Heart of Shadows (Hearts of the Highlands Book 2), page 12
Adams tossed him a skeptical side-glance. “You believe passion is sinister? Does Miss Hetherington know that about you?”
“Why does it matter whether she does or does not?” Torin asked, doing his best to sound disinterested.
“Come now, Gray,” Adams chuckled. “’Tis plain in your eyes when you set them upon her. You are fond of her. There’s nothing to be ashamed of—”
“I’m not ashamed,” Torin disputed stiffly.
Damn it, that wasn’t the point he should be arguing.
“She is beautiful,” Adams pointed out as if Torin hadn’t noticed.
“So are a hundred other women,” Torin countered.
For some reason, his words made Adams smile as if he were privy to something no one else was. The older man nodded. “But a hundred other women do not fight and kill with a sword and still believe in peace.”
“She desires peace,” Torin corrected him, “for her family’s sake.”
“And what is wrong with loyalty to one’s family?” Adams asked him. “Are you not loyal to yours?”
“Of course I am,” Torin told him, turning away. “Let us ride. At this pace, we will never get there.” He didn’t wait for a reply and he didn’t see Adams’ wide grin as he rode away.
It didn’t take them much longer to arrive at the large glen dotted with sheep and thatched-roofed cottages. A group of people met them and led them to the stable first, promising that their horses would be well cared for.
“No one is to touch my horse,” Torin warned them, knowing their natural inclination was to steal. “She will chomp off the fingers of any who do, showing me who ignored my warning.” His eyes gleamed in the soft glow of a few lanterns. “If anyone thinks to take her, let me make myself perfectly clear. If there is anything that can cause me to toss everything to hell and make me take back what I say here today and kill whoever I need to kill, ’tis my horse.”
After they swore not to touch her, the villagers led them toward a large structure built of stone and timber.
“You have them suitably frightened,” Adams moved in close to tell him. “You sounded entirely serious.”
Torin furrowed his brow at him. “I was,” he said and followed them inside.
The walls of the town hall were covered in thick, masterfully crafted tapestries. Beeswax candles burned in two enormous wooden circular candleholders hanging from the ceiling. Beneath them, several rows of long, carved benches were set to face the front of the hall, where Rowley Hetherington sat with his wife and his ear inclined to a man leaning over his chair to speak to him.
Torin looked around the hall as more people crowded inside and quickly filled up all the benches. He found Braya quickly, as if his soul instinctively knew where to look. She was already seated on the third bench at the far right with her cousins, Millie and Lucy, and a handful of men. Torin squinted his eyes on them. Who were they?
He forgot them soon enough when Braya, finding him as well, smiled at him. His gaze dipped to her bruised neck and he felt his blood boil.
She lifted her fingers to her neck, making him realize where he was staring. He looked up at her mouth. He wanted to smile back.
She looked radiant with her long hair spilling over a white overgown with gold stitching and a saffron kirtle beneath. But hell, she could have worn a sack from neck to toe and he would still want to smile at her.
Adams shoved his shoulder into him to get him moving. Torin hadn’t realized they had been invited to sit on the front bench. He raked his fingers through his curls and stepped forward.
Somewhere along the front bench, a woman wept. Torin looked the other way.
Rowley Hetherington made the introductions, and after turning to face the fathers of their victims, the apologies were underway.
Torin had never asked to be forgiven for killing any of his victims so he had no idea what to expect. The lads’ fathers, who were all fighters and brawlers, seemed to handle the mourning better than the dead lads’ mothers, who wept and even cursed Torin and Adams for what they had done.
Torin tried not to give a damn, but that was easier when one killed a man and did not have to face his family. He realized he would never fit in here, just as he had not fit in anywhere else. It had always amused him when these mad desires crept up on him. They meant nothing, just some old remnants of when he was a child and had a family and a home, whether in Invergarry or in the forest.
He decided soon after he’d arrived at the Hetheringtons’ town hall that he wanted to leave. He never expected Braya’s father to stand up and tell all his kin that Torin had helped Braya save his wife and his nieces, including his niece or nephew yet to be born.
For this, the Hetherington leader had said, he owed Torin much.
Mayhap, Torin thought while he listened, the leader could keep his kin out of Bennett’s fights and Torin would consider the debt paid. Ah, but it was not so easy. No matter if they fought the Scots or not, they…she would discover that he was one. A Scottish soldier. Their enemy. They would all end up looking at him the way Galien was looking at him now, seated in the front row with his uncles.
“Sir Torin,” Braya’s clear voice rang out amidst the soft clamor.
He turned in his seat and let his gaze feast on her.
“…is also the source of the extra food my father has shared with some of you.”
“What extra food?” someone called out.
“Why was it not shared with all of us?” cried someone else, followed by more disgruntled murmurs.
How serious was this going to get? Torin thought and looked at the faces around him for the first time. Most were clean. All were thin—not overly so, but not one weighed a stone more than they should. Most, if anything, weighed less.
Braya had stolen food from him to bring to them. His gaze flicked back to her.
“There was not enough to distribute evenly to everyone,” her father’s voice overrode every other. “Or do you all think me so unfair?” He waited, his gaze raking over every row. No one spoke, save to assure him they believed the opposite.
Watching him, Torin was reminded of some of the great clan chiefs in Scotland.
“The most needy among us received a share,” the leader told them all.
“I will bring more.” Torin didn’t know why he volunteered—and so hastily, but he didn’t seem to have control of his mouth—or his thoughts. “There is plenty at the castle.”
“If you are caught, you will lose your place in the guard,” Adams warned him, his dark eyes somber. But then, his lips curled into a sinuous grin. “But I have not been caught yet so I do not see why you would be.”
Torin stared at him for a moment, surprised to hear Adams say such a thing, and happy that he did. Another reason to hate Bennett; for filling his belly while his “friend’s” kin went hungry.
“We can work together,” Adams suggested. “And bring double the portion once a month.”
Torin smiled but wrinkled his brow. “I was thinking more like once a week.”
Everyone in earshot grew silent and waited with hopeful anticipation for him to continue.
Anything to bring suffering to the English soldiers. “You and I both know they could use less food and a lot more time on the practice field.”
“Aye,” Adams agreed. “But where will you tell them it has gone off to?”
“I will tell them I threw it away,” Torin advised him, tossing up his hands. “That I fed it to the pigs or the horses. I do not care. And after last night, I do not need to care. The warden will not release either of us from our service to him.”
Adams thought about it for a moment then nodded and turned to the villagers. “Food will be here every week. As much as we can provide.”
Cheers went up, even from some of Torin’s most formidable enemies, like Galien and the mothers of the lads.
Soon, cups of cool water were passed out and the doors of the hall were swung open, letting in fresh air and sunshine. The gathering was coming to an end.
Torin found Braya’s gaze, and as much as he cursed the emotions she made him feel, he was thankful he was not beyond feeling them—for her sake. He wanted to please her, whether it be keeping peace or feeding her family; everything he did, it seemed he did for her. He’d never felt things like this before, but he wasn’t at a loss about what was happening to him. He wasn’t a fool. He suspected he might be losing what was left of his heart. He hadn’t guarded against caring for her because he hadn’t thought it was possible. He told himself it was the last thing he wanted in his life, but he wasn’t certain that was true.
“To fuller bellies,” Braya’s father called out, lifting his cup when everyone had theirs.
Torin raised his cup. Aye, he could drink to that.
“To new and lasting friendships,” Adams said next.
Torin smiled, more because it was expected of him than because he believed it. The cup felt a bit heavier.
“And to peace.”
Braya’s words pierced like arrows. His smile faded though he fought to keep it intact. It didn’t matter what he wanted. He was bringing war. Soon, there would be nothing between them but hatred.
Chapter Thirteen
Braya smiled at one of her aunts but did not pause her steps on her way to Torin in the town hall. Many of her family had gone home, back to their daily duties. The meeting was over. There would be no fighting, but more food instead. It had been a great success. Braya wanted to thank the two men who had made it so.
She wanted more time with her knight, for that was what Sir Torin was—her knight, bringing what her family needed, what she needed. He was a man who was not unsettled by her skill. He hadn’t tried to manhandle her, and she doubted it was because he was afraid of what she might do. He didn’t seem to be frightened by much.
She wanted to speak to him and get to know him more.
“You must think him a true hero,” Galien said, moving in front of her and blocking her path.
Braya looked toward heaven and let out a tight little sigh. “Who?” she asked with a cool smile. “Father? For being so wise and sound and for keeping those of us who still live first in his thoughts?”
“I keep us first in my thoughts, Braya,” her brother argued quietly. “Five of us were killed. If there is no punishment for their deaths, others will think little of doing the same.”
“And what respect will the border regiment gain if robbing and trying to kill them goes unpunished? Many times—like last eve for one—they have protected us. Our enemies fear them. Once that is gone, we will have great trouble.”
“What do I care about respect for the border guards?” Galien snarled at her and shook his head. “I will forgive you for your lack of good judgment, Braya. You are smitten.” He spoke the last word as if he wanted to spit it out of his mouth.
“Sir Torin is a good man, Galien,” she argued, knowing what he insinuated. “I will not treat him like anything less because he was trying to stay alive that night and he happened to be able to fight better than our cousins.”
Her brother looked as if he either wanted to say something else, or throttle her.
He made the wise choice by remaining quiet and walking away.
With her path cleared, she set her gaze on Sir Torin again. She found him engaged in a conversation, which he appeared to find pleasant enough, with her cousin, Louise.
Braya slowed her pace, spellbound while he plunged his fingers through the curls dangling over his eyes. Damnation, did Louise find him as irresistibly handsome as Braya did? She wondered what Louise was telling him. Her cousin giggled and Torin looked away. His gaze met Braya’s.
Anyone bothering to look could clearly see his mouth softening, his eyes warming on her, drawing her closer.
“Louise,” she said, reaching them. She offered them a pleasant smile. “I was hoping to have a word with our guest before he leaves for the castle.”
“Of course,” her cousin said and hurried off, looking a little disappointed.
Alone, Braya moved an inch closer to Torin so she could relish in the scent of him. “I wanted to thank you for promising to bring food. I know the risk you are taking—”
“’Tis no risk,” Torin assured her.
“Well, either way, ’tis most kind. It means much to me and I wanted to thank you for it, and for coming to the battlements last eve.”
She had almost breathed her last at the hands of an Armstrong, but Torin had arrived and saved her. Then he’d given her praise for saving them. She’d wanted to find him last night and fall into his arms, the way she’d wanted to on the battlements. Her father liked him, despite what Galien thought. Perhaps Torin would court her, marry her—
Would she want him? Of course. He was raw magnificence with a kind heart despite the life he’d suffered. He was fit and clever, and he would make an excellent reiver, if he ever wanted to become one that is.
“Lady.”
He spoke and set hundreds of butterflies free in her belly. She liked that he called her lady when she was nothing more than a thief.
“I was hoping you might spend the afternoon with me.”
She felt her face go flush. Lord, help her keep her composure and not let him see how happy she was. “I would like that,” she told him in a quiet voice. “But I have chores.”
His smile faded and he stepped back and dipped his head. “Forgive—”
“Meet me in an hour in the clearing where we met.” Without another word, she turned away from him and left the town hall.
Outside, the warm breeze pushed her hair away from her face. She hurried home to start her daily chores so they would be over quicker. So she could be with him.
A little over an hour later, she rode Archer out of the stable and headed in the direction that would lead her to the small clearing.
Torin left Avalon on the other side of the clearing and watched Braya from behind the thick bramble.
For the first few moments while she waited for him, she paced the clearing, looking a bit worried. Was she doubting her good senses as he was? Why would she? She wasn’t the one doing the deceiving and misleading. He hated himself for allowing her to get under his skin and make him care. But hell, he was helpless against it. Like a torrent, it washed over him, sapping him of reason and good judgment. Because of her, he spent the last hour thinking about what would become of her family, who were already hungry, after the Scots finished with Carlisle. War, even if they had no part in fighting it, was going to hurt them. Braya knew it.
If they did fight against the Scots—against him—and he killed any of them, he would be plagued by what their mothers would say to him.
Hell, the Hetheringtons weren’t his dilemma to fret over. He was keeping his promise. He was doing his duty. Since when didn’t his duty come first?
He gazed at her through the leaves while she studied the patches of beautiful common mallow flowers and then bent to bring one to her nose.
He smiled and stepped forward where she could see him.
She looked up from beneath her long lashes and smiled back. “They smell good,” she said in her dulcet voice.
He moved closer to her, drawn by unseen tethers, and reached his hand out to her cheek. He wanted to kiss her. It was all he’d thought about since he kissed her last. He’d wanted to kiss her last eve when he feared he’d lost her. He wanted to ride into Armstrong territory and kill more of them. He cared for her. He wouldn’t let it prick at him now. Not now.
He dipped his gaze to her neck, washed clean of blood but stained with red and purple bruises. “How is your throat, lady?”
“It pains me a little.” She lifted her slender fingers to it. “Nothing I cannot bear. I’m grateful to be alive to feel it.”
He looked into her eyes and saw that the spark of fire that usually lit her gaze had gone dark. Will Noble had told him what his wife shared with him. Braya had told Millie that she was about to die before Torin got there.
He ran his hand over her head and then cupped the back of it and pulled her into his tight and tender embrace. She went in willingly, yielding immediately to his touch. He wanted to comfort her from the memory of being at the edge of death. It wasn’t the same as fighting to live. When the fight was over and one looked death in the face—when the cold, black emptiness of it overwhelmed, there was nothing more terrifying.
He held her until she pulled away just enough to look up at him.
Was that his heart pounding like a drum against both their chests? What the hell would she think of him that he would fall for a lass so quickly? Give in to her every want and desire?
“I owe you much,” she whispered, lifting her hand to his cheek.
“You owe me nothing.”
He let her lead his face down to hers and covered her mouth with his. She opened to him and he plunged his tongue inside her, letting a thread of fire lance down his back.
She parried his tongue in a dance that made him as tight as a bowstring. No one before her had ever made him feel like he could snap in two. He spread his splayed hand down her spine and cupped her backside.
When she closed her soft lips around his tongue as he withdrew it, he thought he might go mad with the need for her. He didn’t stop kissing her, but tasted her and teased her, and breathed her in as if he would perish if he didn’t.
He thought he would perish.
He wanted more of her and dipped his mouth to her throat. His kisses were gentle against her bruised skin. He wouldn’t be too forward with her, as things might escalate too quickly and he wouldn’t put her in a position of shame when he left.
Hell, he wasn’t staying here. He could if he wished it after the Scots took Carlisle, but there was no future with Braya.
He might have to fight her.
She must have sensed his sudden unease for she withdrew slightly and smiled.
