by Lois Greiman
“Sweet mother,” he said, and yanked her cape aside. “Leave off,” she growled and jerked away, but pain skittered across her shoulder and she stopped to hug her arm against her side.
He stared at her. “Get to the inn.”
“Mayhap you’ve forgotten your place, MacGowan.
You are naught to me. Certainly no one to order me about.”
“If you do not care for it will fester.” “That is me own choice, then.”
He shrugged. “I have a rule.” His voice was low so that none else could hear. “Not to allow any maid to die if I’ve recently saved her.”
They were her own words twisted about and come back to haunt her. “I care not for your rules.”
“I have another rule. To make certain that the maid tends to her wounds else I’ll expose her as the fraud she is.”
“Do you threaten me, MacGowan?”
“Go in,” he ordered. “Your mount will be fine without you.”
She shifted her gaze to the stallion. “Ill care makes him naught but less valuable.”
“So ‘tis simply his value you are considering,” he said. “Of course.”
He snorted.
“You think I lie?”
“I think you would have carried the animal on your shoulders had he been over tired.”
“Coddling is for fools and Highlanders.”
He cocked his head at her. “And which of those might you be?”
She considered arguing, but there was that in his eyes that spoke of lies exposed, so she lifted her chin and left the stable while she still could.
Even though there were lads in the livery, Lachlan saw to the steeds himself, for unless he missed his guess,
Hunter would blame him if aught was amiss with the dark stallion when she returned. Strange he had not thought her to be the sentimental type, but she seemed firmly attached to the steed called Knight.
With the horses fed and groomed, he made his way to the inn. Fatigue wore at him as he reached his rented room, but he did not enter immediately, for she would be there, and even in his weakened state, he was entirely unsure he could share a chamber and not be moved. Standing beside the arched door, Lachlan lifted his hand to knock at the portal, but a shuffling noise distracted him, and soon the ancient innkeeper appeared from around a corner.
“I’ll have me monies first,” he rasped, his hoary fingers outstretched.
“Of course,” Lachlan agreed, and opening his sporran, brought forth a coin.
The ancient proprietor took it without a word, but remained where he was. “Well? What be ye waitin’ for?”
Lachlan glanced toward the door and back. “What’s that?”
“Go in, ye daft bugger,” he said, and shuffled away. “Oh. Aye,” Lachlan agreed and clearing his throat loudly, pulled up the latch and stepped inside.
Hunter sat upright in bed, her eyes narrowed and her dirk already in hand. Judging by first impressions, she’d removed nothing but her helmet and sword-maybe her spurs, if he was lucky.
He eyed her as he crossed the room.
“Hear this,” she said. “If you so much as touch me hand I will skewer you to the wall.”
He snorted. “I saw you try to lift your saddle, laddie.
You’d be fortunate to skewer a fat onion to a trencher.”
“I am not so wounded that I cannot best the likes of you, MacGowan.”
“‘Tis good to hear. Take off your cape.”
She rose slowly to her feet, and damn the luck-she still wore her spurs. “As I said, you’ll not be touching me.”
They stood nearly nose to nose. “And why is that?”
“Because I know how men are.” She smiled grimly.
“In fact, I am one meself most days.”
“And pray tell, how are men?”
“Not to be trusted where women are concerned.” “Ahh, that again,” he said and reached for the silver clasp that held her cape in place.
She raised her knife and her brows in slow tandem and he crossed his arms against his chest and stared.
“You are the most difficult” He searched momentarily for the proper word. “warrior I have ever met,” he said.
“It is you who are difficult.”
He made a sound like a winded horse, but she ignored him.
“‘Twas not I who asked you to interfere in me mission.”
“Nay, but ‘twas-What mission is that?” he asked. She scowled. His shoulders and chest were near as broad as a stable door and yet she doubted if he packed a thimble’s worth of fat. Nay, it was muscle that rippled beneath his tunic and she would be lucky to hold him off for. so much as an instant, with a blade or without, if he decided to force his hand. She’d been raised as a lass for the first several years of her life, and as a lass she’d learned her weaknesses. ‘Twas as a boy she’d found her strength, and ‘twas as a boy she’d survived.
Oh aye, things could have been worse. She could have been abandoned to die in infancy. But she had not. Nay, her blood kin had seen fit to give her to another. To an old man called Barnett. An old man who did not want a girl child, an old man whose wits were addled by loss and hopelessness. An old man who longed for the return of his son. But the son was dead, and she could not replace him, no matter how hard she tried, no matter what skills she acquired or what battle she fought. And in the end she’d been abandoned both by Barnett and by herself, until only the warrior Hunter was left. With no room for softness or giving. No room for a maid or the wee lass she had once been. But Hunter did not miss her and she would not turn back.
“I did not ask you to interfere with me life,” she said, and kept her voice low and steady. Nay, she could not hold him off by force, for her own strength lay in wit and dexterity, but if he wanted a battle, he would have one. “In truth, I begged you to leave.”
“Begged,” he scoffed. “You wouldn’t know how to beg if Saint Peter himself were your tutor. What the devil were you thinking standing those brigands alone?”
She stared at him, awestruck and silent, then, “Might you believe I invited the bastards to accost me? Do you think I asked them for trouble?”
“Aye! That is exactly what I think, for if you wanted no trouble you would have kept me at your side.”
Perhaps her surprise showed on her face. “To protect me?” she asked scornfully. “To be me champion?”
“Aye,” he growled. “Mayhap I could do a better job than your knight in yonder stable.”
“He has been more loyal than most.”
He watched her carefully, as though her words told him a thousand secrets she did not want spilled. She tensed.
“So he is a Munro steed,” he mused.
She considered denying it, but he had heard the truth spoken to the brigands, and lies were naught but more difficulties. “Aye,” she said. “The Munros bred him.”
“Their mounts are usually white.”
“So I am told.”
“And well treasured.” He paused. “Why did they give him to you?”
She said nothing as she seated herself on the edge of the bed.
“So you are a Munro,” he said.
“Of course,” she agreed, and laughed. “After his mother’s death, and before his father attacked Evermyst’s folk, the fierce Innes Munro, the barbarian bastard of old, nurtured a wee girl child, then raised her to battle like a man. Perhaps they trained me to combat their Fraser foes.”
“Evermyst and Windermoore are foes no longer,” he said. “Not since Anora’s marriage to Ramsay. Not since he gave up trying to win a Fraser bride and became the peaceful bridegroom of Lady Madeleine.”
“Perhaps,” she said.
“What do you mean, perhaps?”
“Not all Munros are thrilled with their laird’s new and gentler ways.”
“How do you know this?”
She shrugged. “Did you not say I was one of them?” “If you are not a Munro, then who are you?”
“I am a warrior, and not to be und
erestimated.”
“Aye,” he growled. “And nearly a dead warrior for your foolishness.”
“So ‘tis true,” she scoffed. “You would be me champion?”
His scowl deepened. “Mayhap.”
Tension sparked between them. “Have you any idea how long I have been protecting meself, champion?”
For a long moment he said nothing at all. Instead, he remained perfectly motionless as he watched her, as if any movement might distract him from his thoughts. “Nay.” His voice had dropped and his eyes were narrowed. They were solemn and dark, nearly the same hue as his sable hair, held back from his face with a single strip of untanned hide. “Tell me how long you have been on your own, lass.”
For a moment there seemed to be no air in the room and for that same length of time she almost longed to tell him of her life, of being left with an old man who did not want a lass, of her futile struggle to become what he wanted her to be. But she knew better than to air the truth. She forced a laugh. “‘Tis none of your concern. Indeed-”
“But I am curious,” he said. “How long has it been?”
“Long enough so that I do not need your assistance, of that you can be certain.”
”That did not seem to be the case a few short hours ago.”
She was silent for a moment, remembering. Aye, it had been a tight spot, but she had been in tight spots before and lived to tell of it. She needed no one. Not the family that had forsaken her, not the baron who had betrayed her, and certainly not this man. She had proved as much before and she would do so again. “Leave me be,
MacGowan,” she said. “If you wish it I will agree that you saved me life. You can return to sipping ale before the fire in lofty Evermyst and tell the lads how you saved the warrior from sure death. Perhaps if you tell it well the maids will sigh and swoon at your bravery. I’ll not call you a liar.”
“Aye,” he said, “and do not forget that you stole me steed.”
She had almost forgotten. Indeed, he had run a goodly way to catch her. What the devil was he made of? “Next time I will ride faster,” she vowed.
He raised a brow at her. “So you delayed, did you?
Were you waiting for me, lass?”
She laughed, and he canted his head at her.
“What are you so afeared of that you would endanger your life to avoid me?”
“Afeared? Me?”
“Aye. You. Who are you really?”
“I am Hunter, the warrior.”
For a moment neither spoke. His gaze was as sharp as shattered glass.
“Aye,” he said and nodded slowly. ”The warrior. And so you must disrobe so I may see to your wound, for ‘tis obvious, there is no difference between us.”
Chapter 4
Lachlan watched her as he waited for her reaction. She wore no hat this night. Neither did her chain ventral hide her face, though her cheeks were smudged with dried blood and dirt. Her hair was but a little longer than his, reaching a hand’s length or so past her shoulders, but where his was dark and bedeviled with waves, hers was smooth and straight and as bright as barleycorn just brought into the bam. Her cheekbones were high, her jaw strong, and her mouth full, but it was her eyes that fascinated him, for they reminded him of something, though he couldn’t say exactly what. Silver blue, they were, and as bright as the even stars.
“Why do you stare?” Her voice was low.
He shrugged, trying to look casual. “No reason. Take off your cloak. I’ll see to your wound.”
”As I have already told you-”
“Aye. Skewering and all that,” he said, and set his fingers to the clasp at her throat. She knocked his hand away with her arm, and though her knife never touched him, he scowled at her.
”Tell me, then, do you call yourself a liar?” “What’s that?”
“‘Twas you who said there was little difference between us. If such is true you have me most solemn vow that I will have no interest in you.”
Silence.
“In truth,” he added, “You could dance naked about the room and I would be naught but bored.”
She still said nothing. Her face was as somber as a stone.
“Well, perhaps I would be a mite… surprised,” he said, and in that instant he thought he saw the slightest hint of a smile and the dimmest shadow of a crescent dimple. “Maybe…” He shrugged, feeling breathless as he watched that foreign expression ebb and wan. “Maybe I would be a bit… repulsed.”
The corner of her mouth lifted a quarter of an inch and then she dropped her head, as if she could not trust him to see such a dastardly weakness as humor.
“So I am to believe you have no interest in other men, MacGowan?”
“Interest?”
She shrugged. ”There are those who favor their own sex. Men dallying with their servants. Knights…enjoying their squires.”
He stared at her.
“Surely you’ve heard such tales.”
He could not help but grimace, and perhaps she could not help but laugh, for she did so and the sound tantalized him; it was hardly the deep chuckle of a warrior, but the silvery laughter of an untried maid. ‘Twas little wonder she hid behind those dour expressions and low mutterings if she wished to feign masculinity, for it was an utterly feminine sound, light and joyous and filled with iridescent beauty.
Lachlan stared transfixed.
She cleared her throat, dropped her gaze, and lowered her brows. “What are you looking at, champion?” Her voice was low again. He yanked himself from his trance with an effort.
“Think of this. If your wound festers you will need to have it seen by a healer of some sort. Surely then another will learn your secret. But if you let me help you…” He shrugged. It was becoming a familiar gesture, disarming, he hoped. But then, the word disarming was a bit disconcerting now that he thought about it, for she still held the knife, and though her laughter may be utterly feminine, her fighting skills were not.
“Why?”
“What?”
“Why do you wish to see me wound?”
He scowled. “What are the possibilities here?”
“There is no reason you should help me.”
The statement made him pause. “I suspect you are right, laddie, except for the fact that you are another human being and it be me Christian duty to do so… and that you were unjustly attacked and did your part to rid Scotland of rabble that may have harmed others in the future… and that you once saved me from-”
“Very well.”
He stopped abruptly and turned his ear toward her for he was certain he had not heard correctly. “Your pardon?”
“You can see to me wound,” she said. Drawing a deep breath, she sheathed her knife and set her fingers to the clasp at her throat. Knot work was etched into the fine silver.
Lachlan nodded once. “‘Tis good.” he said, but though his tone was casual, he felt an odd tightening in his chest. “Sensible. Wise.”
She stared at him strangely. He cleared his throat, and ID a moment her cape was laid aside. Setting her fists to her hips, she turned away.
“Well?” she said. “Well?”
“See to it.”
“Oh! Aye,” he said, and stepped quickly forward.
Padded and protruding well past her shoulders, her sleeveless jerkin was made of thick, rough bull hide, but the brigand’s blade had sliced easily through it. That much Lachlan could see, though he could discern little else. “You must remove your garments.”
She said nothing, but merely glanced over her shoulder at him. No emotion showed on her face.
“I can see nothing like this,” he explained.
“Tell me, champion…” Her voice was low and quiet.
“Do you think me a fool?”
Her expression was absolutely sober, as if her question were one he was to answer, and for some foolish inexplicable reason it almost made him smile. Almost. But she still had her dirk close to hand and he liked to think he wasn’t an absolute lackwit.
“Nay,” he said.
“Then mayhap you think I find you irresistible.” Lachlan gently tugged at the sliced edge of the dark jerkin. Beneath the heavy leather, she wore a simple, bone-colored tunic, and beneath that there seemed to be another layer of cloth. Did she already wear a bandage?
“Is that it then?” she asked.
Her tunic was bloodied and tattered. He scowled. “MacGowan?”
“What’s that?” he asked, distracted.
She pulled away to turn toward him. “Do not think I am like the others. For I do not find you irresistible.”
“I did not…” he began, then, “Others?”
They watched each other cautiously for several silent moments.
“What others?” he asked. “Your past conquests.”
“Ahh,” he said, and nodded once. “Those.”
“Aye. Those. It does not matter if there were dozens or scores. In truth, champion, I find maids to be a silly lot, and the things that excite them, sillier still.”
“Excite them?”
She drew herself up slightly. Nay, she was not a small woman, but without the cape she had lost some breadth. Her jaw was square and firm, her cheeks slightly hollowed, but her neck… He stared at it. Without the metal ventrail, it looked as delicate and smooth as a royal swan’s.
“Aye, I admit that you have some power in your arm, and your face…” She stared at him a moment, then shrugged. “It is not hideous to look upon, but that does not mean that I will beg for your touch like the maids of your past.”
He stared blankly.
“Do not underestimate me, MacGowan. I am a warrior and not easily charmed,” she said and, setting her hand to her dirk, pulled it forth again. “Do you understand me?”
Was she suggesting he was charming? Him? Oh, aye, he was strong and he was stealthy, but truth to tell, women did not always appreciate the fact that he could best them in arm wrestling or startle them at will.
“Do you understand?” she asked again, and pressed the point of the blade to his chest.
He paused a moment, still thinking. She pressed harder. He dropped his gaze to the dirk, then lifted it slowly back to hers. “Aye,” he said finally, and nodded. “I think I do.”