Highlander Most Wanted

chapter 22





The next morning, Bowen slowly attempted to rise from his bed. Movement stretched the flesh sewn together, and he winced as he righted himself.

He pressed a hand to his chest, feeling the wound and testing to see how tender it was.

While he certainly wouldn’t be back on the battlefield this day, he could at least take himself from the bed before he became a permanent part of it.

He staggered to the washbasin and cleaned his face. What he needed was a good bath. He still smelled of sweat and blood. There was a layer of grime on him that only a good scrubbing would take away.

Throwing a tunic on over his head, he searched for a clean pair of leggings and decided not to bother with boots. He’d retrieve them after he’d washed.

Geoffrey was alone in the hall, and he stood at attention the moment Bowen stuck his head out.

“Do you have need of aid, Laird?”

Bowen shook his head. “Nay, I’m going to bathe.”

Geoffrey fell into step behind him and the two went down the stairs to find the hall empty, not yet alive with the day’s activities.

Bowen continued out the back of the keep, deciding that he’d make use of Genevieve’s stream.

The chill would certainly wash away the remnants of sleep, and his head needed a good clearing.

The brisk morning air hit him as soon as he stepped outside. He inhaled deeply, enjoying the lavender-painted sky that heralded the coming sun.

He’d nearly forgotten that Geoffrey was just a few steps behind when he topped the slight hill overlooking the stream. The sight that greeted him halted him in his tracks.

Genevieve was in the stream, her hair pulled over her shoulders as she rinsed the strands.

He turned sharply to Geoffrey. “Return to the keep at once.”

Geoffrey looked startled, but Bowen knew the moment he saw beyond to where Genevieve was bathing. The younger man’s cheeks reddened and he looked hastily away.

“Of course, Laird,” he mumbled, even as he backtracked as fast as he could.

Satisfied that Geoffrey could no longer see Genevieve, Bowen turned back to the river and pondered whether he should intrude yet again on her bath.

She was a lure too strong to ignore. He should be gallant and step quietly away, but instead he moved forward, his gaze never leaving her.

“It seems to be a habit, my finding you here,” he said mildly when he was within hearing distance.

Genevieve’s startled gaze shot up, and she immediately covered the upper portion of her body with her arms. The action made the soft mounds bulge upward, so that the pale globes were readily visible.

“What are you doing out of bed?” she demanded. “ ’Tis too soon for you to be moving about. What if you tear the stitches?”

“I have it on good authority that the person who set the stitches did an excellent job.”

She stared cautiously at him, her eyes dark and wounded. She expected the worst and, in a way, he couldn’t fault her for that. She’d only been given the worst thus far. Ian McHugh certainly hadn’t shown her any kindness, and, from what he’d witnessed, neither had most of the McHugh clan.

“ ’Tis freezing, lass. What are you doing in the river at this hour?”

“I needed to clean the dirt and blood from my hair,” she said in a low voice. “I would do so in privacy, if you please.”

“Well now. It would seem we have a bit of a problem, because I came here myself to wash.”

“Turn your back then, please, so that I may leave the water and dress, and then I’ll leave you to your privacy.”

He did as she bade him and presented his back. He could hear the splash of water, and he imagined her naked, water glistening on her skin. His body hardened as desire lanced through him like quick fire. It caught him completely by surprise.

He willed himself to regain control, but his body clearly had other ideas. His mind was filled with images fired by his imagination. And he had a rather vivid imagination where Genevieve was concerned.

Still, it made no sense that he had such a strong reaction to her. She bore the mark of another man—a man who’d made her his whore. There was much for her to answer to in regard to his clan, and yet he found himself making excuses for her. His mind sought a reasonable explanation for her actions, when there was nothing reasonable about her placing Eveline in such grievous danger.

Aye, she was all wrong for him, and yet he was drawn to her like a moth to flame.

“You can look now,” she said, annoyance still evident in her tone.

He swiveled around to see her perched on one of the boulders overlooking the water. She had a drying blanket wrapped fully around her, and he wondered if she’d bothered to dress or if she was unclothed underneath.

Her hair lay bedraggled over her shoulders, still wet from the washing and as yet uncombed. She looked like a nymph from the sea. A scarred nymph, with secrets swirling in her eyes.

Bowen moved toward the water’s edge, pulling his tunic over his head as he went. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Genevieve hastily look away. He’d planned to bathe in his leggings, but if she was going to afford him privacy, he’d fully strip and enjoy a good scrubbing.

When she started to move, the protest was out of his mouth before he could call it back.

“Nay,” he said. “Don’t go.”

She glanced back with a startled expression, which quickly became wary as she studied him.

“I would leave you to bathe, Laird. ’Tis not seemly for me to be present.”

“Aye, ’tis the truth—’tis probably not. But I would talk with you here, away from all the others.”

His hands paused before pushing down his leggings, and he looked in her direction. “Look away lest you be offended by my nudity.”

She nearly fell off the boulder, so hastily did she yank herself around. And yet, while he watched her as he removed the last of his clothing, she turned slightly to regard him over her shoulder.

He smiled, taking in the furtive glance. She looked shy, and he found it oddly endearing. Surely he would burn in hell for being so bold, all but inviting the lass to look at him. A better man would have walked away the moment he saw her bathing. But he wasn’t a better man, because he wanted nothing more than to spend a few moments with Genevieve, away from the prying eyes of others. Away from the judgment that awaited, and away from his duty not only to this new clan but to his own. Always his own.

He owed absolute loyalty to Graeme as laird of the Montgomery clan. He was Graeme’s representative, and he couldn’t fail to seek justice for wrongs done to his clan.

But who had ever stood up for Genevieve? Who had sought vengeance for all the wrongs done to her?

He couldn’t understand why the lass didn’t want her family to know she was alive, but then he could hardly understand the depths of all she’d endured. He understood pride. He understood it all too well. Every time he looked at her, he was struck by the unflagging and almost stoic pride with which she carried herself. Like it was all that she had left and she refused to be stripped of it.

As much as he thought she should send word to her family, how could he take away that choice when, for the past year, all her choices had been taken away?

The water was bracing, and he flinched as he waded in and it crept up to his more sensitive regions. There was nothing like cold water to chill one’s ardor. He shivered, and then plunged downward in order to have done with it.

As he hunkered down, he called to Genevieve. “You can look now, lass.”

She turned carefully, seeking him with her gaze. She pulled the blanket tighter around herself, and he was struck by the picture she presented, perched on the boulder, long damp hair streaming down her body. A mermaid. She reminded him of the mythical being from the sea.

“This water is frigid. What possessed you to bathe so early in the morning when ’tis so cold?”

She lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “I didn’t think anyone would be about so early.”

Her avoidance of the others made sense. He couldn’t fault her for wanting the one thing she’d been denied in the past year. Privacy and a moment’s peace. And yet he’d felt no guilt over intruding on that privacy. Indeed, his blood had quickened the moment he realized that she was in the stream and it presented the perfect opportunity to speak to her away from his kin or the Armstrongs.

“It would appear that I am indebted to you,” Bowen said.

She cocked her head to the side, her expression one of puzzlement. “For what, Laird?”

“What indeed,” he said with a snort. “It would seem you were busy while I was in battle. Your arrows were found in four different men. One of them being Patrick McHugh.”

She whitened as if all the blood had been leeched from her face. Her fingers gripped the ends of the blanket and she made herself even smaller, if possible.

“ ’Twas a brave thing you did,” Bowen continued. “One might wonder why you bothered. You put yourself at great risk by not seeking refuge, as you were told to do.”

The shock of the cold was beginning to wear off. He looked to see that the bar of soap he’d brought with him was still lying on the bank with his clothing.

He didn’t want to shock the lass by striding out of the water to fetch it.

“Will you toss me the soap?” he asked.

Genevieve glanced down and frowned, then looked back up at him. Careful to keep the blanket securely wrapped around her, she hoisted herself off the rock and then bent to fetch the soap. She underhanded it to him, and he caught it in the air.

As he began to cleanse himself, he found her gaze again.

“So why did you do it?”

Her shoulders heaved as she expelled a sigh. “Because I hated Patrick McHugh as much as I hated his spawn of a son. ’Twas my right to kill him. I was denied the pleasure of killing Ian, but ’tis glad I am all the same that he met his end.”

Bowen paused to rinse the soap from his arms. She was calm and unemotional about death and killing, something most lasses never had occasion to discuss, much less take part in.

“And why did you choose to intervene in my battle?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Is that a reprimand?”

He laughed at the instant fire in her eyes. The lass still had spirit.

“Nay. I can hardly reprimand you when I stand here whole and hearty instead of lying in a shallow, cold grave, now, can I?”

“It was the right thing to do,” she muttered. “ ’Twas a cowardly act to attack from behind.”

“You have my thanks, and that of my clan.”

She swallowed and her lips trembled as she spoke her next words. “We cannot pretend that our last conversation here in this same place did not happen.”

Bowen sighed. “Nay, we can’t.”

Her chin lifted, and again he saw that unflagging pride. And determination not to be beaten down.

“Tell me my fate, Laird. ’Tis not comforting not to know.”

Bowen sank into the water and tilted his head back to wet his hair. For a moment, he lost himself in the task of bathing, because the simple truth was he hadn’t decided the matter of her fate. He had no idea what to say to her. Not yet.

As he righted himself, he saw Genevieve turn and abruptly stand up. She began walking toward the keep, her pace determined, and he called out for her to stop.

She froze, still facing away, and then slowly turned, her eyes ablaze. “I’ll not play this game,” she said fiercely. “I’ll not be taunted. I’ll not have my fate dangled over my head like an axe about to drop. If you had any decency, you would not make me suffer so.”

There was so much hurt in her voice that it made him flinch. And her eyes. Pools of green so sorrowful he could drown in them. Ah, but he was making a muck of this.

“Don’t go, lass. ’Tis the truth I haven’t spoken of your fate because I haven’t decided it.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” she asked incredulously.

“Sit down, please. ’Tis likely the only place we can have a private moment to converse.”

“ ’Tis hardly an appropriate place,” she said. “I should not be here watching as you bathe. If others knew of it, I would be painted a whore all over again. Only this time I would be the Montgomery laird’s whore.”

She was right, of course, and yet he didn’t want her to walk away. He had a pressing need to get to the heart of the matter, for his own peace of mind. He didn’t want to condemn her. He wanted … He wasn’t sure what he wanted. He wanted her not to be guilty of what she was accused, but she hadn’t denied what he’d confronted her with.

“Turn away so that I may fully rinse and dress. Then we’ll discuss the matter.”

For a moment he thought she might refuse him, but then she turned away and stood rigidly, waiting for him to finish.

He quickly rinsed the last of the soap from his body and then walked from the water. God’s teeth but it was cold. Colder than normal for an early summer morning. The sun was only just creeping its way over the horizon, a distant ball of orange painting the sky in shades of gold and amber.

He grabbed the drying blanket and quickly toweled off before dragging his leggings and tunic back on. At least his body was behaving normally now. His cock had shriveled to nothing as soon as he’d touched the water.

“You can turn around now,” he said.

She took a cautious peek over her shoulder and, seeing him fully clothed, turned and went back to her rock. He sat on the one across from her and leveled an intent stare in her direction.

“Tell me why,” he said simply.

Her eyes lowered, and she fidgeted with the ends of the blanket held firmly in her grip. “Does it matter why? I did a terrible thing. You and your clan rightfully deserve justice for my sins.”

“Aye, it matters,” he said in a low voice. “It matters to me, Genevieve. I would know what drove you to such.”

She lifted her gaze and stared directly into his eyes, her voice earnest and passionate, almost as if she was pleading with him to understand.

“Because you were my only hope.”

The faint whisper sounded loud in the calm of the morning. He didn’t know what to say. How to respond. What could she mean? He shook his head in confusion.

“I do not understand.”

Tears filled her eyes, and she clutched the blanket even tighter around her, as if it were all that protected her from grave harm.

“I knew if Ian were to take Eveline, his deed would not go unpunished. The Montgomerys and Armstrongs are two very powerful clans. They would never stand for such a wrong being done to one of their own, and Eveline was both Montgomery and Armstrong.”

Bowen continued to stare at her as understanding slowly dawned. He let out his breath in a long exhale, as he finally realized her scheme.

“You wanted us to come.”

“Aye,” she whispered. “I did not know if my fate would be any better at your hands, but it could not be worse than what I endured with Ian. It was a chance I had to take.”

Bowen’s head was swimming with all that she’d related. “I do not know whether to applaud your genius or condemn a plan that was so fraught with danger to an innocent woman.”

Genevieve bit into her lip as if to stifle something she was about to say. Then she merely looked away, refusing to meet his gaze any longer.

“What is to be done with me?” she finally asked, her gaze still averted.

Her shoulders slumped in a posture that screamed defeat. Resignation. It pained him to see her so lifeless when he knew deep inside that there existed a passionate, vibrant woman.

He took in a deep breath, knowing his decision would be met with arguments from both his kin and the Armstrongs if Genevieve’s part in Eveline’s abduction was ever brought to light.

“I made you a promise, lass. One I intend to keep. I told you that I would either see you well placed within my own clan or I would see you entered into an abbey, as was your wish. ’Tis more likely that, given what you did, the abbey would be a better choice. I know not if my kin would ever forgive the wrong you did to Eveline.”

A tear trailed down her perfect, unmarred cheek. The scarred side of her face was turned away, as was her habit, and she presented such an image of loveliness and tragedy that his breath caught in his throat.

He had the fiercest urge to pull her into his arms and offer her comfort. He doubted the lass had experienced anything resembling comfort in all the time she’d been in captivity.

“I do not deserve for you to keep your promise, Laird. It was exacted when you knew not what I’d done. ’Tis perfectly understandable if you wish to go back on your word. I would not blame you.”

“But I would blame myself,” Bowen said. “I am not without sympathy for your plight. I cannot even say that your plan was not without merit. If ’twas any other woman than my brother’s wife that we spoke of, I would not feel the anger that overcame me when I discovered what you’d done. ’Tis hard for me to be objective when I know Eveline and the gentleness of her spirit. And yet I cannot discount the desperation and necessity of your actions. I cannot find fault with a lass for only wanting to be free.”

A choked sob ruptured from her throat. She put a balled fist to her mouth in an attempt to stifle the sound of her distress. When she spoke, her voice cracked from the strain of holding back her sobs, and yet her words were earnest and heartfelt.

“I would not wish harm on another, even to save myself. You have to believe that.”

Bowen studied her a long moment, his heart aching with the need to touch her. “Aye, lass,” he said. “I believe I do at that.”

“I should go now,” she said, rising with haste, the ends of the blanket flapping in the breeze. “The others will have risen, and I would not have them find me in a state of undress in your presence.”

“Nay,” he murmured. “You have suffered the opinions of others too much already.”

He watched as she made her way back to the keep. She made a forlorn picture, barefoot, her hair wet from her bath, and the drying blanket wrapped around her. When she topped the rise, she paused for a brief moment and looked back at him, their gazes connecting across the distance. And then she turned toward the keep and slowly disappeared over the ridge.