by Shana Ab
She heard him let out his breath in a kind of prolonged sigh, hard and frustrated. At last he looked back at her, and she held up her head to meet that look, though a good part of her wanted nothing more than to duck and turn away.
“What does it mean, your pin?” he asked.
His words made no sense to her at first, and she found herself puzzling over them as if he had spoken in some secret language, unfamiliar sounds strung together at random.
“Your pin,” Arion said again, gesturing impatiently at the silver twig near her shoulder, only just revealed by the fall of her cape.“Your brooch. It's different from all the others in your clan. What does it mean?”
“Oh.” She glanced down at it, the odd, long shape of it on her, and felt the heaviness of it suddenly pressing down on her chest. “It's … it's the badge of the Murdochs. It was a gift, from their laird.”
He gave her a strange smile, tense and sharp.“So you wear his mark.”
“It is my honor to do so.”
“Clever,” he said, and the anger she had noticed before seemed to be growing, turning to scorn. “He ensures that you remember your obligation to him every day, doesn't he?”
“It is apt,” Lauren said, reacting to his tone.“I wouldn't expect you to understand.”
“Why? Because I am a du Morgan? Yo u called me an English barbarian, yet I would never force a woman to wear my emblem.”
“I am not forced to wear it!” Lauren exclaimed, goaded.“I choose to!”
“It doesn't suit you,” he said coldly. He walked over to her and flicked one lean finger at it, his nail clicking against the metal.“Your own family badge is better.”
Without warning the pin sprang loose from its hold on her tartan, releasing the tight folds of material it had contained. Lauren gave a small cry and tried to hold it in place, clutching at the cloth. A sharp jab pricked her hand; the needle-sharp point of the pin had stabbed her in her haste.
She pulled her hand away and let the tartan fall to her waist, finding the prick of the pin on the edge of her palm, a tiny bead of blood coming up. She put it to her mouth and sucked on it, glaring up at the earl.
The brooch of rowan clung to the fallen tartan for a moment, then fell between them into the dirt.
Arion had not moved at all since touching the brooch, and now remained very close, staring down at her, his expression frozen between that scorn of before and something very familiar to her—heat and want, bright desire.
Lauren moved her hand away from her mouth.
She watched him come out of his reverie with just a downward glance, away from her. He bent to the ground and picked up the fallen twig of silver, handing it to her carefully.
“It's not strong enough for you, Lauren MacRae,” he said, and she understood his double meaning.
I know, came the thought, unbidden, but instead she replied:“It would be, if left alone.”
“A pity you'll never find something better.” Arion glanced around them now, as if bored.
All her previous sadness evaporated in the face of this, his unyielding arrogance. What had she been thinking, to find herself pining for this man? He was nothing but a coldhearted Englishman, one who found pleasure in harassing her however he could. She must be touched, to think that she could ever long for someone so purely designed to disdain her.
He seemed to have nothing more to say, only took slow drinks from his mug of whiskey while she attempted to fix her tartan and the brooch, an air of tight control around his eyes and mouth. He could have been made of ice and snow, Lauren thought. Just his words could touch off an endless winter in her heart.
“What were you doing so near Dunmar?” she asked into the silence, seeking refuge in her own anger now, the one thing that held off some of the cold.“You took a foolish risk, riding up like that, unannounced.”
Arion shrugged, still not looking at her. “My group has been out here for days, Lauren, while you stayed hiding in your castle. Fuller sent word you were headed this way, and why.”
“I wasn't hiding!”
He slanted her a sardonic look.
“Oh, of course. While you were recovering at Keir.”
Her tartan was right again, the silver brooch in place as securely as she could make it. Lauren tucked her hands under her cape now, hugging warmth to her. “Why were you over here on this side of the island, anyway?”
“I suspected there were Vikings out here, at least ten, perhaps more. We've been trying to track them.”
“What?”
Now her fury was pure and loud, and her voice attracted the attention of the sentry above them, who turned around and called out to them. Lauren waved him off wordlessly, staring at the earl. He appeared perfectly genial now, a mercurial shift in his mood, obviously pleased that he could stir her so easily.
“You knew a week ago there were Vikings here,” she said, disbelieving,“and you said nothing about it to us?”
“Well, at the time it was only a guess,” he said.“There was no point in involving you without some measure of proof.”
“Proof! We've had sheep disappearing for days!”
“And there you have it,” finished the earl.“So I came.”
She stared at him, fuming. One of the sheep called out from the pen. Another answered it, a mournful bleating.
“First round of the night patrol is due back soon,” said Arion casually.“I was going to meet them. Will you come along?”
Lauren gave a short nod of assent and strode off to the gate. After a moment she heard his footsteps behind her, and then beside her, but she did not look over to confirm his presence. She felt him there as sure as anything, an undeniable sensation, still sparks, still heat. Yet now it heightened the anger in her all the more.
He was far worse than she had first thought, beyond even their personal enmity. Perhaps Rhodric had seen the truth about him after all.
Days—he had been out here for days, knowing of the possible danger to her clan, saying nothing! It was intolerable. The Earl of Morgan had taken their agreement and managed to interpret it conveniently to his needs. He had moved behind her back. He had acted on his own without giving her or her people the benefit of his suspicions. He would make this alliance work only as long as it suited him to do so. She had been an idiot to think that she could trust him.
And the desire for him, still blooming inside her, was nothing but an extension of her idiocy. She must not succumb to it again.
The sentry opened the gate for them just as the patrol was riding up. It was a combination of MacRaes and du Morgans, an even number of each, and with one quick scan of their faces Lauren could tell that they had not found the invaders. She didn't know whether to be relieved or not.
They came forward into the compound, horses steaming with sweat, a mass of noise and bleak expressions and tired postures.
“We found the trail by the dead lamb, going off into the mountains,” said one of the English soldiers to the earl.“It led us to the place where they must have camped. But the ashes from their fire were cold. They've moved on. We didn't pick up a new trail.”
“They're hiding in the hills,” said one the Scots. “We'll need daylight to track them properly.”
There was a new group of men coming down from the stables; the second patrol, fresh for the end of the night. Lauren saw Fuller among them, Rhodric, more familiar faces than not. The first patrol was now passing by them, some dismounting, more of them going directly to the stables.
Arion turned to his steward. “Wait for me here. I'm joining you.”
Lauren spoke up.“As am I.”
He looked at her sharply but she lifted her chin, daring him to argue. Dunmar was her village. This was her part of the island still. Let him try to stop her.
But he didn't. Arion simply shrugged again, then moved away up the hill, headed for the stables. Lauren began a stately walk after him.
HE RODE A HORSE THAT wasn't happy about the slow pace on the trails, and it was a silen
t struggle to keep her gelding from trotting off the narrow path they followed. He was a handsome fellow, chestnut with a dark mane and tail, but it was wearing to keep him constantly in hand, and Lauren was beginning to think that she might have made a mistake in joining this party
The exhaustion that had avoided her before was upon her now in full force, making her eyelids droop, her muscles ache. The moon had set a while ago. It would be morning in a few short hours, and the new darkness around her became all the more devious without the pale light. Thank goodness she had not taken the lead.
She had let the earl do that, along with a man from the first patrol who was guiding them.
They were riding much farther out than she had expected. Already they were an hour away from Dunmar, on their way to find the abandoned camp of the Northmen. She could not recall ever having been here before. It shouldn't have been surprising, since she had spent most of her time at Keir, only visiting the outlying villages with Da about twice a year. But still, she had not expected this kind of complete alienation from her surroundings. It was unnerving, and made her fatigue all the more pronounced.
They were following a mountain pass, going deeper into the heart of the sole range on Shot, three jagged peaks sharing a common base, a place where neither MacRae nor du Morgan had a settlement. The land here was considered too rough, the soil too thin for crops, the grass too scarce for grazing. There were plenty of trees, however, which added to the strange shadows around them. Their roots became protrusions in the winding path that made the horses stumble; their leaves and pine needles rustled into unexpected noises in the wind, which made her gelding tremble with nerves. More than once she had had to rein in sharply to keep him steady.
And still they rode on, mostly single-file, treading deeper and deeper into the wild territory. Although there was no snow on the trail, it felt like true winter up here already. When she looked up and around, however, she could find the snow, waiting to spread down from the tops of these mountains, waiting for charcoal clouds to come to them, soft, covering it all, snow white on the ridges, snow white on the trees … the path … silent, endless blanket of snow, bringing peace, bringing hush….
Arion would suit the snow, she knew that. He would suit any season; he would complement the trees and the stars and the wind and daylight. He could laugh away the cold, he could charm the sun from behind the clouds. He could make her forget all the hardships of the world….
He could smile and cause the birds to sing. He could take her hand and hold it and bring her to him, giving her his warmth, so solid, so comforting. She could rest in his arms forever and a day, her head against his shoulder, his fingers stroking her so gently, so wonderfully. He could rock her close to him and whisper all the secrets of her heart to her, because only he would know them, only he would see that deeply into her spirit. Only he would care enough to—
Lauren came awake with a little gasp, catching herself from tipping out of her saddle just in time. She looked around to see if anyone had noticed, pretending to adjust part of her tartan.
She couldn't tell. The man directly behind her returned her look with inquiry, but she just nodded and turned back around.
By God, she was weary. When would they get there? She couldn't see the front of the line any longer; the trail was too twisting, and the jutting rocks and trees around every corner blocked her view. In the distance a pair of owls exchanged an eerie ballad, but there were no other sounds, just the horses, just the clinking of armor. Her fingers felt stiff with the cold. Her neck felt like it had turned to wood, rigid and unyielding.
She could be back at Kenna's home now, asleep on a pallet, tucked away under a soft blanket. She could be at Keir, safe in her own little room, sleeping soundly on her own pillow. But no, she had to come out here, she had to let the Earl of Morgan goad her into riding with this group, to ensure that he was not trying to deceive her, that he was not attempting to hide information from her. That he was not going to fool her without a good fight on her part.
Was that really why she came? whispered a voice inside her. Was he truly hiding anything at all from her? Or was it just what he said, that he was taking precautions, that he was waiting for proof? Why was she so suspicious of him? Did it have anything to do with how she really felt about him, how she couldn't stop thinking of him, how she wanted him to touch her even though she hated herself for it?
Lord, what was she doing?
For the first time since her father's death, Lauren felt beaten. She did not belong here. She did not have the stamina for this. She did not have the right to try to lead her clan like this.
All the gossip back at Keir had been right about her … she should have stayed home. She should be waiting for Murdoch right now, she should be thinking of him and their wedding, and not of this English earl, not of these terrible, clashing emotions that swept through her and left her empty and pained, bruised. She should have let a man take over her father's role. She should have realized she could never really succeed in a world devised to favor men in every way. She was a farce, a fraud. She was so tired.
Lauren brought a hand to her eyes and closed them, wavering in the saddle, close to tears and trying desperately to hide it. Too many wild thoughts, too many conflicts born of them.
Da would be ashamed of her now, for allowing such weakness to overcome her.
Lauren lifted her head again, letting the realization filter through her.
Da would have expected better of her. Da had never coddled her, and he had never expected her to follow rules that made no sense. Da had been proud of her uniqueness. Da had encouraged it.
When she had come racing into that mainland village as a young girl, that night that Arion du Morgan had given her her freedom, Da had cried out and run to her, hugged her close and kissed her. When, after the initial shock and tumult had died away and she had a chance to tell everyone what had happened—how she had been taken, the devil-laird who had come, the boy who had stolen her out of the dungeon, her all-night run through the woods that had brought her to him—Da had turned to everyone around them and exclaimed, “See what a treasure she is, my daughter! See how clever and brave!”
He had taught her in every single way how to be honorable, how to think for herself, how to lead. Lauren knew that—how could she have forgotten? He would have expected her to do exactly what she did after his death. He would have wanted her to manage the clan as she could, until Quinn was better, until the threat to them all was removed. It was what he had been training her for all her life, she realized with a start. Da had given her this gift, and she wasn't going to waste it.
She straightened in the saddle, feeling more alert, a little more heartened.
The horses were beginning to slow, bunching into a group near a plateau in the path, a thickening of the line of dirt that became almost a small valley.
“We'll have to walk from here,” said one of the English, and Lauren dismounted with the rest of them, walking her steed to a nearby tree and wrapping the reins around a branch. Then she gathered her cloak closer to her and joined the group standing around Arion.
“You can see the rest of the trail from here,” said one of her men, pointing up to a faint, ragged line that depressed the grass going up a steep hill. The way was tight and narrow through trees and bushes, and Lauren understood why they had to walk instead of ride. Like so much of Shot, this part was not yet tamed for people. It would be a hard climb up the slope. It looked rocky and uneven, but on top of that, it hugged the side of the mountain so tightly that in some places they might have to inch sideways to stay on the path. The way ahead loomed dark and sharply hazardous.
She heard Arion giving orders on who was to stay with the horses and keep watch for trouble, so she quickly looked around and picked out a few of her own men, indicating to them that they were to remain here as well.
The earl was observing her actions, inscrutable. When she finished he walked over to her, casual, as if to consult with her before headin
g up the trail. He spoke softly down to the ground.
“I won't ask if you're ready for this, MacRae.” His voice was so quiet she had to take a step closer to hear him, attempting the same composure, as he continued. “You barely made it this far at all—I saw you fight to stay awake. Do us both a favor and wait here until we return.”
She lifted her head and gave a slight smile.“No.”
He seemed to expect this response, his face blank, but there was something new in his voice, something short and irate. “You'll only pose a risk to everyone if you come. We don't know what's ahead. It could be dangerous. You're not alert enough for this, and you know it.”
“I'm going up there, du Morgan. I feel fine.” She kept her smile in place.
He took a long breath, releasing it slowly, as if to stem the anger. Then he gave a curt nod, turning away from her, heading up the path into the canyons of the mountain. The other men fell in behind him. Lauren waited until near the end of the string of them. When she looked around there was only Fuller left. He smiled at her, offering to let her go first, so Lauren did.
It was a difficult walk, nothing gentle, but in spite of Arion's suspicions, Lauren had been telling the truth: She was no longer tired. She felt fine, she felt refreshed. She felt ready for whatever was at the end of the path.
Ahead was nothing but dim shadows and the breathing of about twenty men, the occasional sound of rocks skittering off the trail to go bouncing down the side of the canyon in sharp clatters. Every now and again she caught a muttered curse.
Behind her Fuller was quiet as usual, and Lauren found herself thinking that she was glad he had taken up the rear, that his calm presence was a sort of reassurance to her. He was skilled and capable. If anything approached them from behind, he would know.
The sound of a river echoed steadily stronger. Down at the bottom of the gorge she could make out a crooked line of water, pearly lavender. It made her look up past the mountains, realizing that dawn was almost here. At some point during the hike the sky had paled from its heavy black to something softer on the eastern edge, a welcome respite from what surely had become the longest night in her life.