She realized how quiet he had become and turned to look at him. His gaze was on her already. “Ye are strong to have survived it.”

  She sighed and shook her head a little. “No one has ever seen my legs. No one but you.”

  When he spoke, his voice shook. “I’m thankful I took ye from that pile.”

  She breathed. “As am I.” They both smiled softly at each other. She liked him. More than that, but he might kill her father. And now, it was up to her to prove her father was innocent.

  “Is this too difficult to recount?” he asked her. “Can ye speak of the events around yer mother’s death?”

  She told him everything she knew, which wasn’t overly much. Rose didn’t know if she was telling him things the way they happened or how she was remembering them. She was growing resentful as well, that she was having to explain everything to him in order to save her father’s life.

  They stopped outside a small market town to rest their horses and to refill their food supply. Rose wasn’t hungry. Soon, she would be home. And never let out again. She felt like weeping. She didn’t think living through the plague was worth it anymore if she lost Tristan. And she had, indeed, lost him. Her hero had become her nightmare.

  Oh, but she was weary of it all. She sat back against a tree and closed her eyes. “I feel like I could sleep for a sennight.”

  “It has been a long day already,” he agreed.

  It had been. Beginning with being kidnapped, and then finding out why Tristan was heading to Dumfries. She was bone tired. She pulled her mantle around her and listened to Tristan clearing up. She wasn’t sure what was going to happen when they reached Callanach Castle, and she didn’t want to rush.

  One part of her hoped with bated breath that Tristan would come sit by her. The other part prayed he didn’t. She wasn’t sure she was strong enough to resist him. And she needed to. For her father’s sake.

  It didn’t take her long to begin dreaming. She had a terrible fever. She was burning from the inside out. She couldn’t see clearly from the heat. But she could see him. He moved like one in a mirage, slicing through the flames. His image shimmered, mesmerizing, savage, graceful. He thrust his sword into the fire as if he were a warrior angel sent to avenge God.

  The fire became a man. He sank to his knees. It was her father.

  “Rose,” Tristan’s voice broke through her cries. He gathered her against his warm body as she trembled with terror. “There now,” he whispered against her forehead. “There now, lass. ’Twas just a dream.”

  But was it? She should pull away from him, but she didn’t want to. She wanted to weep over finding the man she’d always dreamed of. Well, in truth, there was little about Tristan MacPherson that was even close to her list. But it didn’t matter because he was all of those things to her. She’d found the man she would consider for a husband and he didn’t seem to mind that she was twenty years old.

  Only to have to give him up.

  But not tonight. Tonight, she would let him hold her. She would let herself cry in his arms, knowing she was safe there.

  She only wished her father was safe from Tristan as well.

  Captain William Harper marched down the long hall of Callanach Castle with a letter in his hand that had just been delivered from the Baron of Ayr. The captain hadn’t read it. It was addressed to the earl. He hoped it was something that would require him to leave the castle for a little while. He sighed as his boot heels clicked against the flagstones. He was tired of doing nothing but sitting around an empty castle, waiting, hoping an enemy would attack.

  When he reached the earl’s solar, he knocked on the door.

  “Come!” a man’s voice called out on the other side.

  The captain stepped inside. He swept his gaze over the earl, standing off to the right, pouring a drink for himself.

  “Ah, William, what is it?” He looked over his shoulder at the captain, suddenly going pale. “Is it something about my daughter?”

  “A letter, my lord,” the captain said, handing him the parchment. “From the Baron of Ayr.”

  With trembling fingers, Dumfries opened it and began reading.

  The captain and the earl were friends. Harper had promised his life to him ten years ago when he met the earl on the road to York. The captain had traveled with two other men. The trio was attacked by a group of thirteen men. His two comrades were taken down swiftly, leaving it one against thirteen. He’d been fading fast, his strength exhausted. He’d killed five men when his arm and his power abandoned him. One of the bastards was about to kill him, but another sword clanged over his head, stopping his death. It was the Earl of Dumfries, traveling with two other men. They made a quick end of the eight remaining bastards while the captain recovered.

  “Captain.”

  “My lord?”

  “It seems Tristan MacPherson has been hired to kill me.”

  “MacPherson?” the captain asked. Hell. This was serious. “What are the details? How long do we have to prepare?”

  “According to this,” the earl said, dropping his dark eyes on the letter, “it could be any day now.”

  Damnation! Of all the times for the earl to have sent the guards away! “I must go and make plans with the men. You should go below stairs. There are tunnels—”

  The earl shook his head. “I will not run and hide. I will fight with you at my side.”

  If Tristan MacPherson was truly on his way here and the earl was not hiding, MacPherson would surely kill him. “My lord, MacPherson does not usually engage in battle. When he does, he does not lose. He will not attack until he is upon you and can cut your throat from behind. That is how he does things. Go to the tunnels. Let us take him.”

  “You know much about him,” the earl remarked, raising a gray brow.

  The captain shifted his position. He had heard the stories. He’d listened to every one of them, learned all he could. But not because he was studying his enemy. MacPherson killed men who were accused of terrible crimes but did not hang for them. He was paid to kill. But the captain wondered if MacPherson would have killed them for free.

  Harper agreed with what he was doing. The others did as well.

  “’Tis best to know your enemy, my lord.”

  He might know more, but every soldier in northern England knew of Tristan MacPherson. His reputation was perfect and without blemish. He always killed who he was paid to kill. He never missed, never backed down.

  “Let me escort you below stairs,” he offered the earl.

  “I thank God Rose is not here.”

  “As do I, my lord, but come now.”

  “Captain, get my sword. As I said, I will not hide. I want you to go find him if you can, kill him.”

  Kill Tristan MacPherson. Strange how studying him for the past year made it feel as if Harper knew him, even admired him. But he owed the earl his life. He nodded his head. “I can,” he vowed and then left the solar.

  Aye, this was more like it. Hunting a murderer. His heart beat faster, stronger as he thought about which of his blades to carry, how much food he would need, which of the three remaining guards should he put in charge? Jones, for certain. Of the three, he was the one practicing his swordplay every day.

  After he saw to the men and to his needs on the road, the captain left Callanach’s gates and turned his horse north. He had about two hours of sunlight left. He would make camp outdoors and keep a watchful eye for any firelight in the darkness in case the killer moved at night.

  He still cursed the earl’s decision to send off any of the other men to Hamilton with his daughter. But he wouldn’t waste his time dwelling on should-have-beens. He’d been given the chance to kill a fearsome executioner and he wouldn’t fail.

  No matter what the captain thought of the killer.

  Chapter Ten

  Tristan opened his eyes from his sleep and stared at Rose’s face. Her eyes were closed, her breathing, finally slow and steady. It had been a difficult night for her, but he had been there with her, holding her through it.

  He still couldn’t believe she was the earl’s daughter. Of all the women…why her? Why did it have to be her beautiful, warm, dark eyes that would haunt him for the rest of his days? Her sweet, sultry smiles that made him want to ask her permission before he tore off her clothes. He was lost. He was lost to his next target’s daughter.

  He closed his eyes for a moment, to gather his wits and give himself respite from her maddening effect on him. Who was it that paid him four hundred pounds to kill the earl? He had to find out. They were wrong about the earl killing his daughter. Mayhap they were wrong about the earl killing his wife. Would he truly hold off on killing the earl for her sake?

  As he said. Maddening. He hadn’t been paid to decide someone’s guilt or innocence. He’d been paid to kill. What if, after being paid, he decided his victims weren’t guilty and he didn’t kill them? Everyone would ask. His name would be ruined.

  He opened his eyes and found her watching him. He thought of the only reason there was to smile, that she hadn’t pushed her way out of his arms. “Good morn,” he greeted, though the sun wouldn’t be fully up for another hour. “How are ye feelin’?”

  “Better that I ask you how you are feeling. You look green.”

  “’Tis the predawn light.”

  “’Tis your thoughts, Tristan,” she insisted. “You are having second thoughts about your promise.”

  He laughed, but it sounded empty to his ears. He pulled is arms free and sat up. “Nae. I am not. But I was thinkin’ of my promise to the man who paid me.”

  She sat up next to him. “My father will pay you more.”

  “I willna be bought, lass.”

  She stared into his eyes for a moment and then rose to her feet. “I’m not hungry. I just want to go home.”

  “We didna have any tea last eve,” Tristan said, standing and bringing his blanket with him.

  “We will have it later.” She disappeared behind a tree. “I want to keep moving.”

  Aye. He understood quite clearly. She couldn’t wait to be away from him. If she said it one more time, he’d hunt down some sticks and kindling and build a roaring fire for tea.

  He poured water over the small fire still burning. He folded his blanket then tossed it over his saddle and watched her as she reappeared. Then he took his turn behind a tree.

  They had about half a day’s journey left before they reached Callanach Castle. They would have been there already if they hadn’t stopped and slept. He didn’t want to spend the few hours they had left fighting with her. But when he returned to her, he realized it was already too late. She offered him no smile when he helped her mount.

  She was angry that he wasn’t swearing not to kill her father, innocent or guilty. But dammit, he had to protect his name, or he’d be penniless in a year. No one wanted a judge when they paid for an executioner. What he’d saved would be gone. He knew no trade.

  He used some water to clean his hands and offered some to her. He reached into his bag and pulled out two apples while she dried her hands on her skirt. He tossed one of the apples to her and mounted his horse in a single leap.

  He could go home. He looked at her. Could he take her with him?

  Did he love Lady Rose Callanach? If he did, he was doomed if he killed her father.

  “How long until—”

  He grounded his teeth. “Soon,” he said and rode away.

  “Tristan!” she called to him.

  His name on her lips made him stop his horse and wait for her. When she reached him, she glared at him.

  “You have no right to be angry with me!”

  He gave her glare a dull response. “D’ye think I enjoy hearin’ how ye canna wait to be away from me?”

  Was that a smile he saw lurking about her lips?

  “I dinna see the humor in this,” he told her, all nonchalance gone.

  She brought her hand up to her growing smile.

  “It pricks me in my guts, Rose,” he explained, in case she didn’t understand.

  “Your guts?” she asked, looking at him as if he’d cut himself open and spilled them before her.

  “Aye, this is where it hurts.” He pressed his palm to his flat belly. “Not here.” He held his hand to his heart.

  “Oh,” she said on a soft breath. “Well, ’tisn’t that I wish to be away from you. ’Tis everything else.”

  He nodded. He was sure he appeared as miserable as he felt. Aye. Everything. Her father was on his list. She’d taken hold of his tempest heart and calmed it. His reputation was on the line. Was he truly going to give up everything for a lass he just met?

  He knew one thing, holding her while she relived whatever horrors she’d been through was probably not the wisest thing he could have done. As the last few hours had passed by with her crying out or trembling against him in the midst of his whispers, he felt more and more protective of her, until he knew that he had to find the one who tried to kill her and succeeded in killing her mother. He would not rest until he found him.

  Had it been her own father? Whoever set fire to the house had thought he was killing the family…or just the eight-year-old girl. Would a seemingly overprotective father set his house aflame with his child inside? It was too much to consider. If he was guilty, Tristan didn’t know how he would keep from killing him.

  He felt like he should tell her. Tell her that he loved her. That whoever was guilty would pay. Whether it was a stranger or her father. He was going to end this danger to her once and for all.

  “Rose—”

  He heard the whoosh of an arrow cutting the air. His eyes opened wider for an instant before he felt shooting pain lance through him. He looked down at his chest, just above his heart. It took him just an instant to realize what was happening. He’d been shot. Rose! Not again. No one was taking her from him this time!

  Fury rose up in him in the next instant. “Stay here!” he called to her as he drove his heels into his horse’s flanks.

  He saw the rider getting away fast. He gave chase. A little longer and his horse would have overtaken the other. But he had to stop, lest he ride too far away from Rose. He couldn’t leave her alone in the woods.

  He returned to her with the arrow still jutting out of his chest. Hell, he didn’t know how bad it was. How close it was to his heart.

  He’d traveled these roads enough times to know where the best market towns were, or where the best healers lived.

  “Come.” He pulled himself back onto his saddle. “This arrow has to come oot.”

  “What about whoever shot you?” she asked, frightened.

  “He has gone. Come, let us get movin’.”

  She nodded and wiped some tears from her eyes. “Now then, lass. There’s no need to weep. I will be well.”

  “There is no way for you to know that. Someone is out there.”

  No. No. He wouldn’t let anyone hurt her. He had to remain strong. Though his chest ached and burned, and he felt weaker with every moment that passed, he held his claymore in his hand, ready to bring it down on a few heads.

  Rose kept her horse close. Twice, she almost climbed into his saddle with him to keep him upright.

  When they finally came to a small village four miles north—farther away from Dumfries—Tristan led them to an inn.

  As soon as the innkeeper saw him and the arrow jutting from his chest, he called to his wife, the village healer and led them to a bedroom.

  With Rose and the innkeeper’s help, he entered the room. The innkeeper’s wife arrived shortly after and sat him on a tall stool. Her husband disappeared and then returned with a flask of liquid in his hand.

  “Tristan,” the healer said, “what are ye doin’ back here with me? I had hoped never to see ye again drenched in blood.”

  “Alas, Nel, I canna keep arrows from findin’ me.”

  “Let us hope this one hasna found yer heart.”

  After a long examination of the entrance and exit sites, and the angle of the shaft, Nel announced she did not think any important parts inside were hit. Without saying much else, she picked up a knife and asked how long ago it happened.

  “About an hour ago,” Rose answered with a shaky voice and knelt before him.

  Nel began cutting his jacket and léine off. He almost faded into black twice while she undressed him. He kept his eyes on a terrified Rose. He’d had arrows pulled out before—from his leg and shoulder. It hurt like hell. This was going to be worse. He didn’t want to think on it.

  He wanted to look at her…into her eyes.

  She looked quite pale more than a few times and he thought she might faint. But she didn’t. Tears rolled down her cheeks when the innkeeper put a stick between his teeth. She stared into his eyes as the innkeeper moved behind him and his wife, in front. The healer poured whatever was in the flask on his wound and took hold of the short shank below the arrowhead coming from his chest. A moment later, her husband gripped the back of the arrow and cracked the end feathers off.

  Tristan grew taut and bit down on the stick. He forgot Rose. He forgot everything but the pain.

  Nel yanked on her end, pulling the long arrow through him. Tristan cried out, shivered, and then passed out.

  Captain Harper reached Callanach Castle and signaled Jones in the lookout tower to let him through the gates. He thought about what he would tell the earl when he saw him. Should he tell him the truth? That he’d found the Highland outlaw—traveling with the earl’s beloved daughter, Rose?

  He felt ill. Why hadn’t he finished the killer and taken the girl? It would be the first thing the earl would ask. It would be the first thing he would ask, were it his daughter.

  The captain knew why. He didn’t want to kill him. He thought he could do it, but when he saw him, he froze. When he saw Rose, he truly couldn’t think of anything else. What the hell was she doing with the killer who was coming after her father?

  Harper hadn’t wanted to return to the castle with the news. What if the earl tried to kill him? They were friends but Thomas adored his daughter. She came before all else. Everyone knew it.