Rancoff's two men crashed into the woods, still on their ponies, while Dunblane's brothers dismounted, taking their weapons with them.
"Ye want I should stay here with ye, m'lord?" Banoff shouted.
Munro gave a wave. He had already dismounted and was catching the lad's pony's reins.
"Nay. Go on. My guess is the coward has already ridden off."
Munro turned his attention back to the boy. Robert's face was as white as the snow that had fallen on him from the tree branches, and he clutched at his injury.
"Rob," Munro said gently,"'Tis not a bad wound." He ran a gloved hand over the boy's knee to soothe him while playing down the severity of the wound. "Ye will be fine."
Robert was trying hard not to cry. "'Tis a lot of blood." His voice trembled as he swayed in his saddle.
In the distance, Munro's men crashed through the trees, shouting to each other. Apparently they had found something.
Munro kept his gaze locked with the lad's. It truly was not a serious wound, but he knew that in this cold he needed to keep the boy calm, awake, and coherent. He brushed the snow off him, taking some of the crimson blood with it, and thinking the snow made it look worse.
"I am going to take a quick look," Munro said, still holding the lad's frightened, dark-eyed gaze. "I am nae going to touch it. Just a wee peek."
Robert swallowed and nodded.
Slowly releasing his pony's reins, Munro took the boy's arm. The arrow had carried straight through and the iron point protruded beneath near his armpit. The point had been sharpened recently and carefully. It had been meant to kill.
"Your mother will be sore angry," Munro teased as he tried to decide whether to leave the arrow in until they arrived home, or to take it out now. "The arrow went clean through your mantle. 'Twill have to be patched."
Robert managed the barest smile. His eyes were rimmed in red and wet with moisture, but not a single tear fell. "I think ye should tell her, m'lord, else I will be hauling water for weeks."
Munro chuckled. He was certain he could remove the arrow easily by breaking it and pulling it from the back of his arm where the tip had come through, but this type of wound could be tricky. If it bled heavily, the boy could pass out. It would be faster to get him home if he rode on his own.
"Are... are ye going to yank it out the way it come?" Robert asked, trying not to sound as frightened as he obviously was.
Munro shook his head. "I think I will break it off here." He pointed to the shaft a finger's length from where it entered the boy's upper arm. The bleeding was already tapering off. "And when we reach the keep, your father can remove the remainder through the back." He wrinkled his nose. "'Twillna take but a moment and 'twill barely hurt."
"I nae care about the pain, m'lord. I only hope it does not fester. My uncle died of an arrow wound to his arm."
"Battle is different, lad. The air is filled with bad humors that work into a man's blood. A wound cared for in your own keep rarely gives a moment's trouble." Munro tousled Robert's shock of red hair. "You'll be fine."
Munro could hear men approaching from the trees. John and Banoff appeared. "One man," Banoff declared, grabbing his pony's reins and leaping into his saddle. "Found a place where the reavers must have been camping. Guess they don't want us raining on their fair day."
"Where did Charles and Ethan go?"
"They said they would follow the archer's path. Not to wait, but get the lad back. They will meet up with us on the path below or back at Rancoff."
John mounted his horse as he eyed Robert. "'Tis not bad, I take it."
Munro made a face. "Nay." He looked back to Robert. He would have preferred to have ridden with his men after the archer, but he could not leave his steward's son with the other men. It was his duty to see the boy home himself. "Let me break off the shaft so ye will be more comfortable to ride home, all right?" He did not ask the boy if he could ride, hoping to give the lad confidence in himself.
Robert nodded, his fear again shadowing his eyes.
Munro pulled his dirk from its sheath at his waist and cut off the corner of his wool mantle. He would use it to stanch the blood.
"Hold steady." Munro clasped the arrow's shaft and grasped the end. He counted to three and then used all his strength to snap it off quickly and cleanly.
Robert gave a little moan and swayed in his saddle as Munro quickly pressed the bit of fabric to the entry wound that had begun to ooze blood again.
"Are ye all right?" Munro asked quietly, holding the cloth down with even pressure. "If ye need to ride behind me, 'twouldnae—"
"I am all right." Robert was pale, but had his wits about him. He would be able to ride.
Munro nodded. "We ride down the way we came. Across the meadows, over the ridge." He wiped away the last of the blood and patted Robert's leg. "'Tis less than a two-hour ride home." Confident the bleeding had stopped, he grabbed his pony, which waited patiently on the path.
"Lead on, John," Munro called. "We'll ride with the boy between us. Banoff, take the rear."
"Aye, m'lord."
Munro jumped easily into his saddle and pushed past his steward's son, anger bubbling inside him. What kind of men shot at lads not old enough to use a razor and then rode off like cowardly curs? Perhaps he would not mind hanging these reavers after all.
Chapter 23
"Ye didnae have to come," Munro said, settling on the edge of his chair at the table in Rancoff's hall.
He and his search party had made it back to the keep in less than two hours. The lad had ridden all the way home on his own pony and was now tucked in a bed on his mother's hearth, the arrow removed and his arm bandaged. His mother and father had declared their son would be fine. Elen had taken a look at the wound and deemed it clean and well bandaged. Munro knew the lad would be up and about, good as new, in a few days, and yet he still felt guilty.
"I know." Elen knelt in front of him, grabbed the heel of his wet boot, and pulled. "I came because I wished to. The poultice I brought will speed up the healing."
With a sigh, Munro met her gaze. "If ye wish to return to Dunblane, I can escort ye. With the reavers about, I didnae think any of us should be traveling alone. Especially in the dark."
"Finley can manage one night." She pulled off his other boot. "I'll sleep here and return in the morning."
Munro watched her as she set his muddy, wet boots aside and rolled down his wet hose. Her thick tail of hair fell over her shoulder to frame her face. By the light of the candles, she was a sight of beauty and strength. He was glad to have her here.
"Ye are certain the wound won't fester?" he worried aloud.
"As certain as one can be." She tossed his hose aside and got to her feet. "Ye brought him home immediately, and the arrow came out clean." She pushed back her hair. "He will be all right, Munro. Now ye must eat."
He shook his head. "I'm nae hungry."
She reached for the bowl of soup that had been placed on the table by one of his servants and slid it in front of him. "Eat."
He pushed away the bowl. "I am nae hungry."
She slid it back before him again. "Ye will have to ride again tomorrow. If ye nae eat, ye will fall from your saddle, and then your men will have to truss ye like a stag and bring ye home."
He chuckled and reached for a spoon. "Ye've a way with words, wife."
She sat on the edge of the bench beside him, tore a piece of bread from a loaf, and handed it to him. "I am being practical, as ye must be. Ye are nae responsible for the lad's injury."
He gave a humorless laugh. "I took him with me."
"As is your duty to his father... to him. How else will the lad become a mon if he doesnae do a mon's job?"
What she said was true. He had taken all of the proper precautions, but accidents happened. Munro knew that. Men died in hunting accidents; their boats overturned while they fished. For heaven's sake, men caught chills and died.
He still couldn't shake the guilt.
"I simply na
e understand why they would shoot at the boy rather than one of us." He dipped his bread in the fish soup and took a bite.
"They were probably nae taking aim at all." She poured ale from a pitcher into his cup. "Just trying to scare ye off. Maybe create a diversion so others could make their escape."
Munro shook his head. "My men combed that forest. Other than the signs someone had camped there recently, there were no other signs of men but for a single rider."
She shrugged. "They are reavers. Outlaws, either English or Scots. Addlepates. Who knows why they do what they do? They probably dinnae know why." She tore off another piece of brown bread for him. "Now finish eating and let us go to bed. On the morning 'twill be easier to think logically about this."
"I have to find them. Someone is going to die."
She met his gaze. "We will find the reavers, and they will get their just reward."
He watched the way the firelight from the hearth played across her face. Elen was being so pleasant this evening, serving him, saying and doing all the right things. Tonight he felt cared for—even loved—and he liked the feeling.
The door behind them opened, and Munro glanced over his shoulder to see Rosalyn bustle in, her cheeks rosy from the cold. She left a trail of snow behind her as she shook out her mantle without consideration for who would clean up the puddles.
Munro turned back to his fish soup.
"Where have ye been?" Elen asked her sister with a frown.
"Where have I been? Where have ye been?" She snapped back. "I rode all the way to Dunblane in this lousy weather, and ye werenae there." She flung her rabbit hair mantle over the chair at the end of the table and thrust out her hands to the warmth of the fire.
"Munro sent word he wouldnae be returning home. The steward's son, Robert, was wounded whilst riding with the men in search of the reavers. I came to help."
Rosalyn presented her back to them. "Well, I suppose I missed ye."
Munro took notice that Rosalyn did not ask how Robert was, and he knew she did not care.
Again, Elen frowned. He could tell by the way she looked at her sister she had noticed, too.
"I nae know how ye missed me," Elen snapped back.
Rosalyn threw her hands into the air, her voice shrill. "Well, there is more than one path between here and Dunblane, sister."
Munro sopped up more soup with the bread, having no intention of getting between the women.
"I suppose the two of ye will be staying the night, being 'tis so late," Rosalyn said irritably.
It was his damned castle. Elen was his wife, and therefore it was hers, too, and they could stay every night until the Second Coming if they wished, but he held his tongue. He did not have the energy to argue with his brother's shrewish wife tonight. All he wanted was to finish his meal in peace and climb into bed with Elen.
Munro fought a smile of amusement as Elen's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Aye, I will stay tonight and mayhap tomorrow night if my husband so wishes. See that there is hot food for the laird for the morning meal, will ye, sister dear?"
Rosalyn grabbed her mantle and exited through the far door in a huff.
Munro chuckled as the door slammed behind her. "Methinks your sister prefers I remain at Dunblane."
"Just so she can pretend this keep is hers," Elen answered tartly. "No doubt when ye are gone, she pretends she is queen and orders the servants about." She met his gaze. "More soup?"
He shook his head as he rose from his chair and reached for her hand. "Nae." He led her toward the door. "I want nae more tonight... naught but ye if..." He tried to think of the best way to ask if she was still bleeding. He didn't yet know how husbands and wives handled such matters.
She squeezed his hand. "My cycle is complete," she said, smiling, "if that is what ye ask."
"That is what I ask. Now come to my bed, wife, and let me ravish ye."
As he pulled her along, she indicated his boots and hose they'd left behind. "They'll grow stiff if they're nae cleaned tonight," she said halfheartedly. She was anxious to make love, too. He could hear it in her throaty voice.
He squeezed her hand. "Come with me, wife. I know of other things that grow stiff."
She laughed huskily, and despite his present concerns, Munro thought himself a lucky man. His Elen was coming around to the thought of being his wife. In good time, all would be well between them.
Elen had already ordered that the fire be stoked on the hearth in the master bedchamber and that a heated wine caudle be left for them. The room was warm and smelled faintly of cinnamon from herbs tossed on the fire.
Elen had debated whether or not to come to Rancoff when she received word from Munro that Robert had been injured and that he would be remaining at the keep to watch over the boy. Her first thought was to send word back to take his time in returning to Dunblane.
But, being truthful with herself, she realized she wanted him with her—at least at night. And if he could not come to her, she wanted to go to him. She was also concerned for the lad; she liked Robert and respected the loyalty he had shown for his laird when she had held Munro captive. Now that she was here at Rancoff Castle, she was glad she had come.
Inside the bedchamber, she walked to the tall, deep window to gaze out into the darkness. Munro came up behind her and lifted her hair off the back of her neck. He kissed her nape and she sighed with pleasure.
"I missed ye today," he whispered. "Wished ye had been with me when we were attacked. 'Twas the strangest thing, but I kept wishing ye were there to turn to. To ask your advice."
Her eyes drifted shut as he wrapped one arm around her waist.
"Did ye miss me?" he asked.
"I am here," she said, knowing that wasn't the answer he was looking for. She was trying hard, she truly was, but she simply was not ready to make the emotional commitment that he was. Not yet ready, but getting closer.
His hand spanned the flat of her stomach, and she felt the heat of his touch through the wool of the plaid she wore pinned around her waist. She leaned against him, reveling in the hardness of his form. He was like a wall around a keep, only warm, pliable. She rested her head against his shoulder as he slowly, leisurely planted a row of kisses around her neck.
"Ye did miss me," he teased, letting her hair fall over her shoulder so he could bring his hand around to cup one breast.
"I missed ye," she whispered. "I wished ye had come home for a midday meal as ye did last week."
He chuckled. "Ye are insatiable, wife. A brazen Jezebel."
She turned in his arms to face him. When they were alone together like this, she felt so strange. So vulnerable in some ways, less in others. Being alone like this with him gave her a newfound strength, a new confidence in herself when she next passed through the door into the outside world. He was giving her so much that she wished she could let go just a little more. Every day he told her he loved her. She wanted to be able to say the same to him, to say it and to mean it.
"Is that bad?" she asked, brushing her lips against his, looking up at him through her lashes. "To want my husband in this way?"
"Nay," he hushed. "'Tis never wrong to desire your spouse. 'Tis the way God wanted it, I think."
Their mouths met again and she parted her lips, welcoming his tongue. She had not lied when she told him she had thought of him today, wished he had come home. It was shameless how much time she spent thinking about Munro—thinking about kissing him, touching him, being touched.
Elen took a step back and met with the windowsill.
"'Tis hot in here, do ye nae think?" Munro muttered. He kissed her cheek, her chin, her ear, as he found and released the clasp that held her plaid around her waist.
She chuckled as the wool fell to her feet and his hand found her bare thigh. "My boots. I cannae make love with my boots on, m'lord."
"Nay?" He lifted his head to meet her gaze, his blue eyes hooded with desire for her. "Then allow me to right this wrong."
Munro grasped her at her hips and lif
ted her up, setting her on the windowsill that was as deep as the castle wall was wide. "'Tis cold," she murmured.
He grabbed her plaid off the floor. "Lift up."
"What?"
"Do as I say, wench. Lift your bottom."
She pressed the heels of her hands to the stone ledge and lifted her body. He slid the wool beneath her and she sat again.
"Better?" he asked.
"Better."
Munro removed her boots and then her hose so she wore nothing but a man's shirt that had once been her father's. "Off with it," he commanded.
"I will be cold." Even as she protested, she lifted her arms high for him so he could slip the shirt off.
"And what of your clothes?" she asked.
"Ye want those off, too?"
She nodded ever so slightly, her gaze locked with his. It was cold sitting in the window, but the warmth of excitement made her shiver. She watched as he took a step back from her and slowly removed his shirt to reveal his bare chest, all sinew and muscle. She knew every inch of his body now, and yet it was still a wonder to her.
"This, too?" he teased, his hand resting on the waistband of his plaid.
She gave a slow nod. She could already see his desire for her, hard and bulging beneath the wool. She wet her upper lip with the tip of her tongue as she watched him release the last of the barriers between them.
Elen had always thought a man's parts were rather ugly and impractical in the way they were so vulnerable in an aroused state. But in her eyes, there was nothing ugly about Munro's body. Just the sight of him warm and hard brought a dampness between her legs.
She was a brazen Jezebel, and she didn't care.
She held out her arms to him, and when he came to her, she held him tightly. She did love him. She loved him. She just needed to find the courage to tell him so.
"Elen, Elen," he murmured.
She ran her hands over his back, and he bent over and lifted her breast, took her nipple between his lips.
She moaned as he suckled. Her fingers found his thick hair that was growing out, becoming curly. The curls wrapped around her fingers and she pulled closer. She was already throbbing, pulsing for him. She ran a hand over his chest, over his stomach... lower.
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