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.”

Bowen paused to rinse the soap from his arms. She was calm and unemotional about death and killing, something most lasses never had occasion to discuss, much less take part in.

“And why did you choose to intervene in my battle?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Is that a reprimand?”

He laughed at the instant fire in her eyes. The lass still had spirit.

“Nay. I can hardly reprimand you when I stand here whole and hearty instead of lying in a shallow, cold grave, now, can I?”

“It was the right thing to do,” she muttered. “ ’Twas a cowardly act to attack from behind.”

“You have my thanks, and that of my clan.”

She swallowed and her lips trembled as she spoke her next words. “We cannot pretend that our last conversation here in this same place did not happen.”

Bowen sighed. “Nay, we can’t.”

Her chin lifted, and again he saw that unflagging pride. And determination not to be beaten down.

“Tell me my fate, Laird. ’Tis not comforting not to know.”

Bowen sank into the water and tilted his head back to wet his hair. For a moment, he lost himself in the task of bathing, because the simple truth was he hadn’t decided the matter of her fate. He had no idea what to say to her. Not yet.

As he righted himself, he saw Genevieve turn and abruptly stand up. She began walking toward the keep, her pace determined, and he called out for her to stop.

She froze, still facing away, and then slowly turned, her eyes ablaze. “I’ll not play this game,” she said fiercely. “I’ll not be taunted. I’ll not have my fate dangled over my head like an axe about to drop. If you had any decency, you would not make me suffer so.”

There was so much hurt in her voice that it made him flinch. And her eyes. Pools of green so sorrowful he could drown in them. Ah, but he was making a muck of this.

“Don’t go, lass. ’Tis the truth I haven’t spoken of your fate because I haven’t decided it.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” she asked incredulously.

“Sit down, please. ’Tis likely the only place we can have a private moment to converse.”

“ ’Tis hardly an appropriate place,” she said. “I should not be here watching as you bathe. If others knew of it, I would be painted a whore all over again. Only this time I would be the Montgomery laird’s whore.”

She was right, of course, and yet he didn’t want her to walk away. He had a pressing need to get to the heart of the matter, for his own peace of mind. He didn’t want to condemn her. He wanted … He wasn’t sure what he wanted. He wanted her not to be guilty of what she was accused, but she hadn’t denied what he’d confronted her with.

“Turn away so that I may fully rinse and dress. Then we’ll discuss the matter.”

For a moment he thought she might refuse him, but then she turned away and stood rigidly, waiting for him to finish.

He quickly rinsed the last of the soap from his body and then walked from the water. God’s teeth but it was cold. Colder than normal for an early summer morning. The sun was only just creeping its way over the horizon, a distant ball of orange painting the sky in shades of gold and amber.

He grabbed the drying blanket and quickly toweled off before dragging his leggings and tunic back on. At least his body was behaving normally now. His cock had shriveled to nothing as soon as he’d touched the water.

“You can turn around now,” he said.

She took a cautious peek over her shoulder and, seeing him fully clothed, turned and went back to her rock. He sat on the one across from her and leveled an intent stare in her direction.

“Tell me why,” he said simply.

Her eyes lowered, and she fidgeted with the ends of the blanket held firmly in her grip. “Does it matter why? I did a terrible thing. You and your clan rightfully deserve justice for my sins.”

“Aye, it matters,” he said in a low voice. “It matters to me, Genevieve. I would know what drove you to such.”

She lifted her gaze and stared directly into his eyes, her voice earnest and passionate, almost as if she was pleading with him to understand.

“Because you were my only hope.”

The faint whisper sounded loud in the calm of the morning. He didn’t know what to say. How to respond. What could she mean? He shook his head in confusion.

“I do not understand.”

Tears filled her eyes, and she clutched the blanket even tighter around her, as if it were all that protected her from grave harm.

“I knew if Ian were to take Eveline, his deed would not go unpunished. The Montgomerys and Armstrongs are two very powerful clans. They would never stand for such a wrong being done to one of their own, and Eveline was both Montgomery and Armstrong.”

Bowen continued to stare at her as understanding slowly dawned. He let out his breath in a long exhale, as he finally realized her scheme.

“You wanted us to come.”

“Aye,” she whispered. “I did not know if my fate would be any better at your hands, but it could not be worse than what I endured with Ian. It was a chance I had to take.”

Bowen’s head was swimming with all that she’d related. “I do not know whether to applaud your genius or condemn a plan that was so fraught with danger to an innocent woman.”

Genevieve bit into her lip as if to stifle something she was about to say. Then she merely looked away, refusing to meet his gaze any longer.

“What is to be done with me?” she finally asked, her gaze still averted.

Her shoulders slumped in a posture that screamed defeat. Resignation. It pained him to see her so lifeless when he knew deep inside that there existed a passionate, vibrant woman.

He took in a deep breath, knowing his decision would be met with arguments from both his kin and the Armstrongs if Genevieve’s part in Eveline’s abduction was ever brought to light.

“I made you a promise, lass. One I intend to keep. I told you that I would either see you well placed within my own clan or I would see you entered into an abbey, as was your wish. ’Tis more likely that, given what you did, the abbey would be a better choice. I know not if my kin would ever forgive the wrong you did to Eveline.”

A tear trailed down her perfect, unmarred cheek. The scarred side of her face was turned away, as was her habit, and she presented such an image of loveliness and tragedy that his breath caught in his throat.

He had the fiercest urge to pull her into his arms and offer her comfort. He doubted the lass had experienced anything resembling comfort in all the time she’d been in captivity.

“I do not deserve for you to keep your promise, Laird. It was exacted when you knew not what I’d done. ’Tis perfectly understandable if you wish to go back on your word. I would not blame you.”

“But I would blame myself,” Bowen said. “I am not without sympathy for your plight. I cannot even say that your plan was not without merit. If ’twas any other woman than my brother’s wife that we spoke of, I would not feel the anger that overcame me when I discovered what you’d done. ’Tis hard for me to be objective when I know Eveline and the gentleness of her spirit. And yet I cannot discount the desperation and necessity of your actions. I cannot find fault with a lass for only wanting to be free.”

A choked sob ruptured from her throat. She put a balled fist to her mouth in an attempt to stifle the sound of her distress. When she spoke, her voice cracked from the strain of holding back her sobs, and yet her words were earnest and heartfelt.

“I would not wish harm on another, even to save myself. You have to believe that.”

Bowen studied her a long moment, his heart aching with the need to touch her. “Aye, lass,” he said. “I believe I do at that.”

“I should go now,” she said, rising with haste, the ends of the blanket flapping in the breeze. “The others will have risen, and I would not have them find me in a state of undress in your presence.”

“Nay,” he murmured. “You have suffered the opinions of others too much already.”

He watched as she made her way back to the keep. She made a forlorn picture, barefoot, her hair wet from her bath, and the drying blanket wrapped around her. When she topped the rise, she paused for a brief moment and looked back at him, their gazes connecting across the distance. And then she turned toward the keep and slowly disappeared over the ridge.

Chapter 23

“Where on God’s earth have you been?”

Such was Bowen’s greeting when he entered the hall to find Brodie and Teague about to break their fast.

Bowen sat next to Teague and across from Brodie.

“A good morning to you, too,” Bowen said dryly.

Teague frowned. “You shouldn’t be out of bed, and what were you doing outside the keep? You had no one with you?”

Bowen chuckled. “When I need a keeper, I’ll most assuredly come to you, little brother.”

“Did you lose your shoes wherever it was you went?” Brodie asked mildly.

Bowen glanced down at his feet with a grimace. “I had no need of them for bathing.”

“Why are you so bloody cheerful this morning anyway?” Teague asked suspiciously. “For a man who was wounded in battle, you don’t seem too aggrieved over the matter.”

Bowen rolled his eyes. “Would you prefer I stomp around and bellow, ‘Off with their heads’?”

“Depends on whose heads you’re demanding to be cut off,” Brodie offered.

“I can think of one,” Bowen said, looking pointedly at Teague.

“I’ll tell you, if the Montgomerys don’t arrive soon with different fare to eat, my stomach may eat itself from the inside out,” Brodie grumbled. “ ’Tis impossible to coordinate a hunt when we’re trapped at the keep for fear of attack.”

Teague stared down at this morning’s offering and poked at it with his knife. “I’m not even sure what this is supposed to be. ’Tis not even warm, and the taste isn’t something I can identify.”

Brodie leaned down and sniffed, his expression promptly turning sour. “ ’Tis a wonder the McHughs have survived this long if this is what they eat on a daily basis.”