Highlander Most Wanted (The Montgomerys and Armstrongs #2)(46)

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.”