“I aim…” She swallowed hard, working to make her voice sound stronger. “This doesna make me your woman.”
“I would never seek to own ye.”
The words melted Fiona’s heart. How did he know just the right thing to say? She leaned in again, brushing her lips on his.
“I’m no’ a toy to be played with whenever ye want, Brogan Grant.”
“I’m a man, Fiona. I dinna play with toys.”
Why did the words, spoken so gruffly and deeply, send a shiver of want skating over her limbs? Why did he have to say all the right things?
Saints, but she wanted to kiss him some more. To melt against him. To let him touch her. To feel…
She pushed away instead. “Good.” Fiona licked her lips, cleared her throat, and started to back away. With a nod, she said, “Good,” again.
“Good.” He eyed her, his expression guarded. What was he thinking?
“We canna do this. We just canna. I need to…see to my horse.” She whirled around then, too afraid to keep staring at him because she’d either run away or leap into his arms. Both of which would not be good. She’d already run once, and to do so now would be to defeat the purpose of her mission. To fall for Brogan Grant… That would defeat her promise to herself.
Fiona was not a blushing virgin. That bartering chip had long since been lost to her friend Aes when she’d thought they’d be together forever. One kiss when they were barely more than seventeen, and she’d been ready to sign her life over to him. It had been her choice and she didn’t regret it. It had been only once; they’d never had the opportunity again, and then he’d betrayed her heart by marrying another. Fiona never slept with another man again, too afraid to open her heart up like she had before. To allow someone else to see her vulnerable side.
Not until now.
Brogan made her want to strip out of her clothes and lay herself bare to him. To let him show her what it was like to be loved by a grown man.
She shivered, lips still burning at the memory of his mouth on hers. Skin still tingling from the way he’d stroked her back and hips. The hardness of his body beneath hers. The firmness of the bulge in his breeches that had pressed against her stomach.
Fiona quickened her pace until she was alone with her horse. Milla caught up, sniffing her leg and staring up at her with what could only be discerned as an I know what ye were doing, ye naughty lass look.
“Ye would have, too, old lass,” Fiona said with a sniff, bending down and rubbing the hound’s soft ears. “And I dinna regret it one bit.”
She looked up then to see Brogan standing a few feet away, witnessing the exchange. Heat suffused her cheeks and she buried her head in the dog’s neck.
* * *
Dawn came quicker than Fiona would have liked. She’d slept well with Milla curled up beside her, and the men surrounding her in the cave. It was the first time in weeks that she’d felt safe enough to let herself fall into a deep sleep. They were quick to pack up their things and head out.
She and Brogan barely talked, both of them in an unspoken agreement to stay clear of each other—mostly on her part because she was afraid she’d kiss him again. Though she made small talk with the men, it was clear they thought something was going on by the looks they passed back and forth.
They made a stop in Glenmoriston village to gather supplies, but the regard from those inside the village was not the warm welcome Brogan seemed to expect. Everyone appeared worried. They eyed them with suspicion. Judging gazes fell on Fiona, and she could only guess what they’d say about a woman traveling alone with men. She’d heard it before and chose to ignore it.
“Glenmoriston was occupied by Jacobites before Culloden,” Brogan said. “Rumor has it that my da is planning a coup. ’Tis why everyone is acting so strange.”
“And your da,” Sorley said, “he is no’ a Jacobite?”
Brogan gave a quick shake of his head. “He’s a spiteful bastard. Split the clan, with those in Glenmoriston honoring the cause, and his faction, well… We’d do best no’ to tarry.”
Fiona was surprised to hear this. So Brogan was going against his own father? The people didn’t trust him because of it, that was clear. But she found it brave he was willing to do so.
No one in their party argued as they quickly packed their satchels with goods they’d received in exchange for a few coins and headed out of the village. Fiona had sought out a few women who mentioned hearing the prince had passed by some days before, but they’d not seen him themselves.
Fiona and Brogan avoided villages—and each other—as much as they could over the next several days. Speaking little, which seemed to suit everyone. Every time Fiona and Brogan were alone, she opened her mouth to say something, to bring up the kiss, but then her throat went dry and she backed down. He looked much the same, and she ran away from the heat rising in her cheeks. The men seemed to notice there was a subtle shift in their midst, but they said nothing either.
Exhausted and feeling like they were chasing a ghost, the men were losing steam, and their horses needed a break.
They set up camp in the woods near a trickling burn. A few of the men went to hunt while Fiona sought out some privacy to wash in the shallow water. Spring was finally yielding to less frigid temperatures in the evening, and while it wouldn’t be pleasant to wash in the cold burn, it would be better than nothing. Being clean rather than covered in the dust and grime of travel seemed a great prize for a few moments of torment.
She sat on the embankment, Milla by her side, and stripped out of her boots and hose, her toes sinking into the grass. Milla edged toward the water, drinking, while Fiona unstrapped the knives under her sleeves, tucking them into her boots. She rubbed at her wrists, which were damp and raw from wearing the straps for so many days with no breaks.
She leaned back in the grass, taking just the barest break to appreciate the peace of the moment. With her eyes closed, she drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly, relishing the scent of the forest. The water trickled in the burn, and a light breeze rustled the trees. Overhead, the sky had not yet given way to dusk, and a few grouse flew from branch to branch, chirping in lively conversation.
The sounds lulled her into a trancelike state of being half-awake, half-asleep. Her body relaxed, the aches of riding easing out of her muscles.
And then she startled awake, not even realizing she’d fallen asleep. Beside her, Milla made a low growl in her throat, hackles raised. Fiona started to sit up, then stilled. She wasn’t alone. The air felt charged with menace. Not daring to sit up too quickly, she sent her fingers edging toward her boots and her knives.
Fingers curled around the hilt of one, she lay low, circling her head until her view settled on boots—several pairs of boots. Gaze sliding up, she encountered red—the color of her nightmares—and her mouth fell open, a silent scream on the edge of her throat.