by Lois Greiman
From behind, the sound of a hoof on a rock made her catch her breath. She froze, waiting for the warrior to turn and listen, but he did not. Instead, she felt the cold metal of his nose guard bump her skull.
The truth struck her suddenly. His helmet muffled the sounds from behind. ‘Twas the helmet and perhaps his inexplicable hatred for her that kept him from hearing the noises that followed them.
Distract him, her mind screamed, but for a moment she could think of nothing. Nothing but the memory of rending fabric, of control being ripped from her by brutal force.
“Sin?” she rasped. “What sin?”
“Methinks you know.”
“Know what?”
“Why you must die,” he said. The horse lurched around a boulder and in that moment a branch struck her head with dizzying force.
She was thrust from the warrior’s grasp. He reached for her, but she kicked with all her might, thrusting her legs out in a desperate attempt to be free, and suddenly she was falling.
She hit the ground hard. Desperation kicked her to her feet and she fled, scampering like a wild hare through the underbrush.
She knew the instant he turned after her. She must find cover! Up ahead, thick woods loomed in a darker shade of black. Her lungs tore as she sprinted toward the forest. Her feet tangled in her skirt, but she managed to stay upright, to keep running. Behind her, heavy hooves thundered against the sod. She heard the horse’s snort of exertion, felt its hot breath. Too late, too late! She twisted about, trying to dart away, but in that instant a cry ripped through the darkness. Pivoting wildly, she prepared to meet death, but instead she saw another horse lunge into view.
The warrior turned his destrier to meet him. There was a moment of blinding silence and then his challenge roared through the darkness.
The two horses charged in pounding unison. Sparks flashed in the darkness. Steel crashed against steel. The warrior’s blade spun from his hand. He toppled sideways, struck the earth, rolled for an instant, then bounded to his feet.
The mounted man spun his steed toward the other and stopped, and for a moment his face shone in the fleeting moonlight.
“MacGowan.” The name left Anora’s parched lips like a prayer, but his attention never wavered from his enemy, for the warrior was backing toward his sword.
“Touch her and die.” Ramsay’s voice was low and steady, echoing in the dark stillness.
“She is mine, MacGowan,” rasped her captor. “You have no stake in this.”
“What is yours?” Ramsay’s bay pranced in place, the sound of his hoof falls solid in the stillness, the jingle of his bit as ghostly as a rattle of chains. “Who are you?”
Silence settled in like doom for an instant. “I am justice.”
Ramsay sat perfectly still atop his restive steed. “I have seen the face of justice. It has never before harmed an innocent.”
“Innocent!” the warrior snarled, and snatching his sword from the earth, he charged.
Slamming his heels into his steed, Ramsay joined the attack, but an instant before they met, the warrior dropped to the ground and rolled. Gryfon stumbled across his tucked body, and before he found his balance the warrior leapt up and swung.
Caught off balance and unawares, Ramsay ducked beneath the blow and so doing, tumbled from the saddle.
In an instant his horse was gone. There was nothing between the men now but three strides of darkness.
They circled each other in silence, arms stretched wide.
It was the warrior who struck first.
Ramsay parried. Sparks erupted in an arc of gold, then burned to blackness. Their breathing was harsh in the stillness.
“What has she done that you would wish her harm?” Ramsay asked.
” ‘Tis none of your concern, MacGowan,” said the warrior, and swung again.
Ramsay blocked the blow, advanced a pace, met the other’s answered steel and fell back, circling again.
“There you are wrong,” he said. “For me clan has vowed to keep her safe.”
“Then you have vowed foolishly.”
“Why?”
“No more words,” growled the other, and lunged forward.
Anora cowered in the darkness. Sparks flared in the ebony night and by the slanted moonlight she saw Ramsay fall to his knees.
“Nay!” she screamed.
His face jerked toward her, and amidst the upward thrust he’d planned, his hands faltered. The warrior swung.
She heard Ramsay’s hiss of pain, saw him stagger sideways, finally finding his balance.
She whimpered in fear.
The warrior turned toward her, and her mind spun. Who was he? What harm had she done him?
“Think back,” he snarled.
Behind him, Ramsay wrenched his sword from the ground.
The warrior glanced at MacGowan, then back at her.
Nay! Please! her soul whispered, but her lips failed to move.
Still, the warrior turned as if she had spoken. Their gazes met. Recognition almost dawned, and then he shrieked. The sound echoed like the cry of a falcon, and suddenly his black steed thundered out of nowhere.
A lunge, and the warrior was aboard. She knew he would come for her, knew even before he spun his destrier in her direction. She stumbled, trying to escape, but he was already swooping down upon her, his cloak flying behind.
She felt the grip of his hand in her gown and twisted away. A roar bellowed from behind them and he jerked about. Something whistled in the air. For just an instant Anora saw a flash of steel in the darkness. It sang through the night like an angel of death. The warrior screamed as steel struck flesh and flashed past.
His body tilted. His sword clattered to the earth, and then, like a winged host of evil, he set his heels to his mount and was gone.
The world fell silent. Anora turned, then staggered toward Ramsay, drawn irrevocably across the uneven turf until they fell into each other’s arms.
“Mary.” He whispered her name. “Are you unhurt?”
” ‘Tis you. ‘Tis you,” she murmured, and touched his face, trying to believe that he was real, that all was well. “But …” Even in the moonlight, she could see the dark blood on his arm and recoiled in fear. “You are hurt.”
“Nay. ‘Tis naught.”
“You have been wounded,” she said, awe in her voice. “For me.”
“A scratch, nothing more,” he said, and smoothed her hair back from her face. She trembled beneath his touch.
“Why?” she whispered, struggling to understand. He ran his hand down the back of her neck, pulling her gently against his chest. “Why did you risk yourself?”
“You are well,” he murmured. His sword arm remained still as he stroked her hair with his other hand, and there, like the breath of a wind, she felt his fingers shiver.
“You tremble,” she whispered. “With pain?”
“Nay, lass. Do not fret.”
“Why do you tremble?”
“I feared …” His fingers tightened momentarily in her hair. “I feared I’d be too late.”
“You feared …” Against her breast, she could feel the solid beat of his heart. “For me?”
He did not answer, but bent his head. She felt the brush of his lips against her hair.
” ‘Tis because you are kind,” she breathed.
He stroked her hair again. Dizzy with wonder and speechless hope, she tilted her face upward. She felt safe suddenly, safe and protected in his arms. His fingers slipped beneath her hair, cradling her neck, and slowly, ever so slowly, he kissed her.
Warmth sparked through her as their lips gently met. She trembled with feeling and relief.
“Lass. Me wee, small lass.” He breathed the words against her mouth. “I feared I was too late, too foolish.”
He had come. Had risked his life. Had found her. She pressed closer, needing to feel his strength. Their mouths joined again. He moaned against the breathy caress and curled his sword arm around her back.
> Anora’s mind churned. He was cunning and he was kind and he was powerful. Could it be that the prophecy was true? Had he been sent to save her? To save Evermyst?
His arms tightened around her. His kiss hardened. Against her belly she felt his desire burgeon, and with it came fear. But no! He had saved her. He was kind. He was cunning. He was …
She pushed against his chest, for the very strength that had soothed her frightening her now.
“Let me go! Let me—” But she was already free, stumbling backward until she found her balance.
“What is it, lass?” His voice was very low, almost hoarse as he stepped forward.
She retreated another pace, trying to still her panic. “I must go.”
“Aye.” He took a step forward.
A branch crackled behind her. She twisted about only to see his steed step from the woods. It stopped abruptly at her sharp motion, causing its loosed reins to jerk wildly.
“We shall return to camp,” Ramsay said. “To await the others’ arrival.”
“Nay.” She stumbled back a step, her breath still painful in her chest. “I cannot.”
“Cannot?”
“It will be the first place he looks.”
“He?” Ramsay paused, but she said nothing. “The warrior. Who was it, lass? Why does he wish you harm?”
She shook her head, breathless and confused and frightened. “I do not know.”
” ‘Twas the warrior who attacked you before, was it not?”
“I do not know.”
“A Munro, surely.”
“Munro?” She felt dizzy and disoriented, torn in two by gnawing uncertainty. In her hazy dream, Munro loomed, and before him knelt … Isobel!
“Nay.” Anora’s breath rattled with her inhalation. “Leave her be!”
“What?” he asked.
She shot her gaze to his. “I must return home.”
“At first light—”
“No time. I must leave. Now!”
“Lass,” he said and grabbed her arm. She tried to break free, but he held her tight and pulled her closer. “Explain yourself. Tell me of your pact with the Munro.”
“I know no Munro.”
“You lie.”
“You are not kind,” she hissed, and grabbing her right hand with her left, twisted sharply upward. His grip broke. Suddenly she was free and running.
‘Twas only a few strides to the horse, but MacGowan was right behind her. She knew it as she launched herself toward the saddle, felt the scrape of his fingers on her back as her own caught mane and leather.
The bay pivoted away. Anora held on with desperation, swinging her leg high, but even as she did so, Ramsay snatched her toward the earth. She fell atop him with a shriek and heard the breath fly from his lungs as he struck the turf.
Still, his fingers did not loosen in the back of her gown. “Let me go!” she ordered, terror erupting as she scrambled to be free.
He snatched her back against him, causing his breath to explode from his lungs again, but still he held on. “What frightens you so?”
“Frightens me!” She almost laughed. “Would you not be frightened if someone tried to kill you?”
“Someone did try to kill me,” he growled, grabbing her wrist and loosing her gown. “Tell me why.”
“You think I know?”
“Aye,” he said. “I do.”
“Well, you are wrong. All I know is this.” She caught him with her gaze, her heart pounding hard in her chest. “I’ve no time to spare. No time to retrace the miles just trod. I must return home before it’s too late.”
“Too late for what?”
“For my s … For me.”
He scowled. “For—”
“My life is in danger,” she said. “And if I die … ‘twill be on your head.”
For a moment not a sound broke the silence, and then he swore. “Get on my horse,” he said. “We’ve a long ride ahead of us.”
Chapter Eight
The night wore on like a mournful dirge.
What the devil had he been thinking? He should never have agreed to her demands. He should have gone to their camp posthaste and waited for his brothers and the others to accompany them north. Or better yet, he should have insisted on returning to the safety of Dun Ard. Or … well, there were any number of fine choices he should have made. But what he shouldn’t have done was leave his clansmen to go traipsing about into unknown dangers.
Sometime after midnight it began to rain. Softly at first, then harder, biting his face and soaking his doublet. Seated before him on the saddle, bereft of all but her borrowed oversized gown, the girl shivered, but he didn’t care. Oh, aye, at the outset he had been terrified that she would be hurt by the mysterious warrior. He had stormed through the night after her, praying with every breath that he would not be too late. But it had been merely reflex that had made him follow her. It certainly was not because he cared for her, but only because she was small and helpless and so innocent …
He almost snorted aloud. Innocent, indeed! As he had warned his brothers, she was a liar and probably much worse. All he was certain of was that her name was not Mary. Notmary, he thought, and chuckled briefly. But he’d become somewhat light-headed, so perhaps his sense of humor left a bit to be desired.
She shivered again. He ignored her, though he couldn’t help but notice how one bold droplet slid past her proud little chin and beneath the square neckline of her borrowed gown. There it was hidden between her …
He snapped his gaze forward, felt her tremble, and reached without thought toward the leather bags secured to his high cantle. In a moment he’d pulled forth his woolen cape.
“Here.” He nudged her arm with it. She glanced his way, half reached for it, then drew her hand back and shook her head.
“Nay. ‘Tis yours.”
He counted patiently to himself in Latin, but still, the thought of throttling her seemed enormously pleasant. “Wear it,” he said.
She shook her head again.
He swore, managed to wrestle the thing around his own shoulders, then yanked the edge around her body. His arm brushed her breasts. They were firm and round, with nipples as hard as precious stones, but damned if he cared. She was a liar and a manipulator, a woman who used men for her own ends. Of that he was certain.
Still, she had seemed, for a moment, to be very concerned for him. On her fairy bright lips, his name had sounded like a prayer or a song or …
Sweet Almighty, he was an idiot. And it was raining harder still, so that Gryfon laid his ears straight back and tucked his muzzle toward his chest in a hopeless attempt to avoid the pounding rain.
“We’ll have to stop,” he said into the slanting onslaught. He half expected her to argue, but she remained huddled inside his cape until finally, after what seemed like a drowning eternity, he found a sheltered spot.
It wasn’t much, only a stand of rowan which grew in the lea of a hill, but inside the woods the stillness seemed like heaven. Up against a rocky ridge, old leaves were piled in profuse disarray beneath a few sheltering boughs. After turning Gryfon loose in a sheltered area Ramsay finally sank upon his haunches.
“Are you certain your steed won’t run off?” Notmary asked from the far side of the rowans.
“Aye.”
Even from some distance away, he could sense her raising her chin. “Why?”
“The devil if I know: I’ve been trying to be rid of him for years.”
“Is he so loy—”
Ramsay swore, interrupting the question. “Do you wish to reach Levenlair or not?” he asked.
“Aye,” she said simply.
“Alive?”
” ‘Tis my preference.”
“Then I’d suggest you share me bed.”
She stiffened like an offended dowager, and despite the improbability of finding any humor in this horrendous situation, Ramsay felt a chuckle rise up inside him. Perhaps he was losing his mind. “Come,” he said, but she shook her head. “Com
e,” he repeated. “Mayhap the rowan will keep you safe even from me.”
“The rowan may keep me dry, but naught else.”
He squinted at her, trying to read her expression. “You do not believe they bring good luck?”
“No more than wearing one’s clothes outside in or the color red or Mondays.”
“No faith in any of that time-tested wisdom?” he asked.
“It seems to me that old wives’ tales do more harm than good. Thus I have little faith in them and—”
“Men?”
“What?”
“You do not trust men.”
“I trust men, if they deserve to be trusted.”
“Then come hither.”
She didn’t move, and he swore out loud. “I am wounded, soaked to the skin, and far beyond exhausted. If you believe me unable to resist your nearness, you either think me a hell of a man or yourself an extraordinary woman.”
She said nothing.
He sighed. “Come here,” he said. “I’ll not touch you.”
There was a moment of silence. “Do I have your vow?”
“Aye,” he growled.
She came slowly, but when she finally made her way through the sheltering trees, turned her back, and settled in beside him, he felt his arousal rise blunt and hard between them.
Gritting his teeth, he tugged the edge of his cape across her body. Damnation, he had the stupidest wick on earth.
Dawn arrived without fanfare, seeping slowly into Ramsay’s consciousness. ‘Twas time to break the fast. Past the edge of his sleepy mind he could hear the castle awakening and—
He opened his eyes and his mind yanked him back to reality. No castle. No breakfast. Not even a dawn to speak of, just a lighter shade of murky gray, and …
He turned his attention to the woman who shared his pile of leaves. Sometime during the night, his cape had become tangled beneath her body, hugging them together. From so close, her smooth cheek looked ultimately touchable. Her lips were ripe, full, and slightly parted, and the soft hillocks of her breasts rose and fell with mesmerizing regularity when she breathed.