His Woman. Diana Cosby

limp form.

      A deep keening tore from her soul. Symon’s blood stained the earthen floor in a crimson puddle. In his left hand, sprawled open, lay the delicate embroidery of Wallace’s arms she’d gifted him with but moments before.

      Leaning against the stone wall, Duncan MacGruder stared at Alys haloed in the red-gold of the waning sunset. Her full mouth begged to be kissed, but her eyes were ripe with hesitation.

      His body hardened nonetheless. Both knew why he was here. He’d tasted her charms many times before. Her ploy as an innocent was a game they both enjoyed.

      A cloud slid over the fading sunlight, casting the woman in shadows. He blinked as her eyes grew more intense, her hair darkening to the spellbinding shade of aged whisky.

      Isabel.

      His breath caught in his throat at the wash of betrayal and longing her image evoked.

      Sunlight spilled free as the cloud moved past and the image faded.

      Bedamned. Why had he thought of Isabel now? The very memory of her threatened to destroy his mood. Would he ever forget her? In an agile move, he leaped to the ground before Alys. Aye, he’d bloody well erase every trace of Isabel from his body, mind, and soul.

      “Just one kiss?” He allowed his smile to deepen into a dimpled curve.

      “Me mum is expecting me.” Alys made no move to leave.

      “I will not keep you, but my heart would be breaking without a taste of your lips.” He placed his hand over his heart. “You would not leave a man begging you for a wee kiss, would you now, lass?”

      She hesitated a playful moment. “One then.”

      With his body thrumming with anticipation, he nuzzled her neck, savoring the silky skin of her throat. She shuddered, and he slid his hand up to slowly caress the back of her neck.

      “Duncan?”

      He nibbled his way along her jaw. “Aye?”

      “I thought you were going to kiss me?”

      “I am getting to that.” When she wrapped her hands around his neck and drew him closer, he backed her farther into the cool shadows. He edged her against the stone wall until he could press the entire length of his body against hers.

      At her moan, he cupped the swells of her breasts. Blessed simplicity. A soft, warm body to lose himself in without the complications of love.

      Or betrayal.

      Hoofbeats pounded in the distance.

      He pulled away and whirled toward the sound. A rider was heading straight toward them. Friend or foe? With the English scouring the countryside for Wallace or any rebel supporters, one could never tell.

      “Duncan?”

      He glanced at Alys, the desire hazing her eyes made him curse the interruption more. Still, he had no choice.

      “Be off with you now.”

      A pout formed on her lips. “But I thought—”

      “I will be returning to your house later tonight. We will be finishing.”

      The echo of hoofbeats increased.

      A frown touched Alys’s forehead as she glanced toward the incoming rider. She faced Duncan. “I would be liking that.” With a blush on her cheeks, she slipped around the stone wall and disappeared.

      At the thud of hooves upon tufts of grass, with his body still raging its demand, Duncan glared at the incoming rider. He curled his hand on the hilt of his sword.

      The lone man was slumped in the saddle. As he drew closer to Duncan, recognition dawned.

      Symon?

      He bolted toward his friend.

      The horse cantered without guidance, its reins loose over the saddle and tossed about in the wind.

      A dark red line stained Symon’s left side.

      Wild-eyed, the horse shied away at Duncan’s approach.

      “Steady there, lad.” He snagged the bridle, the scent of blood strong. “Symon?”

      His friend groaned and fell forward.

      Duncan caught Symon and laid him on the ground as gently as possible. By God, the wound in his left side was an ugly, angry gash. It would take a needle and thread and a miracle to heal.

      Why wasn’t he hidden with Wallace in the bogs west of Selkirk Forest? What had occurred for Symon to risk exposing himself? Duncan tore a strip off his tunic and pressed it to Symon’s side. “What has happened?”

      Symon’s eyes flickered open. “Frasyer.”

      Though whispered, the name exploded in Duncan’s mind like oil tossed in a fire too hot. “The bastard. I will—”

      Symon coughed and blood trickled from his mouth. “Save Isabel.”

      Isabel? His heart kicked for an entirely different reason. She was in danger? “Where is she?”

      A shudder racked his friend’s body. “Frasyer has locked her in his dungeon.” He worked for his next words. “Get her out.”

      “I will,” he said between clenched teeth, “after I murder him with my bare hands.”

      “No. With your ties to Wallace, Frasyer would gladly use any excuse to kill you. You must sneak in.” Symon grasped Duncan’s tunic, his body trembling with visible effort. The despair in Symon eyes chilled Duncan’s blood further. “Promise me you will see her free.”

      He’d loved Isabel, and she’d betrayed him. Everything in him screamed to keep his distance from a woman who’d seemed so pure yet was poison to his soul.

      “You need a healer,” Duncan said.

      Symon’s breathing faltered. His hands fell limp to his sides. “It is too late for me.”

      ’Twas true. His friend’s voice had eroded to a harsh whisper, his skin decaying to a chalky sheen. “Symon—”

      “Save my sister.”

      Duncan’s heart tore apart. He loved this man like a brother and despised Symon’s sister like Satan’s curse.

      Symon’s gaze burned into him with fury. “Your vow!”

      Duncan curled his hand into a fist and damned the words. Damned himself. He could do no less for a friend. “I swear it.”

      A flicker of peace touched Symon’s face. “Give her this.” His hand trembled as he slid a finely woven cloth stitched with Wallace’s arms into Duncan’s hand. “Tell Isabel…tell her I love her.” He exhaled sharply. On a ragged breath, Symon sagged back, lifeless.

      Chapter 2

      With his body wedged against the cold stone walls of Moncreiffe Castle’s latrine shaft, Duncan’s muscles screamed their outrage. Bracing his boot in another slippery crevice, he pushed upward. With each step, he cursed the woman he’d come to rescue.

      “You had better be appreciating this,” he muttered to himself. He tugged the cloth secured around his nose tighter, then reached for his next hold. As if Isabel would. He needed wealth and status before she’d grant him her favor.

      Such as she had done with Frasyer.

      The thought curdled in his gut with the impact of the stench surrounding him.

      The worn, worsted wool sack hanging from Duncan’s shoulder snagged on a rough stone as he pulled himself up. He grumbled a curse under his breath as he untangled the bag holding the disguise for himself and Isabel.

      Duncan wrapped his fingers tightly around the next stone. “And what did bedding an earl buy ye, lass?” His muscles bunched