“Then what is it?”

  Gah! Her and her questions!

  “Have you kissed women before?” she went on before he could answer her first question. She stared at him with wide, dark eyes as she rode. “Touched them?”

  He sighed and nodded his head.

  “How come you could with them and not with me?”

  He raked his fingers through his curls, pulling them away from his face. She wasn’t going to let up. He had to give her an answer. It would mean something.

  “Because I—I didna care aboot them, Rose.”

  “Oh,” she let out on a soft breath.

  It was hard not to think about kissing her right now with her mouth all pursed and ready to kiss—and kissed thoroughly. But, no. “There is no place fer love in me. What I do is hard to live with—even fer me sometimes. It takes its toll, and I am unpleasant.” There. He breathed. He almost hated himself for going down on one knee so easily.

  “Then stop doing it.”

  He flashed her a scowl because she made it sound so easy. “After I fought England and Scotland’s wars, I realized I was killin’ the wrong people. Most of the men I killed were innocent, caught up in the deceits of kings.” He paused, not knowing how to explain to her the anger in his heart for men. He’d killed too many, had grown too hard. Why was he so intent on explaining it to her? “I am good at killin’, Rose. In fact, ’tis what I am best at.”

  She moved her horse closer to his and shook her head. “What you are best at is saving people. My, but look at all you have done for me! You are hurrying to go save a woman from a man who killed her husband and took her captive. You save good people from the bad.”

  He stared at her, marveling at the way she looked at things from such a different standpoint. A lighter, better standpoint.

  She smiled, lifting her hand to her mouth when he kept staring at her.

  “Ye are good fer my soul, lass,” he told her, lifting his fingers to the strands of her hair over her eye. Part of him cringed at telling her so much. The other part liked how it felt to tell her all, to have her understand who he was. And to have her shine a light on a part of himself he thought long gone.

  “And you,” she told him, closing her eyes at his touch, “are good for mine.”

  Thornhill wasn’t as busy as Rose thought it would be. Part of the reason was fear of the plague. Two people had turned up with boils and fever and died just hours before Rose and Tristan had arrived. There were two inns in the town, but neither was open.

  They made camp in a small clearing a mile away from the town. Tristan made a small fire for more warmth and readied himself for what he was going to do. He would hurry.

  Rose didn’t mind sleeping outdoors as long as Tristan was with her. She watched him tie strips of cloth to his calves and thighs and then tuck various-sized knives into them all. She wished he would change his mind about killing Walters. They could rescue the woman he’d taken and send Walters off to prison. But Tristan had corrected her. First, there would be no they when it came to Walters, and second, governors, barons, earls and the like didn’t go to prison. That’s why they had him.

  Governor Walters was to speak publicly tonight in the town hall. People were terrified and looking for guidance. Tristan promised not to kill him until after he reassured everyone.

  “I will find a way into the governor’s manor house and take the captive woman to a safe place,” he told Rose while he pulled on his long coat. With a shrug of his broad shoulders that made her weak, he adjusted the coat then slipped on his bow and quiver. “I have already arranged fer her to be brought back to her uncle who paid fer her deliverance, so she will not be alone fer long. I will wait fer Walters in his home and take care of things, and then I will return to ye.”

  “You have everything planned,” Rose said in a regretful tone.

  “What is it?” he asked, obviously sensing her unease. “I told ye what I did was hard to live with, lass.”

  She nodded. He had told her. But he was getting ready to make it real now. He spoke about it as if he were discussing supper. She knew Walters had done a terrible thing, but… “Tristan, is there not another way?”

  He went to her and took her by the arms. “Rose,” he spoke softly and looked into her eyes. “There is no other way. I made an agreement.”

  “What do I care of agreements when your soul is at stake!”

  He said nothing but let her go and leaped into his saddle. “Wait here. I willna be too long.”

  She waited alone for as long as she could but when she heard something growling from the trees, she mounted her horse and rode in the direction of Walters’ home.

  After a little while, she spotted Tristan coming to a secluded, hilly part of the town. She stayed far behind him as he neared a large front garden with a short, six-foot gate surrounding the governor’s manor house.

  It was beginning to get dark. Walters had left to go to the town hall. There were four guards patrolling the grounds from a narrow parapet around the torchlit wall. They peered out into the twilight. All was eerily quiet. The animals knew Tristan was there—somewhere, for even Rose had lost sight of him. The soldiers would have done well to listen to the odd silence.

  She barely breathed from her hiding place on the other side of the trees. She’d dismounted and crouched low in the bramble. She could see nothing beyond the wall but had the perfect view of the grounds outside of it. Where had Tristan gone?

  Suddenly, something rained down from the starlit sky. Rose would have missed it if one of the guards on watch hadn’t collapsed, likely dead from an arrow jutting out of his neck. Another arrow swooshed through the air and a second soldier dropped dead where he stood impaled to the wooden structure.

  Rose held her hand over her mouth and waited for alarms to sound or for someone to shout out, but only more silence followed.

  Where was he?

  She turned her gaze upward just in time to catch sight of something dark drop from a thick branch that dangled over the wall. No guards hurried to see what or who it was because the two on this side were dead.

  Was it Tristan slipping into an open window along the parapet, unseen and unhindered?

  Rose marveled while she waited. Who was he? MacPherson. A Highlander, trained by his father. Once a soldier in King David’s army. He was a brother, a son, a cousin, and a nephew who liked tales of kings and glory.

  She was still contemplating him when she heard the sound of horses and looked in the direction of the road. A procession of riders came toward the gate.

  Rose’s heart quickened. Who was it? Was that the governor riding in the center of his guards? She panicked when the gates opened, and the procession began to enter through them. What would happen when they went inside and found Tristan making off with the governor’s captive? There were at least a dozen men including the governor. Could Tristan fight them? What about the guards already inside the house?

  Would Tristan be prepared for them all? He didn’t strike her as the kind of man who was unprepared for anything. Except for her. He wouldn’t be prepared for her appearing on the scene trying to help him.

  She knew she shouldn’t go, but she could not wait another instant and made her way around the trees and to the front gate before it closed.

  “And what can I do for you, lovely?” a lanky guard asked her. It was getting darker, but it was still light enough to see that when he grinned, the tip of his nose hovered above his overbite.

  She slipped her gaze to the procession of men entering the small courtyard then she settled her gaze on the guard and smiled. She might not know how to interact with friends or with Tristan, but she knew how to handle guards when she wanted her way.

  “You can let me pass,” she told him, letting her smile linger until he shook his head. “What are you called?”

  “Trevor.”

  “Trevor, now I shall know who to blame when the governor does not hear what I have to tell him about the Black Death.”

  He blinked and his grin disappeared into a slow look of terror. “Who are you”

  The men dismounted and began to enter the house. What could she do?

  She cupped her hands over her mouth and shouted as loud as she could. The manor house had windows. Tristan would hear her. “They are coming!”

  Trevor grabbed hold of her arm. “People from the south! They are coming to London!”

  Trevor realized she wasn’t trying to warn anyone in the house, but rather, she was mad in the head. He began to pull her toward the entrance.

  The front doors of the house burst open and shouting filled the air. Trevor’s head began to turn to see what was going on. A knife flew through the air and landed with a thump into the guard’s neck.

  Standing close by, Rose opened her mouth to scream as Trevor’s body collapsed to the ground.

  “Rose!” Tristan roaring her name stopped her. “Get oot of here!”

  He walked backward toward her with a man’s neck held captive in the crook of his arm. With his other hand, he reached for another blade from his belt and positioned it at his captive’s neck. In front of him and closing the gap was a group of about twenty of the governor’s soldiers. Behind him was a young, frightened woman with bruises on her face and arms.

  “To your left!” Rose shouted.

  Tristan scowled even harder, as if he didn’t need her warning him.

  With nothing but their horses and freedom behind them, Tristan stopped with the man’s back pressed against Tristan’s chest. In one hand, Tristan cupped the man’s forehead. In the other, he held the knife to the man’s throat.

  Rose was afraid to look, but she couldn’t look away.

  The man had to be the governor, for the other soldiers all halted.

  “If one of ye takes another step, he dies!” Tristan shouted. “Turn around, every one of ye and go back into the house and shut the door!” When no one moved, Tristan drew blood along the governor’s throat. “Tell them or I will kill ye,” he warned in a quieter, even deadlier voice along the governor’s ear.

  “Do as he says!” the governor screamed.

  Rose wondered if Tristan had changed his mind about killing him. She hoped so. She didn’t care about his reputation or the payment he received.

  She watched the men return to the house. They shut the door as Tristan had commanded.

  “Who are you?” the governor demanded. “What do you want? Do you want Eleanor? Take her? She is a cold bi—!”

  “Ye expect her to be warm to the rat shyte that killed her husband?” Tristan reminded him between clenched teeth.

  Rose turned to look at the young woman, crying now. Eleanor?

  “He took me from my children, as well,” Eleanor said through her tears.

  “And to answer yer first inquiry,” Tristan continued. “I am Tristan MacPherson.”

  The governor went deathly pale. “No!”

  “Ladies,” Tristan said, “run.”

  Eleanor took off through the open gate. Rose took a few steps but hesitated, waiting for him.

  “Please! No!” Walters begged.

  Tristan’s blade cut through Walter’s neck and blood spurted forth. So much of it.

  “Rose,” Tristan’s low, deep voice startled her out of her terror as he let the governor go. The dead body slipped to the ground not far from Trevor.

  He didn’t say anything else but took her by the wrist and ran for their horses.

  Oh, would she ever forget what she had just seen? The governor had begged him. The knife slashed so smoothly and then life was gone. So quickly. She trembled at the memory. She quaked at the weight of it.

  He tugged, pulling her from her thoughts.

  His horse was closer. He put Eleanor on it and told Rose to mount in front of her. Rose showed him where her horse was, and he ran for it.

  She followed him as he thundered away from the house, and then the town. They didn’t stop until they came to a small tavern two villages away.

  After making sure they hadn’t been followed, Tristan dismounted. He waited for Rose and Eleanor to do the same, and then paid two stable hands to take the horses.

  “We will be waitin’ fer Davey MacDonnell,” he told the women as he brought them to the tavern and pushed open the door. “MacDonnell fought at my side in many battles. I trust him with my life. He will take ye home to yer kin, Eleanor.”

  She nodded and wiped her eyes as they sat at a small table. “Who are you, Tristan MacPherson? Why did you come to save me from the governor?

  Rose smiled when his gaze slanted to hers. He’d saved this woman, as he had saved her.

  He didn’t smile back.

  “Yer Uncle James paid me to kill Walters and take ye back,” he told her woodenly then ordered three ales. “He awaits ye in Selkirk and will take ye home from there.”

  Eleanor wept and repeated her eternal thanks for saving her from her captor.

  “He beat me every day. He expected me to serve and please him after he…he killed Jamie.”

  Rose pulled Eleanor into her embrace and held the woman while she wept.

  When MacDonnell finally arrived, he and Tristan shared a quick embrace and some talk about what had happened at the governor’s place.

  “Och, ye are a wily bastard, MacPherson. I would wager they didna even know ye were in the house until ’twas too late.”

  Rose thought how correct Davey was. Tristan was silent and efficient. He’d saved Eleanor. He’d delivered her safely to MacDonnell.

  But he was correct in telling her that what he did was hard to live with. He’d killed Trevor without a second thought. He’d killed the governor as easily as if he were petting the village dog. He didn’t look at his victims or acknowledge them at all when they cried for mercy.

  It would be hard to live with…knowing he did it.

  She sighed, afraid that she would never be able to let him go.

  As she suspected, he was angry with her for showing up in the middle of everything. She could have been killed or gotten him killed. She shivered at the thought.

  He’d barely spoken a word to her and when he looked at her, he furrowed his brows. Rose doubted he knew he was doing it.

  She longed to speak with him, to be closer to him and soften his hardest resolve. She knew she could. He liked her. She’d teased him about it, but it was true. Perhaps he didn’t like many, but he liked her. She could see it in the way his beautiful, green eyes shone from deep within when she said something that made him smile, which started out as a rare occurrence and was happening more often.

  For a man who showed no mercy, it was the very first thing he’d given her. She would never forget it. She would forgive him anything because of it.

  Chapter Seven

  They left the tavern before the sun went down and parted ways with MacDonnell and Eleanor.

  The instant they were alone, Tristan turned to Rose with an angry scowl that rivaled anything he’d given her yet. “Ye could have been killed. You could have gotten Eleanor killed. What did ye think ye were goin’ to do to help me, Rose?” He didn’t want to let it sink in that she was coming to mean too much to him. He’d nearly lost his mind when he heard her warning shout. When he left the governor’s house with Eleanor and saw her at the gate with the guard, he doubted his skill to save her. His knife would come close to her. If she moved…for an instant, he’d lost sight of everything but her. Killing the governor, rescuing Eleanor, getting out alive, nothing mattered but Rose.

  “I do not know,” she told him honestly. “I just know that I could not wait without so much as a dropped bowl echoing from a window. I thought for certain they had killed you.” Were those tears misting her eyes over him?

  His brows knit over his eyes. No. He couldn’t show her pity. What she did was reckless and dangerous. He would never allow it with his men on the field, and she wasn’t even a man! “Not only is yer lack of confidence in me insultin’, but if I was dead, d’ye know what those men would likely have done to ye, findin’ ye at the gate fer the takin’?” He didn’t give her time to answer. His eyes grew cold and dark on her. “Never disobey me again or I’ll leave you where you stand. Is that clear?”

  “Aye, ’tis clear. Forgive me for upsetting you, Tristan.” And just as easily as that, she asked, and he granted.

  They thought it best not to stay in any inns since the plague seemed to be moving so swiftly. They rode through a thick stand of oak trees and stopped at a small clearing where shafts of moonlight broke through the canopy and glimmered off the intricate web of a golden orb weaver spider.

  Tristan built a fire and they shared some bread and dried meat. He brewed his tea and they took turns sipping it and talking softly over the flames.

  “When did you begin doing what you do for a living?” she asked him, picking off a piece of bread.

  He dipped his gaze to the fire. He didn’t really wish to speak of it. “When I left the army.”

  “Do you think you might ever stop fighting?”

  He looked at her and saw love and affection staring back at him. She understood why he continued to kill. And she wanted him to stop.

  Was she the reward for going home and settling into a life of fathering sons and daughters, as many as his body could stand making with her?

  “I canna stop, Rose,” he told her, watching her affection turn to anger. “I have one more man to bring to justice.”

  “There will always be one more, Tristan, because people can be quite evil. God’s punishment will be far worse than anything you could do to them.”

  “Father Timothy would love ye,” he said, gazing into the flames again.

  “Who is Father Timothy?”

  “My father’s closest friend,” he told her, remembering the priest’s dark, lambent eyes and gentle smile. “And mine as well. He speaks of God often. He has a sayin’. I remember him sayin’ it all the time, any chance he could.”

  “What is it?” she asked, finishing her tea.

  “God is good.”

  “Aye,” she nodded. Her affection for Tristan shone in her eyes once again. “He is.” She stretched and yawned, and Tristan rose to spread out their blankets in the grass.