Sunlight blazed behind him like a halo, bathing his tawny hair in golden light. His nose was straight and strong; his jaw firm, lightly clefted, and not too square; his cheeks high and sculpted; and his mouth…his mouth was wide and full of sin. His eyes were light in color—blue or green, she could not tell—set below brows arched like the wings of a raven. There wasn’t one part of him, not one bone or one inch of golden skin, that had not been put in exactly the right position.
Dear Lord, he wasn’t a man, he was an angel.
And that meant…
I’m in heaven.
It was her last thought as the ground rose under her feet.
“Is she alive?”
A deep voice pulled her from unconsciousness. She had the sensation of floating. Nay, of being carried. A man’s arms were around her. Arms that were strong and safe.
He put her down on the ground. The gentle warmth of his breath as he leaned over her caused her eyes to flutter open.
Their eyes met: hers and her angel’s.
“Aye,” he said softly, brushing a clump of matted hair from her forehead. “She’s alive.”
The gentleness in his voice made her chest swell with emotion. She opened her mouth to speak, but all she could do was lick her dry lips. The next moment a skin was brought to her mouth and the first precious drops of water slid down her parched throat. She drank hungrily—greedily—until he murmured for her to slow; she would make herself ill.
When he pulled it away a moment later, she would have tried to snatch it back had she not been distracted. He was cradling her against his chest, and his heavenly face was so close, all she had to do was reach up and touch it. Green. His eyes were green and framed by the thickest, most glorious lashes she’d ever seen. Unfair—even for an angel.
Alive?She frowned as his words penetrated. “But you’re an angel.”
She heard what sounded like a sharp laugh coming from behind her. “Hawk is going to have fun with that one.”
Her angel shot an angry glare in the direction of the man who’d spoken, but his words and gentle voice were for her. “You are alive, child. And safe.”
The reminder of what had happened made her clutch at him in renewed terror. With her head pressed against his leather-clad chest—a very hard and broad chest—she glanced behind her, for the first time seeing the three men standing there.
She gasped, shirking in fear. They were massive. Clad in black leathercotunsstudded with bits of steel and darkened nasal helms (her rescuer’s was on the ground next to her, she realized), the tall, muscular warriors made her shiver. Good thing she hadn’t seen them first or she might have thought she’d died and gone rather south of heaven.
Who were they? Not English, she knew by the soft burr in her rescuer’s voice. She looked again, seeing the dark plaids they wore around their shoulders.Highlanders. But which side were they on? The clans from the Highlands fought on both sides of the war: some with Bruce and some, like the MacDougalls, against him, making them reluctant allies of Edward of England, the self-proclaimed “Hammer of the Scots.”
Were these men with the English?
Her rescuer seemed to sense her fear. “It’s all right, lass—we are not your enemy. We were sent by King Robert to help when he heard the English had retaliated for the shelter your village gave to his men.”
Help? Her mouth drew tight. Bruce was the one who had put them in this position. He was the one who’d done this.
But these men were proof that Scotland’s would-be king hadn’t completely forsaken them. Not that it gave her much comfort; Bruce’s men had come too late.
And there were only four of them! Her heart started to race again, pounding against her chest like a drum. “What if they come back?”
“Who?” he asked. “Who did this, child?”
Tears streamed down her cheeks and a fierce sob tore from her lungs. “English soldiers from the castle. The Earl of Hereford’s men. They…”
She started to cry harder when she remembered what they’d done. He drew her closer to his chest, soothing her with soft words, telling her it would be all right.
But it wouldn’t be all right. It would never be right again. Her mother was gone, and Cate had no one. Unconsciously, her fingers gripped the steely muscles of his arms harder. Except him. This man who looked like an angel sent from God to save her from certain death. As long as he was holding her, she had him. And Cate didn’t want to ever let him go.
Gregor thought he might need Robbie Boyd (or at least his fellow Guardsman’s inhuman strength) to pry the lass’s bloody fingers from his arms, but eventually the mite grew so exhausted from weeping, she dozed off, enabling him to help the others finish their grim task.
But he kept a close eye on her where he’d left her, wrapped in his plaid by the horses. The wee lass was traumatized, and as he was the one who’d found her, he felt strangely responsible for her. Strangely, because it was an entirely new experience feeling any sort of responsibility toward a woman—even one who was still a child.
But when he thought of what she’d been through, it roused every protective bone in his body. Bones he hadn’t even known existed.
