The Guardian
Page 30
“Aye, he is that but ye’ll nay find a finer, gentler lad.” A quiet chuckle escaped him as he patted the horse’s side. “At least, until I need him to be otherwise. He can be a fearsome warhorse when need be.” Duncan drew down the almost empty water skin and held it out to Tilda. “Forgive me, lass. It’s verra little but even a little might help your throat.”
Tilda accepted the bag with a trembling nod, flinching as the mouthpiece of the water bag bumped the split in her lip. She took several sips then handed it back to Duncan. “I thank ye.” Her voice sounded some better for the water but not much.
“Can ye ride, lass?” Duncan couldn’t fathom the woman’s potential injuries and was not about to ask such a delicate, personal question when she had just now stopped looking at him as though he were a wolf about to eat her. But he needed to know if she felt she could ride.
“Aye.” Tilda pulled in a deep breath, lifted her chin, and attempted to stretch her diminutive frame taller. The top of her head almost reached his shoulder but not quite. “Ye saved my maidenhead, if that’s your concern, and I thank God Almighty for your gettin’ here when ye did. ’Tis true, they rough-handled me something fierce, but they failed to complete their evil intent thanks to yourself and your valiant ways.”
“Glad I am of it.” And glad he was that she felt safe enough to share that information with him. ’Twould make securing help for her that much easier. “Where can I take ye, m’lady? I fear I dinna know this area of the Highlands as well as I ken me own.”
“Tilda, aye?” Her voice might falter and fade in and out, but her irritation sounded loud and clear through the wavering of her hoarse squeak.
“Forgive me.” Duncan made a polite bow, making a mental note to never call Tilda milady again. Years of training by his mother’s firm hand were hard to overcome. “Pray tell where I can get ye some help, Tilda?”
She pulled his kilt tighter about her and stared down at the ground. “My father had urgent business in Inverness. Brought me with him because Angus, our clan solicitor, was down with the ague and couldna travel.” She made a twitching shrug of a shoulder. “Numbers and such come easy to me and Angus says I ken the law almost as well as he.” She shook her head or shivered. ’Twas hard to tell in her current condition. “Angus says I argue good too,” she whispered. “The White Lion. We always stay there whilst in Inverness. It belongs to our clan.”
An uneasy prickling stung through the hairs on the back of his neck. Duncan swiped his hand across his nape to rid himself of the feeling. A clan lawyer. A tavern owned by the clan. Urgent business in Inverness. All this information lent itself to Tilda possessing some status within Clan Mackenzie, a dangerous, powerful clan in its own right. Tilda sounded as though she held the rank of ladyship whether she wished such a title or not. “Who is your father, lass?”
“Lord Matheson Mackenzie, 4th Earl of Wrath.” Tilda gave him a determined yet tremulous smile, the first smile she’d managed since her horrendous ordeal. “Chieftain to Clan Mackenzie.”
The very man the MacDonald of Skye had warned Duncan to be certain to avoid whilst in this part of the Highlands.
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About the Author
“No one has the power to shatter your dreams unless you give it to them.” That’s Maeve Greyson’s mantra. She and her husband of almost forty years traveled around the world while in the U.S. Air Force. Now, they’re settled in rural Kentucky where Maeve writes about her beloved Highlanders and the fearless women who tame them. When she’s not plotting her next romantic Scottish tale, she can be found herding cats, grandchildren, and her husband—not necessarily in that order.
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