Highlander Most Wanted (The Montgomerys and Armstrongs #2)(49)

Teague brightened, his stomach already in agreement if the rumble was any indication.

“A pox on both of you,” Bowen said sourly.

Teague grinned. “And nay, you aren’t allowed to come with us. We’ll be back before the evening meal. I’ll set Geoffrey and Deaglan on you to ensure you don’t overtax yourself while we’re away patrolling our borders.”

“Patrolling my arse,” Bowen grumbled.

Still, as restless as he felt, and as much as he resented being confined to the keep and unable to participate in the patrol or the hunt, he was eager for an opportunity to spend more time with Genevieve without having to offer explanations to Teague or Brodie.

Teague rose and clapped a hand on Bowen’s shoulder. “We’re off. Pray that we are successful. ’Tis no telling how long we’ll have to wait for a decent meal otherwise.”

Bowen watched as the two men departed the hall. Teague and Brodie seemed to have developed a liking for each other that went beyond mere tolerance. It was an odd thought, the idea of a Montgomery ever willingly embracing friendship with an Armstrong, but it would seem that Teague and Brodie had done just that.

The cold food in front of him held no appeal, and yet he was famished, not having eaten in two days’ time. With a grimace, he forced himself to choke down a healthy portion of the food and he chased it with copious amounts of water.

When he was done, he rose, his stomach feeling as though it were filled with rocks. It may have been a better idea to have suffered hunger rather than actually partaking of what was masquerading as food.

He headed up to his chamber, though he had no desire to remain there. His chest did bother him, aye, but he had no intention of spending another day abed.

Once inside his chamber, he put on his boots and then combed out his long hair. He secured it at his nape with a leather tie, though it was still damp from washing.

His fingers positively itched for a sword. Some kind of activity to remove the clumsiness from his blood. Everything seemed to move in slow motion. He was slower to process and to react. A good battle would serve to wake him up.

After examining his stitching to ensure there were no tears or bleeding, he adjusted his tunic and then left his chamber once more. Surely someone would accommodate his need for exercise this morn. He was in the mood to beat someone into a pulp.

Genevieve had done an excellent job of avoiding situations where the McHugh clansmen would be present. It gave her no pride to admit that most of her time had been spent behind the closed door of her chamber.

Only by going to the stream in the wee hours of dawn had she been afforded the privacy in which to bathe, although the last two times she’d gone, Bowen Montgomery had made an appearance.

’Twas obvious it was a practice she was going to have to give up.

She paced the interior of her chamber, pausing ever so often to stare out her window to the distance. She’d seen Teague Montgomery and Brodie Armstrong depart with a few men accompanying them many hours past. It was well into the afternoon now, and she’d not eaten since Taliesan had brought cheese and bread to her chamber that morn.

Anxiously she awaited the signs that the rest of the keep had taken their afternoon respite. After the midday meal and the tasks of the day were completed, the clan was allowed a time to rest and do as they wished.

So far Bowen hadn’t changed the practice, though she’d never seen him, his brother, or his men take part in a period of rest. They seemed always to be so focused.

Finally, the courtyard cleared and clansmen returned to the keep as well as to their cottages. Genevieve watched from her window as they walked toward their respective quarters.

This was a time when she could venture outside to breathe the fresh air. Being sequestered in her chamber was enough to drive her daft. Even a short walk to the river and back would be most welcome. But the tedium of being isolated had not been enough to make her risk confrontation with the McHughs—any of them. Especially as it was probably widespread by now that she’d been the one to kill Patrick.

Collecting her hooded cape and then gathering the hood tightly at her chin so her face was hidden from view, she left her chamber and hurried down the stairs.

Not wanting to risk going through the hall, she slipped through the door to the courtyard. She stayed close to the keep as she rounded the corner to head beyond the walls to the river.

Perhaps she’d merely sit on the hill overlooking the grassy section where sheep had once grazed. There was only one sheep and her lamb, left only because Patrick had likely been unable to catch them. But the grassy knoll was pleasing to the eye, and it brought her a measure of peace to soak in the beauty around her.

She sat with her back pressed to a huge rock outcropping so it would shield her from the view of anyone looking from the keep. Pulling her legs to her chest, she rested her chin on the tops of her knees and let out a deep sigh.

It was such a beautiful afternoon. The sun was still high, and only just leaning toward the horizon in its descent. The skies were painted a vivid blue, with not so much as a whisper of clouds to mar the perfect canvas.

She inhaled deeply, savoring the sweet-scented air. The sun’s rays bathed her in warmth, caressing her skin and instilling a comfortable lethargy. A nap would be next to heaven. Just her stretched out under the Highland sky, with the sun dancing across her flesh while the wind whispered a soft melody in her ears.

Her eyes were closing, her muscles loosening as tension seeped from her body. She had nearly drifted off, her thoughts and dreams of forgotten places, when a sound rudely jerked her back to awareness.