by Maren Smith
"Aye.” Collin was also quick to give advice. “Let the beast know who's boss."
The mare already knew. That was the problem.
"Move, you stupid horse.” Mallory bounced in the saddle, kicking the horses flanks, but to no avail. Varden made this look so easy, and here she was jerking on the reins and the animal wasn't moving more than an inch at a time. She grit her teeth.
Cort could hardly contain his laughter; Collin was more sympathetic. “Pull ‘er ‘ead up and give ‘er a little slap on the flanks with yer reins."
Her temper at a boiling point, Mallory jerked on the reins even as the horse decided it had had enough of its cantankerous rider. As it reared, she shrieked, let go of the reins, and grabbed for a more substantial hold on the saddle.
Cort grabbed for the reins, but the mare bolted past him with Mallory clinging to the back for dear life. Swearing and shouting, her escorts spurred their mounts after the runaway beast heading straight for the dense woods. Mallory flattened herself against its back, ducking her head just as a low hanging branch whooshed over her back and almost swept her off the saddle. There was nothing smooth or graceful about the ride. At a full gallop over rocky and uneven ground, every lunging step jolted Mallory until her teeth rattled and her arms and legs ached from her death grip hold.
Suddenly the ground, rushing by at breakneck speed, fell away beneath them as the horse leapt across the mouth of a narrow ravine. Gravity plucked her from the saddle as the mare bucked free of her. It landed safely on the other side of the steep hillside and continued running. Mallory fell, the thick grass softening her impact with the ground. She rolled, end over end, all the way down to the bottom of the ravine. A jarring pain shot through her wrist as she flopped to a stop at the base of a small green bush. She lay on her back and stared up through the trees at the pale blue sky, too stunned at first to move.
Mallory spat the leaves from her mouth and coughed. Her body felt bruised, as if she'd hit every rock and bush on the way down. Her right arm was scratched from a chance encounter with a briar patch, and her wrist throbbed so badly that, at first, she couldn't feel her fingers.
A pair of flaring white nostrils came into view as a horse leaned down to snuffle at her hair. It nuzzled the front of her plain brown dress—the first of three delivered from Nanna's daughter in Wooler just that morning—and serenely lipped the lace off the front of her bodice.
It took a moment before she realized the horse dismantling her new dress was not the same animal that had thrown her a moment ago. Neither was the other horse grazing a short distance off to her left. She didn't know the riders, either, but she recognized the bold colors of their jerkin emblems well enough. The Michadle hawk stood out in dark contrast against the blue homespun background.
"Are ye all right?” one of the riders asked, his forearm resting across his thigh as he leaned over her, watching her through narrowed eyes, neither friendly nor otherwise.
"Yes.” Mallory rolled carefully onto her side. “I was just taking the quick way down."
She stood slowly, once again aching from head to toe and feeling much as she had nine days ago. Her cheek burned where she'd obtained a small scratch from crashing through a shrub midway down the hill, but nothing felt broken, not even her wrist, though she moved it gently up and down to be sure there were no sharp, shooting pains.
"Boyd,” said the first man. “Take ‘Er Grace back to ‘er escorts a-fore they come lookin’ for ‘er all in a panic."
Boyd, the younger of the two, rode toward her, reaching down with one hand to help her up into the saddle with him.
Gingerly brushing the leaves and twigs from her dress and hair, Mallory was about to reach for his hand when she noticed the boy. She froze in horror.
Not more than ten years of age, his hands were bound up between his shoulders and the noose end of a rope was fit snugly round his neck. Seated a-top a horse of his own, he looked at her from out beneath the shaggiest mop of bright orange hair that she had ever seen. His blue eyes were overly large in a face dominated by freckles and dirt.
"What are you doing?” Mallory demanded. “Cut him down right now!"
The two men glanced at one another. Reluctantly, the leader said, “'E's a thief, ‘e is. Caught ‘im raidin’ Candlewick just this morning, ‘im and some others. Like as not, they'd ‘ave killed somebody, but that we nabbed ‘im first."
"That's a lie!” the boy shouted. “Run, lassie! Run a-fore they hang ye next!"
Mallory ducked between the two men's horses and went to him. “No one's going to hang anybody."
"We've the right!” Boyd snapped. “'E's a Scot, isn't ‘e?"
"Shut yer ‘ole, Boyd!” the leader ordered. He turned his hard eyes on Mallory, then his mouth twisted into a smile. “I'm right sorry, Yer Grace. Our orders comes from ‘Is Grace ‘imself. Justice ‘as to be served ye know."
"He's just a little boy!"
"I'm nae!” The boy stiffened, affronted. “I'm a mon!"
"Cut him down now!” Mallory ordered.
Neither soldier moved. Finally, the leader dismounted. He pushed aside his mount's head as he stepped around the horse towards her. “If ‘e's old enough to steal, ‘e's old enough to ‘ang. Must be right ‘ard for a woman o’ yer sensibilities to understand, what with ye ‘aving a little one o’ yer own. Go on with Boyd, Yer Grace. ‘E'll take ye home, won't ye, Boyd?"
"Sure.” Boyd extended his hand to help her into the saddle again, but by the look on the younger man's face, the acquiescence was grudgingly given. “Come, milady. Mount up."
A dark tickle of foreboding crept over Mallory's skin as she looked from Boyd's outstretched hand back to the leader.
"Dinnae listen t’ him, lassie!” the boy shouted again, panicked. “Run!"
Mallory stood her ground. “I'm not going anywhere."
"Ye don't know ‘ow sorry I am to ‘ear ye say that, luv,” the leader told her, his eyes hardening as he stepped toward her.
"What goes here?"
Mallory started and all three turned to see Rafe and Cort half-walking and half-sliding down the same steep embankment that she had rolled down a moment ago. Cort reached her first. “Yer Grace, are ye all right?"
Collin remained at the top of the ravine with Mallory's misbehaving mare and the other horses in hand.
"See,” Rafe said, not quite hiding his worry. “I told ye she'd be fine. Safe and sound and with our own lads, at that."
"I'm not safe, and I'm sure not sound,” Mallory said stiffly. She pointed at the child. “They want to murder this little boy!"
The redheaded boy stiffened in his saddle. “I'm nae a little boy, I tell ye! I'm a mon!"
"Christ's bones, send the woman away!” Boyd snapped. “Damned chit's squeamish, and we got the right!"
Both Boyd and the leader stiffened when Cort and Rafe drew their blades. The ravine became still and quiet, but for the soft snuffling of placidly grazing horses.
In a menacing tone, Cort said, “That ‘damned chit’ is the Duchess of Cadhla, our lord's lady, and ye'll give ‘er all due respect or I've just found meself a new—and very temporary—practice partner."
Eyeing the sword, Boyd pulled his reins until his mount backed up.
"Excuse me.” Taking a knife from Cort's belt, Mallory went to cut the young boy's bonds.
Studying both men, Rafe said, “I don't think I've seen either of ye a-fore."
"Not surprised. We've only just arrived,” the leader said.
"New recruits?” Cort asked.
The leader nodded. “We've been on the Field a few days now."
"Odd.” Glaring up at Boyd, Cort took hold of his mount's bridle. “New recruits never ride patrol."
The leader reached for his own sword, but stopped abruptly when Rafe lay his blade against the man's neck. Not that it would have mattered anyway. While they had been talking, eight armored soldiers dressed in Michadle blue had ridden up from behind, leaving no chance for flight.
The ice in Varden's voice brought everything to a stand still. “What goes here?"
"Lady Mallory stumbled on these two about to ‘ang the boy,” Rafe said.
"What boy?” Varden asked sharply. “Where is my wife?"
Rafe turned to indicate the tree, but stopped. Both Mallory and the boy, as well as the horse the child had been tied upon, were gone. Only the noose remained, swaying idly in the breeze. “But—but, Yer Grace, she were right ‘ere!"
"Let me guess.” Varden scowled. His eyes swept the narrow ravine and surrounding trees for a glimpse of red hair or a nightgown. “You only turned your back for a moment."
* * * *
"I can't be gone long,” Mallory said over the young boy's head. They rode the mare together, her arms wrapped around his waist as they shared the saddle. “If Varden finds out I'm out here by myself, he'll probably tack my hide to the dungeon wall."
"We're nae so verra far now,” the boy assured her. He pointed up the steep, rocky hillside ahead. “Just o'er that northern rise, then we'll be on Kincaid land."
She nudged the docile mare in the direction the boy indicated. Her spill down the ravine had left her body aching in places she didn't know she had. Even as well behaved as this mare was, if Mallory never sat upon another horse again it would be too soon.
Hoping to take her mind off her discomforts, she said. “So, your father is the Laird Kincaid."
A grin of sheer pride split the boy's freckled face. “Me name's Alasdair. What's yers?"
"Mallory. What were you doing at Candlewick?"
"The bloody Sassenach caught me at Dunne,” Alasdair protested. “I was waiting for the raiders. Father takes me brothers wi’ him sometimes, but I always have t’ stay at home.” He made a face. “He says I'm too young, but I'm nae! I'm a mon!"
"Oh, I see.” Mallory hid her smile, then winced as the horse went down a mild incline, bouncing her in the saddle. “I need to get back before I'm missed. Can we hurry this horse up a bit?"
"Father can escort ye home, lass."
Mallory looked back the way they'd just come. Beyond that rise was the Wooler forest line. “I'd be grateful if he could. I'm not sure I can find my own way."
"We'll ask him.” Alasdair straightened slightly and began to wave his arms.
Startled, Mallory turned back in time to see a line of mounted Scotsmen riding down the hill to greet them. The Kincaid was easily recognized; his hair matched the boy's and his scowl was darker than any of the rest, though not by much. All together, they were a fearsome lot, dressed in kilts with swathes of tartans draped over their shoulders. And all were very well armed.
"That's me father,” Alasdair said smugly.
"They don't look very happy to see us."
"Weel, ye were trying t’ hang me."
"Oh, nuts."
Alasdair patted her on the knee. “Dinnae worry, lass. We'll say yer me prisoner. That way, when we ransom ye back t’ yer mon, it will nae look sae much yer fault."
Mallory groaned. “He's going to kill me. He is absolutely going to kill me."
The horse whinnied, as if in sympathetic agreement.
"I'll be flayed alive. He'll use my skin to make a lawn chair.” She wilted in the saddle like a neglected fern.
The boy patted her knee again. “Yer a sweet lassie."
"He's going to shake me until my teeth rattle and my eyes pop out of my head."
"Dinnae fash yerself. If yer mon dinnae pay the ransom, I'll proudly wed ye meself and let nae mon say a word agin ye. Dinnae look sae gloomy. ‘Tis nae small honor ye know, t’ be the wife o’ a Scottish laird's son. Course, while I d’ appreciate yer helping me, in the future, if ye disobey me as ye d’ yer husband, then ye'll be feeling me belt agin yer backside."
"I'll try to keep that in mind,” she said dryly.
"The only belt t’ be felt t'night'll be mine,” the Kincaid growled as he drew near. “Ye were told t’ stay home, boy. Where've ye been? Yer mother's been a mess o’ worry for ye.” His hard eyes locked on Mallory. “I know ye.” He circled them on his horse. “Yer a long way from home, Red Hair. And a long way from the border."
"I realize that, sir, and I'd be very grateful for an escort back to Cadhla."
From behind them came the rumble of a dozen horse's hooves as a small army of English soldiers galloped up to the hilltop. Like the Scots, Varden and his men were fully armed. Even from this distance, Mallory knew which rider Varden was. She shivered; she could feel the ice of his fury from here.
Alasdair looked back at him. “Are ye sure ye dinnae want t’ come home wi’ me? I'll treat ye weel. I'll feed ye everyday."
Mallory patted his shoulder. “Maybe next time."
"If ye change yer mind, just come asking for Alasdair. I'd be more than glad t’ have ye stay a wee while."
"Come on with ye, boy,” the Kincaid said, turning his horse back to the Scottish side of the border.
Mallory hurried up the hill toward Varden and his waiting men. No one looked pleased to see her. The closer she came to the top, the more the trepidation tightened in her chest. She tried not to let it show, not even when Varden pulled off his helmet and she saw just how angry he truly was. For a brief moment, she almost high-tailed it back to the Scots.
Varden swooped down on her like the taloned hawk insignia on the blue front of his jerkin. Before Mallory could move, his arm was around her waist and she was being lifted up into the saddle before him. His arm felt like a band of steel around her waist. When he set her down across his armored thighs, Mallory felt every bruise down the back of her legs cry out. But she dared not complain; she dared not even wiggle.
"I hope you enjoyed your ride,” Varden growled behind her. “I guarantee it will be the last time you comfortably sit down for a long, long time."
She definitely should have gone with the Scots.
"Varden—"
"You be silent or I will cut a switch right here and now!"
She stiffened, but didn't say a word, and he ordered his men back to Cadhla ahead of them.
Varden and Mallory stayed a little behind as the small group of soldiers turned back the way they had come. Seeking privacy, Varden followed at a more sedate pace, letting the group pull perhaps a hundred yards ahead of them. And then he did not give her one word, he gave her a thousand. All spoken loudly.
"Bloody hell, madame, what were you thinking?"
"You're the one who wanted me to go riding,” Mallory said, glaring back over her shoulder at him. She was trying not to squirm in front of him, but the hard edges of his armor were biting into her legs and back, and he was not being gentle. “Get out, you said. See the country and return home a happier, more relaxed person. And what else—oh yes, something about drowning me in a stream if I wasn't smiling."
He glared right back at her. He was better at it. “I did not say you could do it unescorted or this far away from the protection of Cadhla! Have you been paying attention, or are you completely unaware that I have a band of murderers running loose somewhere on the outskirts of my property? God only knows where Godfrey is!"
"Did you want that boy hanged?” Mallory asked.
"Of course not! Neither of those men took his pay from me."
Mallory craned her neck to look at him over her shoulder. “No?"
The muscles were jumped along his jaw as he scowled down the road ahead. “They were Godfrey's."
"He's still that close to us."
"If he is, that means he's close enough for me to catch him."
"What did you do with them?"
"They are sitting in my prison.” His temper exploded again. “And no, you can't see! There is still this habit you have for wanton defiance. Your behavior jeopardizes my authority with my men. How can they be expected to respect me when my own wife will not obey my commands? I will be mocked behind my back, if I'm not already. And all because you continuously undermine me. In their eyes, I'm not the master of Cadhla. That honor lies with a red-headed lunatic, and I do
ubt they'd obey you either!"
Angry silence stretched between them, broken only by the steady clomping of the horse's hooves in the dirt and the twitter of birds hidden in the tree branches above.
Mallory was the first to break it. “I'm sorry. I don't mean to undermine your authority."
"Save your apologies,” Varden snapped. “I am going to paddle your bottom until you can't sit for a week, and apologies aren't going to change my mind!"
"Fine!” Mallory snapped. “At least I apologized! You could accept it gracefully, you stubborn, arrogant ass!"
She struggled to break free of his one-armed grip and slide off the horse. When that failed, she settled for holding herself as far away from him as she could while still remaining in the saddle. And she fumed.
After a half-mile of watching her precariously perched over the horse's neck, half expecting her to fall out of the saddle and onto her nose, Varden grudgingly capitulated. “All right, damn it! Apology accepted."
When she still kept herself stiffly leaned forward in the saddle, he grit his teeth and capitulated further. “I am sorry I yelled at you. But you can't know the fears that ran through my mind when I learned where you were going, alone. My heart jumped into my throat and didn't come back down again until you were safely back in my arms."
The horse trudged on several steps before Mallory wilted ever so slightly. She still wasn't touching him, but neither was she as angry. “Do you mean that?"
"Yes. Truce?"
"Are you still going to spank me?” She wasn't very hopeful that he'd let her off the hook so easily, but she couldn't help asking.
"I told you apologies weren't going to change my mind. You, me, and the hairbrush are going to discuss your habitually risking your life every time I turn my back the minute we get home."
Her stomach clenched at the thought, but Mallory leaned back against him once more. “Will I at least get the chance to tell my side of what happened?"
"Of course."
At least that gave her one small hope. Mallory sighed. “Truce then."
The rest of the ride was made without speaking. Just as the upper turrets of Cadhla came into view between the trees, Varden suddenly swore and stopped his horse in the middle of the road. Mallory didn't even see the small militia of kilted Scotsmen until they came out of the surrounding trees and had them surrounded.