Highlander Most Wanted (The Montgomerys and Armstrongs #2)(72)

“I would meet the lass when you’ve had time to think on all that plagues you,” Graeme said.

“Aye, you will. I’ll introduce you myself.”

“I’ll leave you then.”

Graeme clapped Bowen on the back and squeezed his shoulder in a gesture of comfort. Bowen offered a grim smile and turned back toward the river and made his way down the hill to the banks.

The same banks where he and Genevieve had conversed more than once. Where he’d seen her glowing like a sea nymph, her body wet and glistening.

Christ’s bones, but the realization of what he had to do crippled him. He was paralyzed by the mere thought. Grief consumed him, but at the same time there was a peace slowly seeping into his consciousness.

’Twas the hardest thing he’d ever have to do, but it was the right thing.

Chapter 35

Genevieve left her chamber a few hours after Bowen departed, even though he’d told her to remain inside. Normally, she’d obey his dictate—she’d done so until now—but the tiny, cramped chamber was driving her daft and she needed but to stretch her legs a short while.

She paused outside Taliesan’s door, tempted to see if she was within. Genevieve would feel better with the lass’s company, but neither did she want to involve Taliesan if one of the McHughs came across Genevieve and hurled insults and accusations at her.

Genevieve had been very careful to avoid the majority of the McHugh clan ever since the battle, and she knew not if they had knowledge of her part in Patrick’s killing. But even if they didn’t, the fact that she’d been the reason for Corwen’s death was enough for them to vent their anger on her.

Gathering her cape and hood around her, she rapidly descended the stairs, hesitating as she peeked into the hall. ’Twas time for the noonday meal, and many were gathered round the tables in the hall. She’d make her escape through the exit to the courtyard and pray that she passed unmolested.

Ducking her head, she hurried on her way, her stride rapid. The wind pulled at her cape when she stepped outside, and she shielded her eyes from the sand and grit kicked up by the gusts.

When she rounded the corner, she came face to face with a group of women who were returning from the river with their washing.

Their expressions turned to anger the moment they realized it was she. One woman dropped the basket of damp clothing and, without saying a word, picked up a rock and hurled it at Genevieve.

It struck her on the arm, and she flinched in pain. She turned to protect herself and, to her horror, the other women followed suit.

“Whore!” one spat as she threw a rock that sailed over Genevieve’s head. Thank God.

“Murderer!”

The litany of names made Genevieve recoil. She took her hands from their protective barrier long enough to collect her skirts so she could run back toward the keep as fast as she could.

One of the rocks struck her square in the middle of her back, and she cried out in pain. Another grazed her temple, and she felt the warm trickle of blood slide slowly down her cheek.

But it was the one that hit her in the back of the head that felled her.

She went sprawling forward and nearly fell into the arms of Teague Montgomery as she rounded the corner to the courtyard.

She hit the ground with a painful thud, but she knew she couldn’t remain down. They’d be on her like a pack of wolves, and she feared they wouldn’t stop until they killed her.

“What the devil?” Teague demanded as he knelt on the ground beside her.

As he turned her over, she saw that Brodie Armstrong was at his side, and his face was drawn into a fierce scowl.

Teague wiped his thumb over the blood on her face, his eyes narrowed. “Who did this to you?” he demanded.

“They’re coming,” she gasped.

Teague glanced up, and Genevieve could hear the shriek of the women as they rounded the corner, their thirst for blood—her blood—evident in their cries.

“Brodie,” Teague barked. “See to it.”

Teague gently gathered her in his arms, shielding her all the while with his own body. Brodie roared his order for the women to halt and then he laid into them for what they’d dared.

Genevieve huddled in Teague’s arms, her head burrowed into his chest as he rapidly strode for the door to the keep. Her prayers were answered when he bypassed the hall and headed straight up the stairs to her chamber.

When he shouldered through her door, he plunked her down on her bed, and then immediately left her to wet a washcloth in the basin.

She lay there numbly, shock making her cold and insensible. She was vaguely aware of pain in her head and in other places, but all she could picture over and over was the rage and hatred on the faces of the women.

Oh God, she would never have a place here. She’d known it, but somehow having Bowen here had made her look beyond the intense dislike the McHughs had for her.

She closed her eyes as a tear squeezed from the corner of one and slid wetly down her cheek.

“Don’t cry, lass,” Teague said gruffly. “ ’Tis enough to make me panic.”

Her eyelids fluttered open and he swam in her vision. He sat on the edge of the bed next to her and, with a frown of concentration, carefully wiped the blood from her scarred cheek.

She was mortified to have him in such close proximity performing such an intimate task. But he held her chin firmly with one hand so she couldn’t turn away while he cleaned the wound with his other hand.