Michael motioned over his shoulder. "He's fine—he's grazing over there with my beast." He raised an eyebrow. "A gelding, fortunately. If mine had been a mare, they mayn't have been quite so quiet…"
Alex laughed, even though it hurt. He has a sense of humour. And he was no prude, like many of the English nobles she'd met. "Are all Scots men like you?" she asked, then clapped her good hand over her mouth. "Forgive me! I didn't mean to be impolite."
With a chuckle, he motioned at their position. "I think I may be the only man in Scotland right now who is kneeling on the damp earth with a pretty lass in his arms. So no, I suppose there aren't many like me."
He didn't seem to have noticed her slip of the tongue, where she'd said 'Scots men' rather than just 'men', inferring that she was English. Maybe he thought she was still discomposed. For if he knew who she really was, he mightn't ever speak to her again. And that, she was realising, would make her sad. Very sad indeed.
"Let me bind your arm," Michael said, and Alex thought she might faint all over again.
For he unbuttoned his doublet and pulled off his shirt, revealing the lean, well-muscled frame that she'd been sure lay beneath his courtly appearance. Powerful shoulders with rippling muscles lay above a wide chest with just a few bold golden hairs between the tiniest pink circles with their proud nubs that led her eye over the ridges and curves of his stomach down to…
"Here," he ripped the arms off his shirt and tied the cuffs together, then passed the length of white cotton around her back. "Tell me if it hurts," he added as he fastened the ends together over her elbow.
Was it her imagination, or did his hands tremble as they hovered over her bosom?
"No, 'tis fine," she said, testing the binding. It hurt less, now that he'd tied her arm to her body.
"'Tis the bone here—" he pointed at the long bone below her neck, "that's broken, not your arm. But immobilising your arm will make it less painful."
"How d'you know all this? Are you a physician?" she asked, and then wondered again if she'd been too forward.
Pulling the remnants of his shirt back over his head and hiding that magnificent chest, much to her disappointment, he chuckled. "'Tis a long story, which I shall tell you some day when you're not lying injured in the middle of Armstrong territory."
Alex caught the inference of his words—that they might meet again—and was contemplating whether he might really mean it, when he let out a low groan.
"I knew I shouldn't have mentioned those ruffians," he said, grabbing her round the waist and pulling her to her feet.
A mile or two away—but moving fast—a dark smudge that could only be a large band of riders moved towards them, down the wide meadows of the Liddel valley.
Reivers, almost certainly. Armstrongs most likely. The worst and most infamous clan of reivers, who would think nothing of murdering two unlucky travellers solely for the prize of their two horses and whatever they carried in their saddlebags.
"We need to get out of here," Michael added. Unnecessarily.
Alex hobbled towards Duke. "Help me onto my horse," she gasped, but Michael was one step ahead of her.
Pulling his grey behind him, he lifted her onto Duke as if she weighed no more than a child, then leapt up behind her. One arm circled her waist to steady her, the other hand held both sets of reins as he wheeled the horses round.
"Careful!" Alex cautioned. "Duke is used to subtle signals. Let me guide him—I don't need the reins."
Michael seemed about to protest, but then thought better of it. "D'you know somewhere we can hide?"
"Yes," she said, urging Duke forward as the dust cloud behind them grew larger. "Make sure your horse keeps up."
Galloping back along the banks of the Liddel Water, Alex ignored the pounding in her head, scanning anxiously ahead for the small stone cairns that denoted the ford.
Behind them, she was sure the sounds of galloping hooves were getting louder, and she gritted her teeth and knotted her good hand into Duke's mane.
Time seemed to slow, as if she and Michael were running through a mire and the band of riders behind them were on the normal clock, gaining on them with every yard.
Finally, when she'd almost given up hope, and the reivers were too close for comfort, she spotted the ford. "Steady," she called, sitting taller in the saddle and slowing Duke to a trot.
Michael swore as he was nearly pulled out of the saddle by his grey, who ran riderless beside them but hadn't decelerated as sharply as Duke.
"Sorry," she said. "We turn left here. Over the ford."
"But that is into England!" Michael protested, pulling on Duke's reins so harshly that the horse threw his head up in protest, skidding to a halt.
She caught his eye over her shoulder. "Trust me! And let me ride." Nudging Duke with her heels, he marched forward into the shallows. "We shall escape them yet."
But her words rang hollow when a blood-curdling yell behind them showed that they'd been spotted, and that the chase was on!
Chapter 6
ONE LOOK FROM those amazing hazel eyes—and one war-cry from the approaching reivers—was enough to convince Michael. "As you wish," he said, and clicked his tongue to encourage the grey forward.
Moments later they'd splashed through the ford and were cantering through the trees along the Kershope valley. Michael glanced over his shoulder, but there was no sign—yet—of their pursuers. "Where now?" he whispered into Alexandra's ear, uncomfortably aware of how close and how warm her body was, but also uncomfortably aware that they were running headlong into English territory.
"Trust me," she said again, scanning the right-hand side of the path, "and be ready to dismount when I say."
Up ahead, the trees thickened and the undergrowth beside the track became less sparse, with elder and wild garlic vying with ivy and blackthorn for space under the towering oaks, gnarly rowans or silvery birch trees of the ancient wood.
They'd gone but a few hundred yards further when Alexandra stiffened and called out again, "Steady!"
As if by magic, the stallion slowed to a walk. "Quickly," she said, "jump off and lead your horse behind me in single file. Make no sound."
He raised his eyebrows at her commanding tone—uselessly, since she was before him and couldn't see his face—but did as she requested.
Turning the stallion sharp right off the track, she rode him at a large stone—and disappeared!
I knew she was a witch! But Michael's horse was hot on the heels of the stallion, and all of a sudden they too had disappeared around the granite monolith, which hid the entrance to a dry stream bed.
"Throw me your reins," Alex hissed at him from atop the black, crouching low over his neck so that she wouldn't be seen from the track, her face pale in the dim light of the forest, "and use a branch to hide our tracks."
Her added admonition of "Quickly!" was unnecessary, for Michael was already hurrying back around the stone and brushing frantically at their hoof-prints, conscious of the approaching thunder of their pursuers, who must by now have crossed the ford and be very close behind.
Crouching together behind the grey stone as the reivers charged along the Kershope track and on up the valley, Michael's heart pounded loudly against his ribcage. He was unsure whether the blood coursed through his veins from fear, the thrill of the chase, or the fact that Alexandra was in his arms once more. Her good side held safely against his chest, his arm circled her waist from when he'd pulled her off her horse.
Even after the Armstrongs—for it was them, he recognised the red-bearded Dod Armstrong in the lead—had passed, her right arm remained wrapped round his shoulders.
It brought her face to a level with his own and made him uncomfortably aware of the rise and fall of her bosom under the thin tunic she wore and the tumble of dark hair that framed her head like a halo, for she'd lost the cloth cap when she fell. He swallowed, trying to ignore the stirring in his loins. For she was captivating, and each minute that he spent in her company she intrigu
ed and beguiled him even more.
"Thank you," she breathed, turning her face towards him, eyes wide, cheeks flushed and lips full.
In that moment he was undone.
Pushing her against the grey granite, his mouth captured hers even as his arms pulled her closer. And she tasted sweet, like honey from a comb, her lips as soft as rose petals even as they parted and allowed his tongue to tease and tempt her.
But her body was anything but soft. Travelling down, his hand circled firm buttocks, pulling her hard against him. As he did that, she responded by pulling him closer with her good arm, muscles tensing as she reached behind his neck and deepened their kiss so that he thought he might drown in the loveliness of her.
If it hadn't been for the makeshift sling pinning her injured arm against her body, his next move would've been to slide his hand under her tunic to where he might revel in the feel of her bare skin. But that realisation brought him to his senses.
What am I doing, ravishing this maid here in enemy territory when the Armstrongs are abroad and might descend on us at any moment?
He broke their kiss, breathing heavily. "Forgive me."
Alex's skin tingled, every nerve-ending singing and her pulse racing—not just from the kiss, amazing as it was—but also from the heat of Michael's body and the feel of his oh-so-obvious desire for her. The misgivings she'd harboured about him such a short time ago seemed laughable now, with his hands igniting her body and his lips bewitching her senses. The things he did to her made her forget the pounding in her temples and the ache from her shoulder. He made her forget her very self.
For Alex had never felt like this before.
Yes, she'd shared curious kisses with a couple of the boys from her clan; yes, she'd gazed curiously from behind the barn at a young couple groaning and fumbling as they explored their lust for each other after a feast night; yes, she'd explored her own body in the quiet of her cot at night, eyes closed and heart hammering at the strange sensations; and yes, her heart had beaten faster at the sight of a powerful stallion mounting a pliant mare, eyes gleaming, nostrils flaring and intention obvious to anyone with eyes to see.
But this! This was something beyond all imagining. She understood now how the young couple had been oblivious to her stares, and why the stallion would leap a four-foot wall to reach a mare in heat. She wanted—she wanted… She didn't know exactly what she wanted, just that it was something to do with Michael and stallions and the heat radiating from down there as he pressed himself harder and closer and…
"Forgive me," he panted, pushing her to arm's length.
She almost cried, wanting more of his mouth, his hands, his body; wanting that feeling to never stop.
"We should seek safety. The Armstrongs will return once they realise they've lost us. And my breath comes so hard even a deaf man could hear me! My most humble apologies for taking advantage of you," he gave her a half-bow—as much as he could while still partially supporting her, for her legs wouldn't hold her up, "'Twas unforgivable of me, lass, even in the heat of the moment. It wilna happen again."
Her spirits plummeted, and tears pricked at the corners of her eyes. Her head whirled. He doesn't want me. It was just the excitement of the chase. She turned away so he wouldn't see her tears, and quickly wiped her cheek with her uninjured hand.
"This way," she said, jerking her chin in the direction of the farmhouse. But her legs were still weak from the tumble, and her head dizzy—whether from his kiss or the fall she was unsure—and her knees turned to water even as she made to grab Duke's reins.
Darkness roared in from the edges of her vision, robbing her of sight and senses so that the last thing she saw was Duke's noble face, before the shadows took over and everything went black.
Chapter 7
MICHAEL PAUSED AT the edge of the wood and surveyed the secret place before him.
Tucked away in this hidden fold of land, the bastle house with its camouflaged approach was the perfect location to escape the ravages of reiver country. Surrounded by a drystane dyke, with just one gate for entry, the fortified farmhouse with its thick stone walls and arrow-slit windows was constructed to repel all but the most determined attack—if any enemy would ever find it. The upper-level living with its removable access ladder was designed to keep the inhabitants safe and warm above the ground-level barn below, which housed their most valuable stock. But would this house keep Alexandra safe? And would he, as a Scotsman, be safe to approach it?
Looking down at the girl he carried in his arms, his heart wrenched. She'd fainted again after the trauma of their chase and the unseemly attentions he'd foisted on her. But this time she hadn't awoken, and he was desperately worried.
Glancing over his shoulder, and past the two horses that followed behind, he chewed his lip. He hadn't heard the Armstrongs return—yet—but he was sure they would be tearing the woods apart, hunting high and low for Alexandra's valuable stallion, if nothing else.
What he faced was like a choice between the hangman's noose and the executioner's sword: Scottish cutthroats or enemy English farmers? But when he thought of it like that, farmers seemed considerably less dangerous than Armstrongs. Even if they were English.
Maybe he could pretend to be one of their countrymen? He could say he was from clan Hall. They were prevalent in the East March, on both sides of the border—and far enough away from here that he shouldn't be called out on his subterfuge.
Squaring his shoulders, he pulled Alexandra tighter against his chest and stepped out of the shelter of the trees, towards the wooden gate.
"Halt!" called a gruff voice before Michael had walked more than a dozen paces. "Who are you, and what's your business here?"
Lifting the unconscious Alexandra higher in his arms to show to the shadowy figure in the first-floor doorway, Michael shouted back, "Michael Hall, sire. I found this injured lass up the valley there." He nodded over his shoulder at her horse. "She fell from her horse. And there are Armstrongs abroad."
At this last statement the man in the doorway stiffened, then dropped a wooden ladder from his perch down to the ground. "You'd better come up then. Leave the horses down below. Hob will attend to them."
The door to the barn below opened, and a youth with a shock of red hair and dressed in a similar fashion to Alexandra darted out. "Alex!" he cried when he spotted the girl, and looked up at Michael. "What happened to her?"
He knows her? Now it was Michael's turn to freeze. She called herself Alexandra Graham. But like the Halls, there were Grahams on both sides of the border. Had the girl hoodwinked him? Was she indeed English, not Scots as he'd assumed?
That put a whole different complexion on things. Could she be a spy, playing him for a fool, or were her agreeable nature and obvious charms for real?
Michael looked down at the maid in his arms and gritted his teeth. Emotions in disarray after the intensity of their embrace, his usual level-headed reasoning was proving elusive. I'll think on it later. For now, I need to get away from this enemy stronghold, elude the Armstrongs, ride on to Stobs before nightfall, and then to Jedburgh and the queen. He had more than enough problems to deal with without letting his feelings get in the way.
"Fell off her horse. We need to get her inside." Michael handed the horses' reins to the boy and stepped round to the ladder.
With her injury, this will be awkward. "Sorry," he muttered, even though he knew she wouldn't hear, then lifted her over his shoulder to leave a hand free for the climb.
Taking a deep breath, and hoping he wasn't climbing to his death, he stepped onto the first rung.
Chapter 8
TROTTING ALONG AT the head of his victorious troops, Bothwell allowed himself a self-satisfied smile. His plan had started well, with the defeat of Whithaugh Tower and the capture of three-score Armstrongs, including their leader, Archie o' the Bell.
Next on his list were the Armstrongs of Mangerton, their accomplices the Elliots of Shaws, and then the Elliots of Park. Those should fill his dung
eons nicely and keep Queen Mary's gibbets in Jedburgh full for a week or more. More to the point, the capture of all those notorious ruffians would send a message to the other riding families of the Borders: that they needed to toe the line or they would have the wrath of Bothwell land upon them.
Crossing Hermitage Water, Bothwell turned his horse towards the impregnable castle that had been in his family for nearly a century. Hermitage was not the most comfortable place to live, with its large, cold rooms and arrow-slit windows, but its imposing grandeur warmed his heart and bolstered his pride. For who would dare oppose him when he stood behind those unassailable walls?
Answering the sentry's challenge with a raise of a round shield emblazoned with the lion-rampant of Scotland, Bothwell led his men under the castle's high stone ramparts and round to the main entrance.
"Fling them into the pit," he ordered, striding up the stairs to his apartments in the Douglas Tower. "Let's see if a few days in the dark will incline them towards truth when they meet their queen." Or their maker, he thought with satisfaction. For ruffians like these deserved nothing except the rough justice they would receive at the end of a hangman's noose, and he meant to be the one to deliver them to the assizes where they would meet their end.
Inside the bastle house there were more people than Michael would've imagined, and he had to forcibly stop his hand from touching the hilt of his weapon for reassurance. Any movement like that could be seen as hostile in a room full of strangers.
By the door, the man with the gruff voice took one glance at the injured girl and pointed to a wooden bed in the corner. "Set her on the cot over there." He held out a large hand, eyes cold as steel. "And give me your sword for safe-keeping."
Michael did as he asked, laying Alexandra carefully on the straw mattress and handing over his weapon. He felt naked without it. But not so naked as he'd have felt if they'd also asked for the dirk that was hidden in his boot. But pray that I dinna need to defend myself. For he was more than outnumbered now, and the dagger would do little against angry enemies armed with longswords.
A Love Divided: A Scottish Historical Romance (The Reivers Book 1) Page 3