Then he turned on another man with a pistol and shot him through the heart. The two of them fell where they stood. Another man was taken quickly by Sorley. But the final traitor on Fiona didn’t move.
She was shoving at him, grunting with the effort. He wasn’t exactly resisting, but he wasn’t… Wait. He wasn’t moving.
“Get him off me,” she cried.
Brogan grabbed the man by the shoulders and tore him off, prepared to kill him. But it was hard to kill a man who was already dead. Fiona’s blade was deep in his neck, the whoreson’s blood on her face and chest.
An expletive burst from Brogan’s lips as he tossed the man aside and reached for her, pulling her into his arms, holding her close. She was sobbing as hard as she had the day they’d seen the crofters executed, trembling in his arms. He wrapped her in his embrace, hoping to still her, settle her, calm her. But he felt himself shaking and the burn of tears in the backs of his eyes.
He’d not cried since he was a lad. Brogan was not a crier. He was a man. A warrior. A fierce Highland soldier. A Jacobite. Fighting for his prince and country. And right now he was also a man deeply in love, who had nearly just lost his beloved. God, he never wanted to let her go.
Never.
And the sting of tears, tears of relief, of love, pricked the backs of his eyes.
“Are ye hurt?” he asked.
She shook her head, then nodded, giving him no definitive answer.
“Where?” he asked. She held up her hand, showing him a long slice against her palm. “Anywhere else?”
She shook her head, and then she nodded, her knees buckling slightly. “My ankle,” she said, her voice weak and breathless. “I tripped so many times, and this last time, a hole, I…”
“Shh,” he crooned, lifting her into his arms. “Ye’re safe now. I know I’ve said before I’d no’ let any harm come to ye. I’ve failed ye, lass, but I swear with every fiber of my being I will no’ fail again. I will no’ let anyone hurt ye.”
Fiona wrapped her arms around his neck, burying her face in his shoulder, hugging him so tight he could barely breathe, and he didn’t care.
“I love ye,” he whispered against her ear, pressing his lips to her cheek. “I love ye so much, and I canna lose ye.”
She lifted her head from his shoulder, staring into his eyes with those beautiful wide violets. “How can ye love a mess like me?”
“How could I no’?”
Fiona burst into tears again and tucked her face into the crook of space between his neck and shoulder. “Dinna love me, Brogan Grant. Dinna say it ever again.”
The vehemence in her demand shook him to the core. The lass had been through so much. “Ye survived, Fiona. Ye’re a fighter.”
* * *
Brogan carried Fiona to the small burn, while his men took care of the bodies. She couldn’t even look at them; her eyes squeezed shut. He knelt with her by the water, tore off a piece of his shirt and dipped it into the water, then started to clean her face.
All the while he whispered words of how strong she was, how much he admired her, that she was a treasure for Scotland.
And all the while he did that, she sobbed like a wailing bairn, not feeling at all like any of the things he’d said.
“I’m a walking disaster,” she said, closing her eyes as he pressed the cool fabric to her skin, washing away the blood of the man who would have hurt her worse.
He cleaned her hand, wrapped a fresh strip of his torn shirt around her wound, brought her fingers to his lips and pressed a kiss to her knuckles.
“Ye’re my disaster,” he said with a teasing note, which she couldn’t help but laugh at a little even through the tears. “Tell me what happened.”
She shook her head, but spoke anyway. “I woke, I dinna know why, but I noticed Milla was gone. So I went to the creek to see if she’d gone for a drink, but I fell over someone. I think it was Dugall. Oh God,” she cried. “Is he… Is he…?”
“He’s fine, lass. Back at the camp nursing a headache with the prince.”
“Everyone is all right?”
“Ye were the only one taken. Do ye know why?”
“They knew I was Prince Charlie’s messenger. I think that had something to do with it. I’m so thirsty.” She leaned forward, dipping her hands in the cool water and bringing it to her lips, drinking scoop after scoop.
When her thirst was satisfied, she continued. “I tried to fight them off, but they knocked me out. When I woke, I fought some more, but they hit me harder. The next time I woke, I was tied to a tree.”
“But ye escaped, how?”
“The knife in my belt.”
“I really need a belt like that.”
Fiona grinned. “Ye do.”
She took another sip of water and looked down at her gown, seeing her chest soaked bright red with blood. Her assailant’s blood. When he’d tackled her to the ground, she’d thought nothing of shoving her blade into him. Just like she’d done to Boyd what felt like years before. When her captor had fallen on her, he was Boyd, transformed in his violent actions. He was everything wrong with men trying to overpower women. She felt no regrets about ridding the world of another man who would hurt her, hurt others.
He was evil, vile, heinous.
Fiona started to cry all over again. For the first time in many months, years, she wanted to go home. But home was so very far away.
“I, um, Brogan—” But she cut herself off, trying to draw in breath. “I feel a coward for saying this, but I want to go home. Not to stay, but…I canna walk. ’Twill be hard to ride. I am useless.”
“Ye’re no’ useless.”
“I will slow the prince down. Right now he needs to run, and I canna.”
Brogan nodded slowly, and she expected to see disappointment in his eyes, or triumph since she was saying the one thing she’d denied since the moment they met.
“Are ye certain, lass?”
“Are ye no’ happy?” Her tone was biting.
“Happy?” He looked taken aback. “Och, love, do ye no’ know? I want for ye only what ye want.”
His words stunned her, for she didn’t know that. Wouldn’t have ever guessed. And yet when he said it, his words made sense. He made sense. And she wanted to cry all over again.
“’Tis no’ forever. I’m just so tired. Only until I’m healed, and then I will rejoin the cause.”
Brogan nodded. “I will come with ye.”