“But I wasn’t strong enough.”
“You were strong enough to try, and that’s what counts. Fighting isn’t just about physical strength. Quickness and knowing where to strike can compensate for size.”
She eyed him skeptically. “But I’m a girl.”
He mocked disbelief. “I must have been confused by the breeches.”
A fiery blush stole up her cheeks. “I just wear those sometimes to make it easier to move around.” She paused and looked at him. “Do you really think I could learn to defend myself?”
He nodded, guessing the direction of her thoughts—to prevent a man from doing what had been done to her mother. “I’m certain of it.”
Her dark brows gathered across her nose, and her mouth screwed down tightly in an expression that was oddly fierce. “Then I’ll do it. Will you teach me?”
Ah hell. He looked to his companions for help, but they gave him a look that told him he’d gotten himself into this.
“Please,” she begged. “Can’t you take me with you? I’ve nowhere else to go.”
She looked up at him with such hope in her eyes, he instinctively wanted to turn away. No one should pin their hopes on him.
There had to be someplace he could take her. A church? Perhaps a home for foundlings in Dumfries?
But something inside him rebelled at the idea. What would become of her? Who would protect a young girl? And what would happen to her when she wasn’t so young?
Not your concern. Not your responsibility.
He grimaced. She wasn’t, but he couldn’t force himself to turn away. No matter what MacLeod said, they all bore some guilt for what had happened to this lass and the other villagers.
Perhaps there was somewhere he could take her. Someplace where she would be welcomed—loved, even. His mother had always yearned for a daughter. Since the death of his father and two older brothers, she’d been so lost. He knew his softhearted mother would take one look at the lass, hear what had happened to her, and melt.
“Please,” the lass said with just enough desperation to make his chest pinch.
Though every instinct told him he was making a mistake, Gregor didn’t heed the warning. “My home is in Roro—near Loch Tay in the Highlands. You can stay there with my mother, if you wish. You will be safe there.”
The look on her face was one he’d seen many times before—a cross between adulation and love—and he instantly regretted whatever impulse it had been that compelled him to make the offer.
But it was too late.
“Do you mean it? You will really take me with you?” She launched herself against his chest and wrapped her arms around him. “Oh thank you, thank you, thank you!”
Bloody hell, what had he done?
He looked over the dark head that barely reached midpoint in his chest to see his friends watching them and trying not to laugh—even MacLeod.
“Breaking hearts wherever he goes,” MacLean said to Lamont with a laugh. “Looks like you’ve made yourself another conquest, MacGregor. Though this one’s a little young even for you. The curse of a pretty face, I suppose.”
“Bugg—” Conscious of the lass, Gregor bit back the rest of his normal response.
Instead he gave MacLean a deadly look. It wasn’t funny. Especially as Gregor suspected it might be true.
What had he gotten himself into?
One
Berwick Castle, English Marches, 6 December 1312
There is nothing wrong with me.
Gregor drew his arrow back and let it loose. One shot. One kill. He wouldn’t miss.
