The Highlander's Warrior Bride (4 page)

Julianna bit her lip. He was even more impressive than she’d imagined. Her belly twisted and she leaned against the door jamb to keep herself upright.

Candlelight made his hair shine golden-red, and beads of sweat slicked his locks to his skin. Fever. Nay. Please God. But it was obvious, his body was raging with fever.

A fever she’d caused.

What if he died? What would she do? She shook her head. That wouldn’t happen. Couldn’t happen. He was young, strong and had the will to live. More will than anyone she’d ever known. He would be fine. He had to be, because she couldn’t live without him. Guilt riddled Julianna. It was true, she couldn’t live without him—even if she had no other choice. She pushed into the room and moved toward the bed. Beads of perspiration lined Ronan’s brow and upper lip, and his chest was slick with fever. He murmured, and his legs and arms shifted for a moment before he went still again. Too still. Julianna focused on his chest to make sure he breathed.

Wanting to ease his discomfort, she glanced around for something, anything. A basin of water and a linen square sat on his bedside table. She dipped the cloth in the cool water and pressed it to his forehead and then to his cheeks wiping away the droplets of sweat that beaded there. Rinsing the linen, she repeated the action, though this time pressed it to his parched lips, letting a few drops dip into his mouth.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “If I’d the ability to see the future, I’d not have thrown the dagger.”

Julianna continued to bathe him in cool water, pressing the cloth to his neck, his shoulders. She dared not go lower, although her eyes roved over the massive expanse of muscle displayed before her. Ronan was like one of the ancient Gods come to life. Power exuded from every inch. She found herself biting her lip, unable to pull her gaze away from the dips and ridges of his tight abdomen.

“Ye must be cold,” she mumbled and pulled the coverlet up to his neck. Really an effort to hide his
bare flesh from herself.

Ronan thrust the blanket back down—this time even further. The coverlet lay haphazardly against his hips. His chest hair tapered to a light crisp li
ne that disappeared beneath the dreaded blanket—teasing her, tempting her to pull it further down and see if he was…

Oh, Saints!
Was she really wondering if he was nude?

He couldn’t be. Wouldn’t be.

Save…a sick man never lay in bed with his plaid. Nay, someone would have seen that braies were at least put on to cover his parts.

Wouldn’t they?

Julianna let out a grunt of disgust and tossed the linen square into the basin. Water splashed from the bowl, landing in droplets on the table and floor. She glared at them but didn’t bother to wipe them up. Instead she stalked—well as much of a stalk as she could muster in her present state—to the window and pulled open a shutter to stare down at the bailey below. A cold gust of air stunned her for a moment.

Warriors trained, servants worked. All looked normal.
But Ronan was laid up in bed with a fever. Wasn’t anyone the least bit worried about him? Anger filled her. She wanted to hit something. Didn’t anyone care? Tears stung her eyes. She wasn’t mad at everyone else, what could they do? They had to keep the castle protected.

The English wouldn’t stop coming at them because Ronan was injured. Laird Ross wouldn’t cease his scheming. If she was mad at anyone it was herself. She shouldn’t be here. In Ronan’s room. It was off limits. He was alive. Good. That’s what she wanted to know. She prayed
the fever would dissipate. But, there was nothing more she could do. ’Twas time for her to get dressed and meet with Robert. They needed to devise a plan. She needed to apologize for her absence and for having injured one of his best men.

“Julianna…”

Julianna whirled around. There was no one else in the room besides her and Ronan.

Had he called her name? He seemed to be sleeping peacefully. Was he dreaming of her?

“Julianna…” he said again, and this time she watched his lips move to form her name. Never before had it sounded so sensual.

He shifted, then hissed when he jerked his injured
arm.

“Dinna move,” she said urgently, rushing to the bedside, and falling against it as a bout of dizziness took hold. She gripped the sheets and waited for the shakiness to subside. When it did, she stroked his arms, putting them back at his sides. “Ye dinna want to injure yourself further.”

Ronan opened his eyes. Red-rimmed, glassy and bloodshot. Filled with fever. His gaze connected with hers.

“I willna let him harm ye, lass,” he said. His voice was a harsh croak.

“Shh… We’re safe now. Sleep.”

He shook his head, then looked about the room as if demons were falling on him. “Nay. He’ll be back. I must protect ye.” Ronan gripped her arm tight and yanked her down so she draped over his chest, her face an inch away from his.

“We’re safe, ye dolt, now let go of me.” Julianna quelled the bit of haughtiness that edged her tone—the man was obviously not himself.

“
I’ll never let go,” he whispered. Ronan slid his hand up her arm, giving her more goose flesh than she already had. He gripped the back of her neck and tugged, closing the distance between them. His lips tenderly brushed hers.

What in all of heaven was he doing? She tried to pull back but he only held her tighter. Decadent, foreign sensations stirred within her.

Julianna sighed and kissed him back. Her first kiss.

Ronan’s lips were moist from the water she’d pressed there. Soft, full. Sparks of something wonderful fired inside her. She’d never dreamed that the touching of lips could be so wonderful.

But it was over all too quickly. Ronan gripped the sides of her face and forced her to look into his eyes. Were they more lucid than moments ago—or were hers more cloudy?

“Dinna go far, lass,”
Ronan said, then promptly fell asleep.

Chapter Four

“G
lad to have ye back with us. Took your sweet time.”

Ronan blinked to adjust his eyes to the light streaming through an open window. His head pou
nded, shoulder throbbed and he was in need of a good scrubbing, but otherwise, he felt strong.

Lifting up on
to the elbow of his uninjured arm, he saw Robert the Bruce standing at the base of his bed.

“My lord,” Ronan croaked, disturbed by the sound of his voice. “How long have I been in here?”

“A week.”

Damn. Seven days? How had that much time passed wit
hout him even being aware of it?

The Bruce grinned. “Lazy arse.”

Ronan chuckled. “I was due a break, nay?”

“Nay. But ’twas not your choosing.”

“Julianna,” Ronan said, the memory of her throwing the dagger coming back.

“A
ye?”

“Where is she?”

Robert went to the window and looked out. “I’ve ordered a bath to be brought up. The healer doesna think ye should eat much food yet, so only a porridge and ale is set on the table for ye. Once ye’ve garnered your strength a hearty meal is in your future.”

“And where is Julianna?” Ronan was irritated with how his future king avoided the question.

“She is not your concern.” The man’s voice was placid, giving away nothing.

Ronan sat up all the way, pleased when dizziness did not accompany the sudden move. “Ye didna punish her did ye?”

The Bruce whipped around, a fierce glower covering his features. “I said she was none of your concern. Ye brought her back; that was your task. Now ye must see to my army.”

“What of Ross?”

“Still running.”

“I w
ill go after him.”

“Ye have a duty here.”

The man was stubborn as a mule. Not willing to budge no matter how hard his arse was pushed. How could he make him see reason? “Aye. But I also have a duty to ye, my lord. And the Ross is a danger to ye, to Scotland. I want to take him out of the equation.”

Bruce grunted. “We’ll discuss
it later. Wallace needs ye down in the barracks. Ye’ve had an onslaught of new recruits. Seems the threat of the English coming this spring with a massive army has finally reached more ears. Despite it being winter, men are coming in droves.”

“
We had best make sure none of them are spies.”

“Daniel and Wallace have been working on that. But they need your help. When ye’ve cleaned up and eaten,
go see Wallace.”

Ronan nodded. “Aye, my lord.” He’d had a chance to recover from his fever, but this was war and harsh times
, which did not allow lenience for a man of his importance.

Robert
left the room.

With a deep sigh, Ronan tossed back the coverlet and stood, stretching his limbs and enjoying the chilled air on his nude body.
Despite Ronan having lain abed for several days, his legs weren’t as shaky as he’d thought they’d be.

A flash of Julianna’s face, her lips
, came to mind but he thrust them aside. Bruce was right, she was not his concern. The last thing he should be thinking about was her.

But the thought wouldn’t leave. If anything, it only grew. Real. Raw. Potent. A soft brush of her plump lips. Her breath on his face. The crush of her plush breasts against his chest.

A dream, nothing more. He’d been in a fevered state for days, no doubt his imagination acted out every wicked desire he had—and Julianna was definitely one of them.

However much he desired her, Julianna was a guilty pleasure he’d never indulge in. Not only was marriage not in the cards, but Robert the Bruce held a special fondness for her. Not in a romantic sort of way, more like a protective…older brother? Come to think of it, Robert treated Julianna a lot like Ronan treated his younger sister Heather—except Ronan would never take advice from Heather. She was a free spirit, and still young. But even if she were older, Ronan doubted he’d take her guidance on strategy. Hell, she’d have him taking on the entire English army by himself.

Ronan rolled his eyes. Robert couldn’t be Julianna’s brother. Or could he? But if he was, wouldn’t everyone know? It didn’t make sense to keep something like that a secret. Wouldn’t it put Julianna in more danger? Would the Bruce put her at risk? And for his own personal gain?

Servants knocked on the door pulling him away from his thoughts. What did he care? It was none of his business anyway. His aching bones craved the warmth of the water, and he watched as the servants quickly placed the tub near the fire and filled it with buckets of steaming water. As much as Ronan wanted to sink into the tub’s depths and linger for hours, he hurried through his ablutions, scrubbing every inch of sickness from his limbs. He climbed from the tub, forcing himself not to shiver, and dried off. On a chest he found his freshly cleaned plaid and a folded linen shirt.

Ronan hurried to dress, and gritted his teeth, as he struggled into his shirt. He strapped his claymore to his back, and choked down the cold porridge, trying not to gag at the cold, sloppy texture.

The throbbing in his shoulder subsided with a swig of whisky.

“Ugh,” he growled and shoved the bowl aside. He loathed porridge. Always had.

Washing down the last of the
ale, he stomped toward the door, hoping the rest of his day went better than the beginning.

Ronan hoped to see Julianna. But she was nowhere to be found. He hid his disappointment as he made his way out of the castle and into the barracks. He’d even made a detour through the kitchens hoping to catch her kneading bread—but she wasn’t there. He had hoped to see her fingers sinking deep in the dough and maneuvering it with precision. Och,   the vision of Julianna and the dough made his cock hard. God’s teeth, had the fever addled his brain? He shouldn’t be searching her out. She was off limits—and more trouble than he needed. So, why he was looking for her? He knew why, just didn’t want to admit it.

The blast of cold air whipped against his face, and brought some sense back to his brain, taming the wild beast that threatened to run rampant around the castle grounds until he found her.

Something didn’t feel right. It wasn’t only the Bruce’s refusal to tell him where Julianna was, but something in the air. He couldn’t quite explain it, didn’t really understand it, except to say something felt off.

“Ronan! Ye’re awake!” William Wallace’s roar from atop the gate tower rescued him from his thoughts.

He raised his hand and waved. “I was never asleep,” he called back.

Wallace laughed. “Always a warrior.”

“Never a bairn,”
Ronan answered with a chuckle. He sauntered across the courtyard nodding to other warriors as he went. Some wished him well, others jeered at him for having lost consciousness over such a trivial wound. But the results were the same, the people at Eilean Donan, the men within the Bruce’s forces, respected him.

Respect was something Ronan had wanted for as long as he could remember. Not that his home life wasn’t full of love, friendship—and respec
t. But it was a different kind. Ronan being the third son, no one expected him to grow up to be a leader. He was taught to fight with a sword, how to write his name and do arithmetic, but no one cared how he fared. Or at least that was how it appeared. His mother thought he might like to be a priest, and his father never told him otherwise. They’d died, a terrible tragedy, when he was just a boy.

From a young age, he’d looked up to his oldest brother Magnus
. Not only as head of the clan, and as his leader, but as an example to follow. Magnus was a man others compared themselves too. A true hero if there ever was one. Ronan often emulated what his brother did—as did his brother Blane, who was a few years older than himself.

Ronan wanted more. He didn’t want to be a priest. Didn’t want to stand in the shadow of his brothers. He wanted to make a name for himself. And that’s what he did. He pushed himself hard to excel as a warrior, and Magnus took notice. In return Magnus had heaped duties on him within their clan’s army, and Ronan couldn’t have been happier. But when William Wallace saw him in battle and offered him a place in the future King of Scotland’s army, it was an opportunity Ronan could not pass up. And he was glad he took the proposition.

He was no longer in his older brothers’ shadows. Here, he was a leader of men. The sky was the limit, and he was reaching for it.

Ronan climbed the stairs
to the battlements where Wallace waited. A bit winded, and slightly dizzy, he leaned a hip against the stones and stared out over the loch and land, as he tried to hide the fact that he was catching his bearings. A sennight in bed with fever had left him slightly weak, but he didn’t want the men to see that. And his shoulder hurt something fierce.

“See anything?” Ronan asked.

“I see a lot of things.”

“Anything that raises alarm?” Ronan didn’t bother to hide the sarcasm from his voice.

Wallace frowned. “Nay.”

“Ross is still running.”

“Aye.”

He glared over the expanse of pure Highland wilderness. They were surrounded by beautiful waters—deceiving waters. The temperature was frigid, and if
one were to slip a toe into its depths, that toe may not last long.

Snow dusted parts of the grounds, larger clumps in some areas, a
nd only grass in others. The fields lay fallow and covered in white. He’d not seen the grounds in spring and summer, and actually looked forward to the beauty of nature coming alive.

If he were Ross, he’d probably
go in search of warmth. They’d been camped out in the dead of winter for weeks.

But Ross’ castle was days away. He wouldn’t go all the
way back there. Not if he planned to retaliate. Ross might be a bastard and a traitor, but he wasn’t a full on idiot. The man had a plan. He would want his revenge. Ronan took out two-thirds of his army, and Julianna escaped. That was a huge blow to his ego. He had to be seeing red. So what in the devil was he up to? Where had he gone?

The closest stronghold was Urquhart. Lord Comyn wouldn’t house Ross—would he? Nay, he was holding the castle for the Bruce. But did he know Ross was a traitor? Oh hell. There were several small villages before Urquhart that Ross could invade.

“Has the Bruce warned the earls that Ross defected to the English?” Ronan asked.

Wallace raked a hand through his hair and blew out a breath. “Nay.”

“Why in the hell not?” Ronan had to rein in the next thing he wanted to say, else he be thrown in the stocks for a day or whipped until he was bloody. But for God’s sake, ’twas downright stupid not to warn anyone. Suicide. Did the Bruce have a death wish?

“I’ve advised him to do so, and he’s
waffling with the missives. Wants to make sure he gets his words right.”

“Why not just state the facts? ’Tis simple.”

Wallace shook his head. “The Bruce doesna tell me everything, ye know, but I have a feeling the earls are starting to…fuss.”

“Fuss?”

Wallace glanced at him with strained eyes. “Aye. The English King has put gold in front of them. Offered them titles and lands. ’Tis hard for a man to turn down such.”

“In the face of losing freedom? One’s own country?”

“Ye’re preaching to the wrong man, Ronan. I’m with ye. But I canna make the Bruce see reason. There is only one person who is ever able to get through to him.”

Silken, reddish-gold locks came to mind. “Julianna.”

“Aye.”

“Where is she?”

“Haven’t seen her.”

“Seen who?” Daniel Murray said from behind.

Ronan turned to see his cousin stepping onto the ramparts. He grasped Daniel’s arm in a firm shake. Daniel was another man he looked up to. He exuded strength, and power, and reminded him of his brother Blane. They both had dark hair, and dark eyes. Daniel’s mother was Ronan’s aunt—the sister of his father.

“Julianna.”

Daniel frowned. Ronan was full aware that his cousin did not approve of the woman. Had even caught Daniel questioning her. He had hoped that his cousin would get used to Julianna’s place within the Bruce’s camp. But he also understood how hard it was to trust someone new, especially if their worth couldn’t be gauged.