A Highlander's Gypsy (Highland Temptations Book 2)

by Aileen Adams

  It was something, at least.

  7

  “I could keep the horse moving if you wish,” the lass suggested when he decided to stop for a while. “I know how to ride. So long as we keep moving north, correct?”

  “Aye, that’s correct. But ye need sleep more than I do, which I didna think possible until now.” The fact was, neither of them was in good shape. If he wasn’t careful they might both spill from the saddle and be worse off than they already were. “Sleeping for a few hours will not put us in harm’s way. Everyone has to sleep. No one can ride without stopping.”

  This was as much a reminder for his sake as it was for hers, for it did not please him that they needed to stop. The sooner they were home, behind the walls of Richard’s castle, the better off they’d be.

  What Richard would say when they arrived was another matter entirely, but William simply had to have faith in his friend. He would do the right thing. He always had.

  They stopped near a thin stream whose progress was quiet enough that it would not drown out the approach of hooves. “I do not need the help,” she protested in a weak voice, but he persisted until she allowed him to lift her from the saddle.

  “The less ye walk, the better,” he advised, leaving her behind a tree that she might have privacy before tending to the horse. By the time she joined him again, limping badly, he had begun to build a small fire.

  “I shall find a way to repay you for this,” she whispered, watching him. “That, I vow.”

  “I’m certain ye mean what ye say, but I dinna ask for repayment.”

  “Why are you going to this trouble, then?”

  He shrugged, avoiding her gaze instead of finding a way to explain himself. What way was there? She would think him daft, undoubtedly, as he would think of her, were he in her place.

  If she’d told him a seer sent her after weeks of nightmares, he’d turn around and never look back.

  “I dinna much like the notion of a woman being held against her will, for one,” he muttered, withdrawing a flint from his sporran to light to bundle of twigs. “Anyone with eyes could tell ye were in a bad situation out there on the road. I would be the worst sort of devil to leave ye, more concerned with myself than with ye.”

  “But you know nothing about me.” She sat on the fallen log before which he’d built the fire.

  He placed one of his packs beneath her ankles. “Keep them off the ground as much as ye can.”

  “Why are you so concerned with my welfare? What is it to you if you do not intend to hand me over for ransom?”

  “For the last time, I have no intention of playin’ ye falsely, so put the thought out of your head.”

  It came out as a snarl, yet she did not cringe or jerk back. She merely studied him as her fingers took up the task of working the snarls out of her hair.

  “It’s only that I’ve never met anyone willing to help someone like myself when there was nothing in it for them.”

  “Now ye have.” He crouched opposite her, feeding more wood to the flames until they crackled and danced.

  She untangled her hair with her fingers, taking her time, acting with gentle care. The image brought to mind a woman at a loom, only she was undoing what had already been woven together.

  “What shall I call ye?” he asked.

  “Call me?”

  “Ye won’t tell me your name, but I can’t keep grunting at ye or pointing or calling ye ‘lass’ as though ye were a dog.”

  “You very well could.”

  “Verra well, then, I don’t wish to do it. There. Does that suit ye better?” Honestly, it was akin to talking to a wall.

  Her face took on a thoughtful expression. “You might call me Tara.”

  “Tara. Is that your name?”

  “No. I said you might call me that, but that doesn’t make it my name.”

  “What difference does it make whether I know your name? Or that of your kinsmen? If I haven’t taken pains to turn you in yet, what makes ye think I have such an intention in mind? Wouldn’t I do it by now?”

  “I prefer to be safe.”

  “Fine, then. Tara.” He grunted to himself as he stirred the fire. “Is that not some sort of Gaelic legend? Tara, I mean? A goddess of the pagans?”

  “What do you know of it?”

  “Nothing, which was why I asked. I meant no harm.”

  She huffed. “Tara is the mother. I pray to her most often. Hers was the first name that came to mind.”

  So she kept the faith. She was an endless source of interest to him. “Do ye ever feel that she answers ye?”

  Dark eyes narrowed to dangerous slits. He knew this expression all too well. “Is this a way of tricking me?” she hissed.

  “Nay, not at all. What gave ye the notion?”

  She studied him, her head tipping to one side as her eyes went narrower than ever. This brought to mind a snake studying its prey and set the hair on the back of his neck standing straight up. “I dinna much like the way you’re looking at me now,” he warned.

  “Hmm.” This did not stop her. “I ask myself if you mean what you say. If you only ask because you’re curious.”

  “Why would I not mean it?”

  “You have never been… different. Have you?”

  “Different? I suppose not.”

  “Nay, for if you were, you would not have to wonder why I look at you this way.” She turned her gaze away from his, her fingers working the snarls in her hair all the while.

  “I dinna understand.” He sat, eyes on her. “What do ye mean?”

  “Are you truly an innocent? Or do you simply not care? Has it not occurred to you that someone such as myself would spend her life being questioned? Stared at? Mocked? Cursed? Do you not know who I am? What I am?”

  “I know who ye are—or who your people are.”

  “And you still have to question why I would not like your questions?”

  “Can there ever be a simple conversation with ye, lass? Tara?” he was quick to add, emphasizing the name which was not hers. She did not trust him enough to use her true name, which he supposed was what truly dug under his skin.

  And after all he’d done for her thus far. What would it take for her to trust him?

  She scowled. “Forgive me if I’m not accustomed to holding a simple conversation with one whose blood I do not share. I cannot remember a single time when I’ve talked with one of your kind. No snarls or threats or the like. Simple talking, back and forth, like two people. I cannot easily trust.”

  “I understand.”

  “You do not.”

  “I want to.”

  “You want to?” She turned to him, leaning in, and it was not the light from the fire that caused her eyes to burn as they did. “My people have been slaves for centuries. We’re good enough to do the work for you, are we not? We work like dogs and are treated worse than. Or we entertain, aye, we do that well. ‘Tis in our blood, is it not? Or so you tell yourselves. You watch us dance and listen to our songs, and you rest your head at night with a pleased smile. For not only have we pleased you with our music, but we’ve reminded you that you’re at least better than somebody, no matter how low your lot in life.”

  She spoke with such venom, William had no choice but to stare at her in awe.

  And she wasn’t finished. Not even close. “My people are plagued by the lawmen who call us vagrants, and they tell us to move to our place of settlement and stay there rather than dirtying up the towns and villages with our presence. But we have no place of settlement, and do you know why? Do you?”

  He shook his head, genuinely interested now.

  “Because no one wants us! They spit upon us for being who we are, for always moving from one place to another. We’re filthy wanderers, thieves, cutthroats. Yet should we try to put down roots and make a home, we’re cast out. How dare the likes of us even consider living among the likes of you? Who as I said might be the lowest of the low, but you still consider us lower. You still think you’r
e better than us. We may just as well not be people.”

  Her chest heaved by the time she finished, color on her cheeks. There was so much hatred. So much hurt. He could hardly take in the size of it, or how much had been done to her to make her feel so strongly.

  “I am not that way, so I would thank ye kindly not to include me with the rest of those ye speak of.”

  She rewarded him for this with a heavy, pained roll of her eyes. “Spare me your talk. Simply because you’ve never thrown us in jail or dragged us from your village, our bairns screaming, our women wailing, does not mean you’re innocent. I’d wager you’ve never stopped such a thing from happening.”

  “I’ve never seen such a thing happen.”

  “And if you did? If you saw the law coming for us, threatening our men with blades and pistols, you would stand up for us? Or would you tell yourself there was no use in fighting back, as they’re well-armed and a group while you’re nothing but a single man?”

  “There are times when a man needs to admit he’s outmatched, no matter how it pains him to give in.”

  She snorted, looking him up and down with what he recognized as contempt. “You even manage to make yourself sound heroic when you admit your cowardice. I must admit, you seem a good sort. You rescued me without stopping to ask from whom I was running or why. You might have taken me straight back and demanded a reward, but you did not do that, either.”

  “I’m not the sort.”

  “I can see that. It makes me wonder how one who seems brave could sound so cowardly.”

  He growled. “It isn’t cowardice to know when a man is outmatched. It’s smarts. A fool runs headlong into a battle he knows he cannot win. Aye, his reasons for doing so might be strong. Even admirable. I wonder, though, if all that is any consolation to those he leaves behind. I saw many a man fight just such battles against the loyalists. I even fought beside them. I watched them die. Men who had only just spoken with such love for their country, for their people. They’d only just reminded each other of the value in what they found for. And in the end, they all died just the same, and the battle was lost. Nothing changed.”

  “So why did you rescue me, then?”

  Why? All her question brought to mind was the memory of a woman running into his path, eyes wide and wild, pleading for help. “Who wouldn’t? I hardly had time to stop and consider my options.”

  “You knew of me. You said it yourself, that someone spoke of a lass held captive by Jacob Stuart. You must have known you were on Stuart land.”

  “I’m afraid my mind doesna work that fast. Dinna give me too much credit.”

  She snorted. “I would never.”

  “I know it.”

  They shared a long look.

  What would she think if she knew he’d been searching for her? That her running out into the road was a gift? He could finally be free of whatever hold she had on him?

  He stirred the fire one last time before stretching out on one of the blankets. He would rather have not slept while it burned, but it was not large, and they needed the warmth. He didn’t trust himself to sleep with her in his arms, no matter how exhausted they both were.

  And he didn’t think she would allow it, at any rate.

  “I asked ye before whether ye thought your Tara answered your prayers,” he reminded her as he rested his head on one of his packs. Lumpy, but it would have to do, as he’d given her the saddle against which to rest. “I was only asking myself whether she did, and that was what brought me to ye.”

  Her eyes flew open wide in surprise, and his slid shut as he smiled to himself.

  Let her give that some thought, then. Perhaps she would stop being so distrustful.

  8

  Shana did not trust the man.

  Not when he wouldn’t tell her what was in this for him.

  There had to be something. No one did something for nothing, especially not something so dangerous.

  Did he have nothing better to do with his time? She resolved to find out whether he had a family, friends, a clan. Ties, somewhere. He’d spoken of a Richard. Who was Richard?

  She needed to know these things if she was to continue riding with him.

  A wet, snuffling sort of noise woke her from a light sleep, and she sat up with a start—only to find the lovely horse nudging her with its nose. The man whose name she still did not know had hobbled it nearby in case they had to make a sudden run.

  “Good morning,” she whispered, scratching the beast behind the ears. “Thank you for saving me last night.” She was rewarded for this with a light nip at her sleeve, and she laughed softly.

  A glance to her right told her the man still slept, even though the sky had lightened quite a bit. Not even the sound of her whispering to the horse caused him to stir. What sort of protector was he if he slept so soundly? He couldn’t be counted on to keep her safe. Who did he think he was?

  Anger stirred deep within her chest, threatening to bubble up in a tirade which would soon pour out of her mouth like boiling oil and scald him within an inch of his life.

  Then, before she could begin, he stirred. He turned his head that his face was fully visible. He was… vulnerable. Exhausted. He reminded her of a child—one with stubble on his cheeks, but a child just the same. His green eyes were closed, of course, red lashes fluttering gently as he dreamed.

  He merely needed to sleep.

  When she looked down at herself, at his clothing, and at the bandages which he’d wound around her feet—then remembered how he’d lifted her and carried her to the water, that she might wash her feet without having to walk on them—her anger cooled until it was all but gone.

  He hadn’t needed to do any of it. And no one had disturbed them. They were safe.

  For the moment.

  “Come,” she whispered to the horse, rising gingerly. She walked on the very backs of her heels, holding the horse’s bridle for support and wondering who led who to the stream. It seemed he was doing all the work.

  They both drank of the cool, clean water, and Shana vowed to never take water for granted again. She thought she might never get enough of the sensation as it flowed down her throat, then again when she splashed it on her face and neck.

  She’d buried her dress at the edge of the stream, knowing anyone might be able to find it if she left it lying about and unwilling to bring it along with her even if it was clean—which it certainly had not been. That dress would always bring memories of those endless, fear-filled days in a cell.

  No need to carry around the memories when she did not need to.

  The last thought she’d had before falling asleep returned to her. How could she ride with him when she couldn’t trust him? Yet how could not trust him when he’d already done so much?

  “What should I do?” she asked her new friend, stroking his mane. “You know him better than I. Can I trust him? Why did he bring you all this way to find me?”

  The horse regarded her with large, dark, soulful eyes but sadly, could not answer her questions or even understand them. He could only chew slowly and thoughtfully on the grass still growing thick at the water’s edge.

  Until he stopped, his ears pointing to Shana. No. To somewhere behind her.

  She scrambled to her feet. Too late.

  An arm like an iron band wrapped itself around her chest, holding her tight against a male body which reeked of unnamed odors and sour breath. “Aye, so this is where ye ran to?” a deep voice whispered in her ear. “I knew I was smart to keep ridin’, lookin’ for ye even though the others bedded down for the night. Won’t they be surprised?”

  Terror froze her like ice while thoughts and images bounced about in her head.

  She opened her mouth, ready to scream, when the point of a blade touched her throat.

  “Now, now, I wouldn’t do that if I was ye. I would hate to cut this smooth throat.”

  What difference did it make? She would rather die than allow this… whatever he was, to take her back. That which await
ed her was certainly worse than death.

  She could only die once, while she could be hurt and defiled many times over.

  Suddenly, just as suddenly as he’d taken hold of her, he jerked. His arm tightened.

  “I would let her go if I were ye.”

  Her eyes darted to the side, where her savior stood with dirk in hand, the blade gleaming in the corner of her eye as it pressed to her attacker’s throat.

  “I’ll cut her now,” the man snarled.

  “What good would that do ye? A dead lass will get ye nowhere. Your master would hardly like knowing ye killed the lass he wants to use to lure her kinsmen.”

  “I won’t let ye take her. There’s a price on her head now. Jacob Stuart’s offerin’ it, now that she’s gone, and I plan to collect.”

  “Ye won’t be breathing air, man. Dead men canna collect gold.” He took a step nearer, the dirk never so much as trembling. “Let. Her. Go. Before I skewer ye with my blade.”

  The man let out a harsh, derisive laugh, yet his trembling revealed the depth of his worry. He knew there was no way for him to win. Did he not? Or was he out of his mind?

  “Ye would’ve done it if ye were goin’ to,” he decided with a brash chuckle.

  Which was quickly replaced with a gurgle.

  Her savior took her by the arm and pulled her close, away from the now-dying man who’d attacked her. The long-haired, nameless man had been as good as his word—his dirk sat in the man’s throat up to the hilt, the blade’s point jutting out the other side.

  He dropped to the ground and went still within moments.

  She turned her face away, pressing it against the chest of her hero. Now that the danger had passed, her body shook from head to foot. He might have killed her, or worse.

  “There, there. No need to fear. He’s dead, and good riddance.” Still, he patted her hair, her back. “I wouldna let him harm ye.”

  “You killed him.”

  “I did. I also warned him. He didna pay heed.” He held her away from him, looking her up and down. “Are ye all right?”