which her whore of a mother had treated him—but he didn’t have the least desire to bed Elizabet. God’s teeth, she was like to be no better than her mother was.

How dared she think herself too good for him? Her damned dowry was all he coveted.

As for the old man… He wouldn’t live forever, and though his seed had been fruitful and he had multiplied his heirs, neither were they invulnerable, not a one of them. One by one they would find their own demise, and in the end it would be Tomas and Margaret once more.

Just the two of them.

John stirred, moaning, and Tomas unsheathed his knife to be ready, anger surging through him.

No one would stand in his way.

The youth opened his eyes, looking dazed for an instant, and then comprehension seemed to dawn as he spied Tomas with the knife.

“Elizabet!” he rasped, and tried to rise.

Tomas slammed his head back on the ground. John’s eyes crossed at the force of the impact. With a hand at his forehead, Tomas held the youth down and smiled at him.

He waited until awareness returned to his expression.

“She’s dead,” he said with relish, and savored John’s reaction.

“Nay,” the boy croaked, horror entering his eyes. He swallowed, and Tomas watched the bob of his throat with great attention.

Tomas despised the way Elizabet seemed to coddle him at every turn, putting him before everyone, though the fool could not have led a buzzard to a bloody carcass.

It amazed him. The cretin didn’t appear afraid, though he damned well should have been.

But he couldn’t know Tomas’s intent.

“Ahh, Christ!” he sobbed. “Are ye certain, Tomas?”

So he loved her, the moron.

Too bad.

He might have been one who could understand and not condemn Tomas’s affections for Margaret. “Aye,” he replied with a keen sense of victory. “And so are you.”

And having said that, he sliced the blade across John’s throat as swiftly as the serpent strikes and then hurriedly cut the bulging leather pouch from his belt.

That done, he stepped away to await the others’ return.

He couldn’t be more pleased with the turn of events.

“I’
m going to scream!”

“Like ye havena already?”

She whacked him on the bare back for his flippant response. It stung like a whoreson’s mother, but Broc didn’t give her the satisfaction of yelping.

“I’m going to keep screaming until we’re found!” his twisting burden assured him.

“Och, lass,” he answered calmly, “My ears would thank ye not to.”

Her answering shriek nearly rendered him deaf.

He managed to ignore it, but his teeth hummed at the shrill sound. He was feeling generous. They were near their destination with no sign of her companions’ pursuit, so she could scream all she wanted to.

Seana’s abandoned home—the one she’d shared with her drunkard father—was hidden so deep within the woods and was so completely in union with its natural environment that he doubted anyone would discover them. It would be safe enough to keep her there until he had assessed the situation better.

She was lean—not so lean that he could see her bones, but he could damned well feel them as she squirmed over his shoulder and he thought maybe someone aught to feed her more. Her fists continued to pound his back in protest.

Getting desperate, she pressed her teeth into his shoulder, and Broc squeezed her leg—painfully, he knew.

“That wouldna be a verra good idea, lass,” he advised her, gripping her right thigh more firmly still.

He’d be damned if she was going to take a chunk out of him so easily.

“I don’t much care what you think is a good idea!” she countered, but she didn’t bite him, and he loosened his grip upon her leg as a reward. “Where are you taking me?” she demanded haughtily.

“Somewhere safe.”

“Safe! Hah! The only safe place is somewhere far from you!”

And then her mettle seemed to falter, because he heard her breath catch. “Oh, God—John!” she cried, and went suddenly limp over his shoulder and began to sob.

He was glad she had finally stopped battling him, but he felt guilt-stricken that she was worried for her brother.

“The worst he’ll suffer is a headache,” he reassured her.

Either he had swooned, or Broc had managed to hit him just right to knock him out. In either case,. Broc knew for certain the lad was still breathing when they left him. He’d reached down to feel his breath. His frantic sister had simply been too distraught to notice.

“I
saw
you fell him!”

“Aye, lass, you saw me hit him with the butt of my dagger.”

They reached Seana’s abandoned hovel, and he set her down in front of the door. It took her a moment to regain her footing.

“We’re here.”

“Wonderful!” she replied and Broc recognized both fear and anger in her tone. He admired her for standing up to him. She was nothing like her milksop brother. In fact, he decided she had more courage than most men.

Her brows collided and she seemed to be considering whether to believe him. “You hit him with the butt of your dagger?”

Broc nodded, watching her expression.

Much of her copper hair had worked itself free from her thick braid and fell in disarray about her face. He brushed it aside to reveal a pink nose, evidence of tears, and eyes so stark a green they seemed almost unreal. She had the look of a Highland lass about her—and attitude as well. She shrugged away from him.

“Ye have my word, he’s fine.”

Her eyes glazed with unshed tears.

“Och, dinna cry.” He reached out to wipe away her tears, unsettled to see them.

She slapped his hand away and averted her gaze.

Damn, but he was glad she had done that. He almost forgot himself—almost forgot she was a peevish English wench. Still he wanted to tell her not to worry, that he wouldn’t harm her, but his tongue was suddenly too thick to speak.

Already, in little more than a few months, the forest had begun to reclaim Seana’s hovel. Colin had forbidden his new bride to return to this place, where so much had happened to dispirit her.

He watched the wench from the corner of his eye as he worked the door free of the vines that had begun to tangle within the doorframe. Once the door was forced open, he gently pushed her within the cairn, but not before she managed to cast him a malevolent glare.

Broc really couldn’t blame her, but he would explain everything once they were safely within.

He followed her inside and closed the door behind them, casting the room into shadows, but, no matter, he knew his way around well enough not to trip over anything. In any case, the place was nearly empty now. It was dank and rotten-smelling and Broc grimaced at the grim reminder that Seana’s old man had lived the last of his life huddled in a cold, damp corner of the single-room dwelling.

He didn’t understand how Seana had lived here so long. He understood even less why her da hadn’t gotten off his lazy, drunken arse and built them a small but respectable hut somewhere in these woods instead of shacking up in the ruins of an old cairn.

But none of that was really any of his affair.

The old man was dead now, Seana was comfortable and deliriously happy with her new husband, and the cairn would make a good hiding place until Broc could best determine what to do with his feisty bit of baggage.

He pulled her further into the room. “You cannot keep me here!” she protested, jerking away from him as though his touch disgusted her.

He grasped her firmly, pulling her back. “Trust me when I tell you ’tis for your own good, lass.”

Not until he discovered who the bowman was did he intend to release her. He didn’t wish to have her death on his conscience now that he had chosen to intervene. Sassenach or not, she was a woman in need of his protection, and what sort of man would he be if he refused to give it?

His mother had needed him once long ago, and he’d failed her. He’d not throw away any opportunity to redeem himself by championing those who could not protect themselves.

He led the girl to one of two chairs in the room and sat her down at the table, then knelt in front of her to explain the situation as calmly as he was able.

Before he could open his mouth, she flew at him. He caught her hands before she could do any damage and jerked her down once more.

“Listen to me!” he demanded.

“This place smells like death!”

“Aye, it does,” Broc agreed. “Now,
listen
,” he commanded once more, trying to calm her.

“Someone will find us!” She sounded hopeful. And angry. “And when they do, you will regret ever having laid a hand upon me, Scot!”

“Nay.” He shook his head. “No one will find you here.” Even those who had known Seana lived here had not been able to find the place with precise directions. The dwelling was well hidden between cliffside and woodland.

As soon as he was able to do so he would get her some light. The place didn’t look quite so frightening with torches lit against the night.

“Aye, my men
will
find us!”

Not unless they chose to be found, Broc was certain.

“And if they cannot find me, my father will send more men to aid in the search! They
will
find me!”

It sounded to Broc as though she were trying to convince herself, but he wanted to tell her that there would be no need, if only she would shut up and listen. “They will search in vain,” he said instead, annoyed with her persistence.

“And my father’s cousin will be furious! He too will scour this land, and when he finds me, he’ll cut off your hands for daring to touch me!”

At least he was getting somewhere now.

“Who your cousin is?” he asked.

Maybe her cousin would aid them. If he could leave her here in Seana’s hovel, safe from the bowman, he could go and seek out her cousin on her behalf.

“What good will it do for me to tell you who he is? Will you set me free once you know? Or hold me for ransom?”