by Lois Greiman
Lachlan stumbled backward, reeling as if he’d been struck.
“Holy mother!” he rasped and let his weapon drop from bloodless fingers. “Gilmour was right! I was saved by a woman!”
Hunter swept up her sword and with a movement as swift as a serpent’s strike, she tipped her blade under his and tossed it at him. It sang into the air only to pierce the ground not three inches from his feet.
”Take up your weapon,” she ordered, but Lachlan only shook his head.
“You’re… a woman.”
“Aye,” she growled and advanced, sword at the ready, “I am the woman who is about to best the great rogue fox.”
If her words were meant as a slur, he failed to realize it, for his head was still spinning.
“But you have… breasts,” he said.
“Pick up your sword!” she demanded and stepping forward, fitted her blade below his jaw, just as he had seconds before. “Or shall I kill you here and now?”
Lachlan tilted his head back slightly, but even so he could see her breasts. And they were beautiful, full and fair and moon-kissed in dusky hues. “Kill me then,” he said softly. “And have done with, for I’ll not fight a maid.”
“Damn you!” she swore, pressing forward. “Defend yourself.”
“Nay.”
“Retrieve your sword!”
“I will not.”
For a moment her blade trembled against his throat, but finally she yanked it away with a curse and pivoted about. Lachlan watched her go, watched her bend and lift and pull her tunic over her head and past her waist.
He closed his eyes and remembered to breathe, but his mind was reeling.
“Why- ” he began.
“Don’t speak!” she snarled and, retrieving her weapon, stalked back to him. “Or I swear by all that is holy I shall carve your tongue from your head.”
He nodded once. Aye, maybe ten minutes ago he would have gladly welcomed such a challenge, but ten minutes ago she had been a man. Life was indeed full of surprises.
“You’ll tell no one.” Her voice was as deep as the night again, gritted and quiet, but it seemed different now, imbued with a earthy sensuality that he had somehow failed to recognize. Breasts! Sweet Mother. Who’d have -guessed-besides Gilmour, of course. Mour had said that Lachlan ’s brawny savior had been a woman, had all but driven him mad with the taunting, but-breasts!
“Do you hear me?” she snarled, lifting her sword. “What’s that?” he asked, and she took a threatening step forward.
“I said, you’ll tell no one.”
Her beauty was hidden from him now, and yet it seemed as if he could see them still, moon-drenched and perfect. “About what?” he asked and tried a smile, but he would never be a success on the stage.
“Damn you!” she swore. “Make your vow or die now.” He was silent a moment. He could feel his heart beating in his chest, could hear his breath and hers.
”Tell me this first,” he said finally. “Why would you hide such beaut-” He paused, searching for words. “Why would you hide your true sex?”
“It matters not,” she said. “Only that I do and that you shall keep it so.”
How could he not have known? “But I owe you me life.” Perhaps he should have been mortified to have been saved by a maid. In fact, when Mour had taunted him with his theory, he had been, but now, for reasons he could neither explain nor condone, he felt some pride for it. After all, she had saved him. Not Gilmour, the rogue of the rogues, nor Ramsay, with the “soulful” eyes. But him. Why? “I owe you,” he repeated, setting aside his thoughts for later dissection. “And I shall repay you.”
“Nay!” Her tone was sharp. “You failed to answer the riddle correctly, thus you agreed to go.”
“Aye,” he said, “but I won the battle of swords and now you shall agree to allow me to repay the favor.”
“Never.” There was passion in her tone. Passion that had been entirely lacking on the previous day, passion that Lachlan would have thought was impossible to awaken from such impenetrable stoicism. “You shall return to Isobel’s castle.”
“Nay, I- ” He paused. “Isobel’s castle?”
There was a momentary silence. “To Evermyst, or wherever you choose to go,” she said.
“Why do you refer to it as Isobel’s?”
“You will leave!” she ordered, but Lachlan barely heard her.
“Anora was lady of the keep long before Bel came along. She was raised there as the only child of the old laird and lady. None knew she had a twin until a few months hence.”
She said nothing. He took a step toward her, though she raised her sword in defiance.
“Did you know her? Had you met maid Isobel before she found her way to Evermyst?”
“Mayhap you do not realize this,” she said, her words measured, “but I do not wish to discuss this subject or any other with the likes of you. Nor do I-”
“Who are you?” he asked. She said nothing.
“How do you know me sisters by law? I’d not seen you at Evermyst but at Gilmour’s marriage to Bel.”
“I am called the warrior,” she said. “Hunter if you must, and no one to be trifled with.”
Trifled with. The phrase brought to mind an entirely different meaning than it would have if she’d said the same thing yesterday. Breasts! Glory be!
“So you came to Evermyst during the battle. But how did you know we were in need, and why did you save me? And-” A thought came to him suddenly. “The warrior…” His voice was little more than a whisper. “The warrior at Dun Ard long months ago. When we first found Lady Anora. That was you.”
She neither denied nor confirmed.
“‘Twas you who was following the lass. ‘Twas you on MacGowan land. You who caused her fall from her palfrey.”
For a moment the world went silent, then, “I will have your vow, MacGowan, or I will have your life.”
“But what of your rule not to wound the very man you saved?”
It seemed a logical point to him and not one to justify the growl that issued from the maid.
“Quiet!”
“You would break your own rule?” he asked. It didn’t seem strange to him that his tone was naught but conversational. He and his brothers had engaged in many such debates while they caught their breath before battling again. “You would break your own rule just to keep your secret safe? Not to mention the fact that I would be dead and-”
“I would slay you just because you irritate me!” she snarled.
“Why- ”
“So you should not irritate me!” she said, her voice rising.
He didn’t mean to grin. “In truth, me lady,” he said. “I irritate-”
“Do you always prattle so? Give me your vow and be gone.”
“I cannot,” he said.
Sweeping back her sword, Hunter lunged toward him, and in the same moment Lachlan titled his head back. Her blade swept past him, missing his throat by a breath.
Silence fell over them and then she turned with a snarl and strode into the darkness.
As for Lachlan, he remained as he was. True, he had not believed she would kill him, but when a sword sweeps past one’s throat, one has time to reconsider his judgment. In fact, in that flashing second, one has time to consider many things.
Who was she? Why was she dressed as a man? Why had she followed Anora? Why had she come to Evermyst? And… He glanced rapidly about. Where the devil had she gone? Listen as he might, he could hear nothing, and suddenly the idea of losing her caused panic to stir in his gut.
He employed no stealth as he rushed back to his steed, and though it took him some time to find her, he did so finally. She didn’t turn at his approach. Neither did she acknowledge his presence. Instead, she traveled through the darkness as if he were of no more significance than a bothersome midge.
They rode for hours until a glimmer of dawn finally lit the eastern sky. Something rustled in the undergrowth. An arrow hissed into the air, and in an instant
a hare lay skewered to the earth.
Lachlan glanced toward Hunter, but she was already unstringing her bow and setting it back in place behind her leather-clad thigh. Throwing a leg over her pommel, she jumped to the ground and pulled a dagger from the top of her tall boot.
He dismounted as well, drawn to the hare. And as he approached it, one singular fact made itself clear. It had been pierced directly through the heart.
“A fine shot,” he said, and she turned abruptly toward him.
“Why do you follow me?”
Her fist, he noticed, was wrapped tight and hard about the hilt of her knife, and the blade was surprisingly close to his chest. He glanced at it, cleared his throat and found her eyes. “Because I owe you?” He had meant to growl back, but the image of her breasts gleaming in the moonlight had somehow unmanned him. Although he was gifted at many things, he had never been particularly adept where women were concerned.
“You do not owe me,” she hissed. “Aye. I-”
“I absolve you of the debt.”
He remained silent for a moment. “Where are you bound, me I-”
“And I am not your lady!”
“Then what shall I call you?”
“Do not call me. Leave me be.”
“I cannot,” he said simply.
“You cannot.” Her voice was low and quiet. “And why is that?”
“Because you saved me life.”
“Aye,” she agreed, “but just yesterday you were willing to forget the debt.”
“All was different then.”
“Naught was different-”
“You were a man.”
“Me sex makes no difference,” she said, and turned abruptly away. “Indeed,” she added, “if you are wise you will forget what you saw at the water’s edge.”
He didn’t mean to do it, but somehow he snorted, and in an instant she had pivoted back around. Her knife was up again, and her teeth were gritted.
“You have something to say, MacGowan?”
Perhaps he should not, but in fact, he did. “Aye,” he said, and glanced down at her. She was not a small lass, but neither was she huge, standing several inches beneath his own height.
”And what, pray tell, is it?” She gritted the question between her teeth. Nice teeth, he thought. Straight and white.
He shrugged slightly. ”The truth is this, lass-wise or foolish, I shall never forget the sight of you.”
She was utterly silent as she stared at him. Beneath the shadow of her dark helmet, he could not quite decipher her expression, but finally she spoke, her voice soft with just a hint of the femininity he had inadvertently discovered. “Why?”
Because she was beautiful. The realization surprised even him, for he had never gotten a good look at her face. In fact, until last night, he had never cared to.
“It is something that a man remembers.” he said simply. Silence again, then, “Why?”
“Because you…” He motioned stiffly toward his own chest. “You were unclothed.”
“I do not see why that should be so amazing. I assume even the notorious MacGowan rogues are unclothed from time to time.”
“Aye,” he agreed. “But that is entirely different.”
“We are not so different.” she said, and turned abruptly away.
“Oh yes,” he argued and followed her through the underbrush as she retrieved the hare by her red-feathered arrow and strode off to her steed again. It felt quite strange discussing such a topic, but then, she was obviously a strange maid. “You can take me word on this, lass, we are completely different.”
She stopped her mount in a small clearing and removed the bridle before facing Lachlan. The dark stallion ambled off, his saddle still in place. “Nay. Structurally, there is little difference between us.”
“You jest.” He let his gaze dip to her chest, but it did him no good, for they were hidden well out of sight. It saddened him to think about it.
“Aye.” she said, her stance stiff. “Little difference at all except for… a few small details.”
“Small!” he snorted, then cleared his throat at her sharp expression. “Your pardon,” he said. “But if memory serves and it most certainly does… the details were very well proportioned.”
She watched him for several long seconds, then turned away again, leaving him to stare at naught but the quiver of arrows that was strapped across her back. It was crafted of fine leather and stamped with knot work designs that somehow reminded him of deep water conchs all laid in a row. The quiver ended at her lower back, and though her long, bull hide jerkin revealed little, it seemed now that he could discern a thousand idiosyncrasies that belied her guise-the grace of her stride, the sway of her hips, the-
“So you are like the others.”
“Others?” he asked and, lifting his gaze from her backside, suddenly felt the sear of some bitter emotion he could not quite name. “What others?”
“Other men. You are obsessed with a woman’s form.” “Hardly-”
“You’ve but to be in the vicinity of them and your mind turns to miller’s bran.”
“‘Tis not-”
“You are a man trained to battle,” she said and nodded up from her task of collecting firewood. ”Aye, you have had some tutelage. And despite my initial suspicion you are not completely inept. But one sight of me chest and…” She scowled as if baffled, as if talking to herself. “I could have killed you with ease.”
“Not…” He grimaced, remembering. “Not with ease.” She laughed. “Are you daft? You practically begged me to slit your throat. And why? Because me chest is conformed a bit differently than yours?”
“Nay, ‘twas not the reason. ‘Tis simply because…” Very well, perhaps he had been a bit discombobulated. “You are the fairer sex.”
“Fairer!” Anger punctuated the word. Her teeth were gritted and her hands formed to fists. “Fairer than what?”
“I meant no insult, me I-”
“I am not your lady!” she growled.
He almost stepped back a pace at the force of her emotion. What had he said to make her so irate? “‘Tis simply that me mother taught me to revere the fairer… the female gender.”
“Well your mother was a fool!” teach him better manners at the end of his sword, but now he merely scowled. “Me mother is many things,” he said. “But a fool, she is not.”
Silence fell between them.
She tilted her head. “You cherish her?” she asked. Her voice was strangely soft and he nodded in some confusion. ”Aye. Certainly. And you?” he asked, but she had turned away already.
“You change the subject,” she said. “Because you know I am right. Men make fools of themselves for no reason more substantial than the sight of a woman’s body.”
“‘Tis not true.”
She laughed. “Oh, aye, it is and you well know it. One glance of a woman’s bosom and all thought flies from your head.”
“I was merely surprised,” he countered.
“Surprised! You looked as though you’d swallowed your heart. Had I not wished to kill you I would have laughed at the sight of your face. Tell me, MacGowan, have you not seen a woman’s breasts before?”
He mouthed something, but no words came for a moment.
“Well?”
“Of course,” he said. “I’ve seen… scores-”
“Then why did you all but swoon at the sight of mine?”
“‘Tis a far cry from the truth. In fact, I barely…” He wasn’t sure, but he may have winced at this point. “… noticed.”
”Truly.” she said, and scoffed. “So I could disrobe this very instant and you’d not be the least distracted.”
“Nay I- ” he began, but the possibilities suddenly penetrated his brain. Beneath his plaid, his interest raised its horny head. “Are you considering it?”
Hunter’s gaze held his and then, slowly, irrevocably, she lowered her hands to the buckle on her scabbard. It came away in her fingers and fell to the ground.
Lachlan stared like one in a trance, and then, like a butterfly, her fingers moved the slightest degree. For a moment, he was almost aware of danger, but already the narrow blade had been slipped from the hidden sheath and was flying through the air. He heard the hiss of its passage as it skimmed past his ear and sped with vicious intent into the tree behind him.
He turned to glance at the reverberating hilt, then back at her.
“Go back to your mother, MacGowan,” she growled, and turned scornfully away. ”There are dangers afoot and I have no time to keep you safe.”
“If you would cease trying to kill me there would be no need to worry for me safety.”
”Trying to kill you!” she scoffed, and laughed. “If that were the case, laddie, you would already be dead.”
He smiled. “I think not… lassie.”
“I am not-”
“Not a lassie, not a lady. What are you then?” he asked, and stepped up to look down at her from a closer angle. “For you surely are not a man.”
“Nay, I am not,” she hissed. “For I have more important things to do than preen my fragile ego.”
“And what things might those be?”
“‘Tis none of your concern, MacGowan, but I’ll not have your death on me hands. Go home to your clansmen. Tell them you bested Hunter the great warrior if you like.”
“Why would me life be endangered if I remained with you?”
She watched him for a moment, but finally she turned away with a shrug. “I travel south, down to the borderlands. They have no love for bonny Highlanders who wear their plaids like a badge of honor.”
“Why?”
“Are you so coddled as to have no knowledge whatsoever of the world? There is no love lost between England and Scotland. Surely you know-”
“Why do you travel south?” he corrected. “‘Tis none of your concern.”
“Perhaps ‘tis true,” he agreed. “Nevertheless, I shall remain with you until me debt is paid.”
“So you insist on continuing this foolishness until you have saved me life?”
“Aye.”
”Then I shall threaten me own life and you… in your manly way, can convince me to go on living.” She glared up at him. “Then we can have done with it here and now.”