Highlander Most Wanted

chapter 6





Bowen stood in the doorway of Genevieve’s room, staring through the three-inch opening to where she sat on a shabby sleeping mat.

Her legs were drawn protectively to her chest, and he wondered if she had any idea how vulnerable such a position made her look.

Then she let out a low wail that was so filled with despair that it clutched at his throat, squeezing until it was difficult to draw breath.

He hesitated, his earlier determination to speak to her waning. She was suffering. Privately. Away from prying eyes and the disparagement of others. He should walk away and not let on that he’d been here at all.

But he couldn’t. It made no sense to him that he was fascinated by this particular lass. She intrigued him. She was a mystery he was determined to solve.

And he owed her a debt for the aid she’d given his brother in finding Eveline. Aye, he did, and he left no debt unpaid.

He pushed her door open wider and took a step forward. When she didn’t stir, he cleared his throat, alerting her to his presence.

Her head snapped up, her eyes flashing in alarm. Her stance was immediately defensive, and so automatic that it seemed she’d had much practice in defending herself. That thought made him frown.

“Why do you take it from them?” he asked bluntly, because there was no subtle way for him to ask what he wanted to know.

Her eyes widened, as though she couldn’t believe that he’d been so forthright.

“Why do you suffer their abuse and allow their words to go unchecked. You don’t strike me as an overly meek lass.”

She lifted one shoulder in a delicate shrug that shrouded her in a look of utter defeat. Exhaustion swam in her eyes and there was such resignation that it made him flinch.

Never had he witnessed such expressive eyes, and he wasn’t sure he liked it. Every emotion was there to see in the aqua-green pools. Her early stoicism was gone, and now he realized how hard she’d had to work at keeping her face expressionless. The façade had crumbled. One had only to look closely to know exactly what she was feeling. She’d never make a warrior. She gave away entirely too much.

“They only speak the truth,” she said in a brittle voice. “Should I rail at them for daring to say what is true?”

Bowen frowned, his stomach revolting at the thought. And yet he still couldn’t quite accept it.

“You were Ian McHugh’s whore?”

She flinched at the baldness of the question, but Bowen had never been one to mince words. Graeme was far superior with honeyed words. Bowen had the disconcerting habit of speaking his mind.

Then she raised her gaze to meet his, and he blinked at the dullness that had replaced the wash of emotion. It was as though someone had doused a lit candle, plunging a room into darkness.

“Aye, I was Ian McHugh’s whore,” she said bitterly. “ ’Tis common enough knowledge. Ask anyone in the keep. They’ll tell you the way of it.”

He couldn’t help his expression or the distaste that crept into his mouth. He shook his head, unable to comprehend why.

She pushed herself from the mat and paced a few feet away before turning, her arms securely folded over her chest. Again, he noted the protectiveness of her stance. It was as if every movement were for the sole purpose of self-preservation.

“I would speak to you on a personal matter,” she said in a careful tone.

Perplexed by the abrupt change of topic, he merely nodded, curious as to what the lass would say to him.

“I do not wish to remain here any longer,” she said. “I have nowhere to go. No family to aid me. The McHughs are not my kin and they will not care what happens to me. I cannot depend on their generosity to provide for me.”

Bowen started to interrupt her, to say that the McHughs had little say in what happened at this keep, but Genevieve continued in a trembling voice, the only hint of how unsettled she was.

“Please, good sir, pray let me continue before my courage leaves me.”

Bowen nodded his agreement, and Genevieve took in a deep breath. She turned her face away, so that the scarred cheek was hidden from view. He didn’t know if she did it apurpose or if it was purely instinctive to hide that part of herself.

“I should like to seek refuge in an abbey, but I would need transport and … coin … neither of which I possess,” she whispered. “I aided your brother, and though it was not why I did such a thing, I would be ever appreciative if you would see fit to provide for my entry into the abbey.”

His brows drew together as he stared at her in disbelief. It was the very last thing he imagined her requesting.

Her hands fluttered nervously and she rubbed self-consciously over her scarred cheek before pulling her hair forward to hide the deformity.

“I would be willing to stay for as long as you need assistance in assuming leadership over the McHugh clan. I can give you information. I can also give you … ease.”

Her cheek colored and her gaze fell. She wiped her hands down the skirts of her dress over and over as she waited.

“Ease?” he echoed, not at all sure what she’d just offered. He had an inkling, but surely not.

“I would act as your leman,” she blurted. “For as long as you want or need, provided at the end of our … liaison … you would escort me to an abbey so that I may seek entrance.”

He gaped incredulously at her. And then he laughed, because what else was there to do? She spoke of entering an abbey and in the next breath offered to act the whore for him.

Perhaps he hadn’t fully believed the truth of what she was to Ian until now. She bargained with her body like a seasoned whore, and he was disgusted by the idea that she would sell herself to him, bartering as if this were a common exchange of goods and services.

More color stained her cheeks, and her eyes flashed with … hurt? How could she possibly be hurt? Nothing about this woman made any sense to him, and he had the idea that he’d never fully know the whole of her. It would likely infuriate him to ever try to understand the inner workings of her mind.

“I know I am naught to look at,” she said quietly. “I do not blame you for your disgust. ’Tis said I have skill in … bed.”

She choked out the last word as if it were suffocating her. The color had fled from her face, and she looked ill.

Jesu, but this became messier all the time. Now the lass was convinced that his disgust was over the scar on her face.

He sighed, angered by the whole of it. And more than a little appalled that she’d offered herself without care. She hadn’t displayed even a modicum of self-respect.

Aye, it didn’t just make him angry. It made him bloody well furious.

“Do you not have more pride?” he demanded. “Do you offer yourself to every man who crosses your path, or is it because you find yourself without a protector now that your lover is dead. Would any man do?”

She went utterly white. “Protector?”

A hoarse, dry laugh escaped her, and the sound was guttural and ugly in the silence. He thought that she would say more, but she clamped her mouth shut and leveled a stare at him.

Her eyes were cold, unfeeling. The façade was back. No emotion reflected whatsoever. It was like looking across the waters of a loch in winter.

“What say you, Bowen Montgomery? Will you accept my proposition? Do we have an agreement or nay?”

He shook his head, distaste foul in his mouth. “I have no desire for Ian McHugh’s leavings.”

He spun on his heel and stalked from the room, but not before he saw the flash of anguish replace the coldness in her eyes.