Not many people had ever been there with him. In fact the number was less than the fingers on his left hand, and now he was going to bring an entire group there.
Brogan circled back behind the men, telling them to keep moving forward, to be certain they weren’t being followed by the dragoons that Fiona had been avoiding.
Hell, she took so many risks. It was almost as if she thought herself invincible. A feeling he himself had on more than one occasion. Feeling it even now since he’d not died on the field of battle that had claimed the lives of so many, and since he’d not been killed running from Cumberland’s men for weeks.
He was cheating death. All of them were. But it only made the sense of rightness stronger. If they were not to be smitten, perhaps that was because their cause was just. They would prevail. They would find the prince, and the army would rise up again to defeat the bloody bastards who would try to put them down.
At last they came to the rise, and Brogan could make out the cave ahead, distinct to him because of the mountain ash tree that grew at its peak.
“That’s it ahead,” he said to Fiona, who nodded. “Ye all settle in and I’ll circle back again to make sure we’ve no’ been followed.”
They did as he instructed. The cave was big enough to house the horses inside too. Despite them all being out of view, watches would have to be taken.
When he returned to the cave, the men had built a small fire at the front and were roasting a few squirrels they’d caught while he was gone.
Fiona sat closer to the back of the cave, her back to the wall, legs stretched out long in front of her, ankles crossed. Her arms were crossed over her chest, and her eyes were closed as if she was sleeping. She was so beautiful like that, so peaceful looking. Even the wrinkled furrow between her brows had smoothed. Milla was curled up at her feet looking completely comfortable.
“Dinna just stand there staring, Grant. ’Tis rude.”
She might look peaceful but her acerbic tongue was still in place. He couldn’t help but grin, finding her refreshing.
“I’ve missed your wittiness,” he teased.
One eye popped open. “I’ve no’ been called witty before.”
“Is that so?”
“Dinna sound so surprised.”
The eye closed and he came closer, sliding down the wall to sit beside her. Milla stretched so that her paws brushed his boots.
“How did ye know about this cave?” she asked.
“I came here often as a lad.”
“I have a place like that,” she said sleepily.
“Oh?” Brogan imagined a smaller version of Fiona discovering a hiding place the way he had.
“Aye. In the woods near Dòchas.” Her mouth grew tight for a second and then relaxed.
“Do ye still go there?”
“Aye.” She blew out a long breath. “Though my brothers, I’m certain, wish I didna.”
Brogan felt the same way and found momentary camaraderie with her kin. “Why’s that?”
“Similar reasons to why ye say I shouldna go there.” There was a definite eyeroll with that line, but he couldn’t see it.
Still, Brogan grinned, finding some satisfaction in the fact that she recognized his inclination. “Dangerous.”
Fiona nodded. “I can take care of myself.”
“Ye’ve proven that.” Just because he didn’t like her methods didn’t mean she wasn’t sitting there beside him, visibly unharmed. But there was no telling what went on inside her tough exterior. He’d seen her break once when they witnessed the execution. She was not without some fragility.
“I’ve had to.”
There was something in her tone that said she’d had to deal with things far scarier than what he’d witnessed her going through, perhaps more than once.
“Ye’re a brave lass, Fiona, but even brave lasses have weaknesses.”
She opened one eye again, her head rolling toward his. Lips curled down in a frown. “What’s your weakness?”
“I shall tell ye mine if ye tell me yours.”
“Deal.” Both of her beautiful violet eyes opened then, staring at him intently. This close, he could make out the freckles that covered the bridge of her nose.
“I’m no’ a patient man,” he admitted, “and I can be a bit cynical.”
She snorted. “I could have told ye that. Tell me something that nobody knows.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Because, Brogan Grant, the two of us keep running into each other. I think we were meant to be…friends.” There was a softness in her voice just then that stretched through the small distance between them and touched him.
“Friends?”
“A foreign concept to a man like ye, I gather?” She chuckled softly.
Friends…
It wasn’t that the notion was foreign, though he didn’t count many people as friends. He’d not had the luxury. It was that to be her friend…
Brogan swallowed hard, smiling, and gave a little grunt. He wanted to be her friend, but he wanted more than that too—which made his smile disappear. Friends didn’t think about each other naked, did they?
“A warrior doesna have friends.” He crossed his arms over his chest, telling himself it was to be more comfortable and not because he was closing himself off to her.
Fiona laughed. “Even evil villains have friends.”
“Nay.” He wagged his finger. “They have minions. There’s a difference.”
“Is that so?” She sat up a little straighter, running her hand over Milla’s belly. “So what is the equivalent of friends for a hero?”
“Ye think I’m a hero?” He puffed his chest out and rested his hands behind his head.
Fiona made a noncommittal sound and shrugged. “Ye’re on the right side.”
The lass loved to deflate him, didn’t she? And yet he didn’t feel deflated. He wanted to laugh, because she was only teasing. “True.” He thought about it for several moments and then said, “Do camp followers count?”
Fiona made a gasp of mock outrage at his insinuation that the women who often followed war camps and offered the warmth of their bodies at night to the soldiers could be friends.
“Am I wrong, though?” he teased.
She shoved at his chest, and his arms dropped from above his head as he laughed.
“Ye’re incorrigible, Grant. Another of your weaknesses.”