Highlander Most Wanted (The Montgomerys and Armstrongs #2)(19)

She closed her eyes against a fresh surge of tears, humiliation chanting an awful litany in her head.

“You can’t imagine how it feels to have no other choice or to believe that all you’re worth is what you can offer a man through your body. I used to think I’d reached my absolute lowest point, and that I couldn’t possibly debase myself any more than I already had. I was wrong. ’Tis when I willingly offered my … s-s-services … to you that I realized I’d sunk as low as was possible. And yet I was so desperate for freedom that I was willing to debase myself, to face you with no shame or pride. I hate myself for that.”

She choked out the words, her anger and grief swelling with every passing second. She wanted to rage against the world. Wanted to scream at the helplessness of her situation and the unfairness of it all.

Bowen’s eyes glittered. He was furious. She couldn’t blame him.

“I wish with all my heart and soul that my brother hadn’t killed Ian McHugh,” Bowen growled.

Her eyes widened and her lips quivered. “Why would you want him to live?”

He pulled her close, until she was pressed to his body, his heat wrapping around her like the warmest fur in winter. He caressed her scarred cheek with a touch so tender that it was a physical ache in her soul.

His head lowered until his mouth was but mere inches from hers. His eyes were fierce, yet when he spoke his voice was quiet and resolute.

“So that I could kill him now for all he has done to you.”

Another tear crept over her eyelid and slipped unchecked down her cheek. He thumbed it gently away.

“Do not cry, Genevieve. ’Tis more than I can bear to see your tears.”

She bowed her head, staring downward, but he eased his palm down to cup her chin and then he carefully nudged upward so she was forced to meet his gaze again.

“I’m taking you back to the keep,” he said, his voice firm, brooking no argument. “You’ll be assigned a new chamber. I want your promise that you’ll not venture out alone again. I will not allow you to be ill-treated ever again, Genevieve. That is the promise I make to you.”

She couldn’t draw breath. She stared into Bowen Montgomery’s eyes, looking for any sign of deceit or treachery. All she saw was burning sincerity—and rage. Rage for her. Not at her, but on her behalf. It baffled her. He was a complete stranger. He owed her nothing. He had every reason to despise Ian McHugh and his whore. It would be so easy to lay siege to the keep and use her in any manner he saw fit. And yet he treated her gently.

The most unlikely of champions, and the most unlikely woman to inspire a man to champion her cause. She was naught but a scarred whore, and he was so handsome that he turned heads wherever he went. He was brother to one of the mightiest lairds in the Highlands, and he wielded much wealth and power.

It was absolutely true what she’d said earlier. This was a man who could have any woman he desired in all of Scotland.

And yet he seemed determined, whether she wished it or not, to see to her needs and … protect … her.

No one since her father and brothers had protected or sheltered her. No one had protected her against Ian, and Ian hadn’t protected her from the words and actions of his own clan.

She was so overcome that she couldn’t even put to words all that she was thinking.

“And when you leave?” she asked, fear already clutching her throat. “When you leave this place and I am naught but a memory, what then will happen to me?”

“I’ll not leave you to this fate,” he said in a quiet, firm voice. “If you have not changed your mind about sending word to your kin, then you’ll either be placed with my clan and offered the protection that extends to all Montgomerys or I’ll do as you asked and see you well placed at an abbey.”

Relief was sweet and swift. She sagged, her shoulders drooping, and closed her eyes to savor the promise of sanctuary.

Such a wondrous thing. Hope. Something she’d been so long without. And yet now it bloomed, like the first blossom in spring, spreading its petals to seek the sun.

It was overpowering in its intensity, and she welcomed it, savoring it like a lost friend.

Hope was the sweetest gift. It made her look to the future, not in dread or despair but with new eyes.

“Thank you,” she choked out.

Her fingers pressed into his muscular arms, her grip tight. She feared if she let go she would awake from a dream and find none of this was real.

“There is naught to thank me for. Now come. Let us return to the keep so that we may partake of the evening meal. You must be exhausted from your worries and the walk from the keep.”

“You are an angel sent from God at last,” she whispered. “I prayed for so long for one. I thought He had forgotten me, surely.”

Bowen’s features tightened and darkened. “I come too late. I have saved you from none of your misery. Would that I had known of your plight earlier. I would have come, Genevieve. I would have saved you.”

She put her hand on his forearm, noting the paleness of her skin against his much darker flesh. “ ’Tis not true. Your kindness is a beacon on the darkest night. I had forgotten that goodness exists.”

He seemed discomfited by her praise, but she met his gaze, never once looking away, so that her sincerity could not be questioned.

Then he slid an arm around her waist and guided her toward his horse a few feet away.