Page 13 of The Highlander's Temporary Bride
Hurrying back to Morgana’s, he headed for the stables. He’d have someone fetch some water, but he needed to get her home.As he approached the entrance, one of the stableboys jumped up, grinning at him, and then scampered to fetch his horse, Balfire.
The sleek and strong warhorse appeared a moment later. Balfire had been considered too small, but he was still a MacLarsen horse, so he was meant for great things. Grant had been fortunate to receive the mount, which all folk told him when they found out.
Years ago, he’d spent a summer helping Laird MacLarsen and his man-at-arms track down bandits outside Edinburgh, at MacCabe’s behest. They’d barely survived, and yet, afterGrant saved their lives—after almost causing them to die—Laird MacLarsen had jested that he had no choice but to offer Grant one of their fine horses.
Four years ago, after becoming Laird, Grant had taken MacLarsen up on his offer. And he had known from the second he laid eyes on young Balfire that the horse was meant to be his.
Balfire’s liquid eyes were bright with intelligence and mischief, and he butted his silvery head against Grant’s shoulder, then sniffed the lass.
“Who is that?” the stableboy asked, pushing back his hat and revealing a mop of bright red corkscrew curls. “Why’s she asleep?”
“Aye, I’d like to ken as well, Miller,” drawled another voice.
Grant smiled at Morgana as she came out, thankful that the tavern owner had alerted him to the lass’s escape. He idly wondered if Clyde, the man everyone assumed owned the tavern, was still hiding in the kitchen. The man had once seen Grant kill a thief with a dart to the throat and had never met Grant’s eyes since.
Morgana, meanwhile, was grateful that Grant had stopped the man from stealing her savings.
Grant lifted a shoulder, and Morgana gestured to her son, then nodded at Grant. “Let me ken if ye need anything else. And I’llsend out Elspeth with yer pack, some water, and what we owe ye.” He held up a hand, but she placed her own on her hip and scowled. “Ye need to stop overpayin’ me, or I’ll be insulted. Safe travels.”
Her eyes lingered on the English lass for a moment, and Grant had the sense that she saw more than he did.
“And take care of yerSassenach,” she added in a light tone. “Brave, foolish lass—‘tis hard to win when ye’re a woman against all the menfolk of England, Scotland, and the Crown itself.”
With that, Morgana and her son went inside, with the lad casting a few curious looks over his shoulder.
Grant adjusted the lass in his arms. Going to the well, he cupped some water in his hand and then pressed his damp fingers to her forehead. A pleasurable tremor of nerves coursed through his chest as her dark eyelashes fluttered.
“Oh,” Emma said and jerked awake, pushing at him, then gasping as she realized she was off the ground. “I fainted again?” she squeaked and clutched at him, then realized what she was doing and tried to squirm free. “You can put me down.”
Grant suppressed a laugh, the mirth burning in his throat like spiced honey. It was strange how she affected him. But even Grant, hardened by a near decade of cloak-and-dagger enterprises for Laird MacCabe, could not deny her liveliness—a sparkling sense of possibility and a buzz of energy. She didn’t seem able to stay still either.
At that moment, though, she stilled and gazed at him with those blue eyes. It was not the pale blue of summer, nor the warm blue of spring. Instead, it was the crisp and fierce blue of deep autumn—his favorite shade of the sky.
The heat in his throat melted and began to fill his chest, so he tore his gaze away and gave her a curt nod.
“I said, you mayputme down, Sir.”
That prim, princess-like order in that high-pitched, polished English voice stirred his blood as much as it made him chuckle hoarsely. He set her down, steadying her as she swayed, and she pulled back, glancing toward the path. A shudder ran through her.
“Will more come?” Her eyes flicked back to him and then to his sword. She sucked in a breath. “Will you kill them as well?”
Aye, I shall.
The Sassenach had the temerity to lift her chin as she declared, “Well, just know that I can usually hold my own. That was…” she trailed off, and he raised an eyebrow.
I’ve nay doubt ye believe that, lass, but I ken when a man means to kill. And?—
Grant swallowed hard and glanced away, suddenly cold with the thought of this bright-eyed, chattering wench gone from the world.
Drawing in a breath, he composed himself.
It’s probably the lack of sleep and food.
Grant looked back at Emma, noting she was still quiet, perhaps grappling with how close she had come to death.
I’m glad she’s safe.
“Oh, don’t look at me like that,” she said, interrupting his thoughts. She pursed her lips before she added, “I know I should be grateful, but I am not. Not when you won’t let me go.”
