Page 5 of The Highlander's Temporary Bride
When he saw her run from the bandits and noted the poor old grandfather lying in the grass, his blood boiled. Especially when he’d heard the rough accent of his own people.
Did these fools not realize that their selfish thievery hurt their innocent kin in the north?
So, he’d cut two of them down with ease, snatched back some of the lass’s things, then set to track her down. It had been a simple matter, and Grant had thought to show her back to the road when he’d heard that soft voice, then taken a closer look.
She could wear beggar’s clothes all she wanted, but her beauty and poise were unmistakable. Grant thought he’d be able to recognize her immediately for the rest of his life.
Now, the woman stared at him with pure panic, knowing that her ruse was up, but she did not attempt to run. Yet.
For it seemed the lass was as crafty as her Queen. The quick intelligence in her eyes told Grant that she was waiting to see what he would do—what he wanted.
Perhaps she imagined that he wanted her for a bride.
A snort escaped him, and he took a step toward her, a flash of admiration welling up inside him when she did not quail or step back. Instead, she held her ground as he came toward her.
“What, do you want a reward?” she asked, breathless.
A smile tugged up Grant’s cheek as he came to a stop in front of her and gazed down.
And what would an English lady offer such a Scottish beast?
For he had heard her laughter and jibes, which had filled him with equal measures of amusement and irritation.
He caught her chin again and almost said,What would ye say if I told ye I was nay beast—ye’d be glad of a beast. For I am kenned as the Devil of Banrose and I am one of the reasons the Queen thought to tame the north with fair maidens.
“Unhand me, sir,” the woman warned, a flush rising in her cheeks.
Grant felt a peculiar, deep burst of desire. She had a round face with a pert chin, clear skin, and high cheekbones. He’d never seen someone so sweet and winsome, yet with the kind of beauty that stole his breath. Indeed, when she’d first appeared in the woods, he’d wondered if he was dreaming at first—though his dreams of late had not been so amorous. Nor had Grant entertained such fancies in nigh on a decade.
Now, though, Grant couldn’t help but imagine slanting his mouth over those full lips, tasting and taking her.Ruiningher. She was a Lady, so he would fulfill the Queen’s desires, would he not? And wouldn’t it be such an infuriating insult that the Queen would not retaliate if he were to take this lass in such a way?
Grant fought down those base temptations.Nay.Those demons were born of the cruelty his father had inflicted on him, and he could choose to control them for a better purpose.
But he could seduce her. Ah, that would be too easy. Already, he could see she was enthralled and curious. A burst of excitementshot through him. More than that, she seemed equally attracted to him. Perhaps he could take her to London, explain that he’d rescued her and that he’d like to wed her. She seemed lively and capable enough, if a bit spoiled. And he’d happily disabuse her of her misconceptions about Scotland.
But ye cannae marry who ye choose,said a voice in his head. Aye, there was that.
He still did not want to let her go, though.
Perhaps…He gazed at her.Perhaps ye can help me in another way.
Grant was so lost in his thoughts, not paying attention to the lady, when he heard a twig snap.
His head snapped up, and he looked around. But the Lady had not moved.
Grant barely had time to draw his blade and turn around as a man swung down his broadsword. The impact reverberated through Grant’s bones, and he snarled at the man, shoving him back. But the soft ground was poor for such close combat, sucking at his boots.
Worse, the brute was massive, with a black cloth tied around his face and a hat pulled low over his eyes. Grant heard a gasp behind him and turned to see the lady backing away from another brute, similarly attired, wielding a knife.
“Ain’t ye a pretty thing?” the man crooned. “Too pretty a thing to be muckin’ about with a Scot, I tell ye.”
Grant’s blood boiled, and he dropped low, causing the brute he was fighting to stumble forward as he drove his shoulder up. The big man went flying and landed on his back, his arms open wide. His comrade stared down at him, not even noticing Grant moving low and fast, not until Grant was on him.
The man barely lifted his sword in time, yet as their blades clashed, Grant felt a prickle of annoyance, as well as confusion. What in the reach of hell were such good swordsmen doing in a forest between Yorkshire and London, going after this lady? He’d thought they were common rabble or bandits, but unless English scallywags learned swordplay from birth, these were trained soldiers.
And as the man cursed, Grant slowed down in surprise, staring at the man, who jolted.
Ye are from Northern England. Bloody, hell—Shillmoor bandits.
