Chapter Sixteen #2
Lyssa slowly moved forward. “Did you kill him?”
“He killed himself.” Ian got to his feet and turned his attention to the stallion, who stood not far away, the whites of his eyes showing in fear. He could smell death.
Davidson’s horse had run toward home, the stirrups bouncing off his sides. Fielder’s animal stopped, pawed the earth and waited.
“Come here, boy,” Ian said, approaching the stallion, with his hand open.
The stallion wasn’t trusting.
He whispered in Irish, “Ná bí buartha (‘Don’t worry’).”
Pricking up his ears, the stallion listened. Ian touched the velvet of his nose. “Ná bí buartha,” he repeated. The stallion lowered his head, a gesture of submission.
“You are so beautiful,” Ian praised and trailing his hand along the horse’s body so the animal knew where he was, he searched for where it had been shot.
“Is he all right?” Lyssa asked, coming to Ian’s side.
Ian didn’t answer. He found the wound on the stallion’s right flank. The bullet had grazed the horse and passed on. He leaned his head against the horse’s rump and said a word of thanksgiving.
“Will your salve help?”
“We can try it.” He picked up the reins, lifted them up over the stallion’s head and handed them to her. “Hold him while I get my knapsack.” He also took a moment to find his pistol.
Moving swiftly, he soothed the salve over the stallion’s wound, caught Fielder’s horse, a chestnut, and mounted. “Come, let’s get out of here.”
“Ian, we can’t go off and leave my cousin and Mr. Fielder lying here.”
“We have no choice. Who knows who will be chasing us next, and I don’t want to be here waiting to see if they accept our explanations.” He held out his hand and she took it without further argument.
Ponying the stallion, they started riding across the field. It was another sign of the stallion’s temperament that he didn’t balk at the arrangement. The beast was a jewel, a royal jewel.
Ian headed them south—toward London. They didn’t talk. Lyssa was very still and he feared she was having a hard time accepting the sudden turn of events.
When they came to a shallow stream, Ian urged the horses into it and followed its course for as long as he could.
He had no illusions. A cry would be put out once the bodies were discovered.
He could be held in suspicion of Fielder and Davidson’s deaths.
Lyssa and the evidence would show him blameless…
but there was still the tricky matter of a price on his head.
He had no desire to tweak the nose of the local authorities, not when he was so close to gaining everything he’d ever wanted.
Lyssa stayed in his arms, so tired she eventually fell asleep sitting up, her head against his chest. Her precious plaid was still wrapped around her shoulders. Dark clouds rolled in on the horizon, blocking the moon. Ian kept on.
The night sky grew lighter. He had no idea where they were or how far they’d come. Close to dawn, he finally sensed they were safe. Lyssa had roused several times during the night. She was awake but too quiet for his comfort.
He wished he knew what she was thinking.
He feared the worst. He had seen many men go through this same phase after battle.
He’d wondered why even hardened soldiers were always surprised to discover death was no more than a stone’s throw away.
It seemed to him he’d always lived with death right at his shoulder.
Lyssa, however, was different. She needed a safe place in order to come to terms with what had happened.
And he prayed she didn’t blame him.
In the dim light of a murky dawn, he spotted an abandoned shepherd’s bothy. They had traveled from the main roads, taking paths only shepherds and hunters would know.
The bothy was built beside a hill and was made of jumbled boulders piled one on top of another. The door hung loose on one leather hinge. There was a drink trough by the entrance full of brackish water. Dry, gray thatch covered the roof.
Ian hopped down and reached to help Lyssa off the chestnut. In the distance, he heard the rumble of thunder and the air felt heavy. Their horse took a skittish step and Lyssa fell into his arms.
Carrying her into the bothy, he put her down gently. The room was swept clean and dry. The hard stone floor would have to do.
She opened her eyes, disoriented.
“Wait for me,” he said quietly.
She nodded.
Outside, both horses were already grazing. Ian unsaddled them, hobbling both with the reins. Neither gave him a worry. The chestnut turned out to be a gelding and of good quality. Ian felt repaid for the horses Fielder had stolen from him in the beginning.
The first huge drops of rain hit the ground just as he ducked inside, saddles and bridles in hand.
Lyssa still sat where he’d placed her.
“A storm’s coming,” he said.
The frown formed between her brow. She tilted her head as if she might have heard his voice but wasn’t certain.
He moved to stand in front of her. “Are you all right?”
Her frown deepened. Her jaw tightened. She reached up and yanked at the plaid, pulling it off and tossing it aside, her actions speaking louder than words what she was feeling.
Ian picked the tartan up and spread it on the ground, using a saddle for a pillow. “Here, lie down. You need the rest.”
She didn’t move. “They’d both be still alive if I hadn’t arrived. If I hadn’t ever started on this foolish, ill-fated adventure.”
He hunched down until he was eye level with her, his hands resting on his knees.
“Either that or your cousins would have tried to murder someone else. I have no illusions about Fielder. We weren’t his first victims.” But we had become his last. Ian felt no remorse over seeing the man dead. Life was like that.
Outside, the skies suddenly opened and the rain came down in gray sheets, separating them from the rest of the world.
“Perhaps we should go to the magistrate,” she said, not looking at him. “We stole horses.”
Ian shook his head. “Lyssa, we’ll go to your father first. He will take care of everything from London. It will be better to explain ourselves there than here, where Davidson may have friends.”
“But you were right,” she said. “From the very beginning, you told me I was a fool for running away.”
“I—” he started but she cut him off.
“I’ve destroyed everything. I’ve opened the door for my stepmother’s hatred and almost cost you your life.”
He reached for her but she edged away, crossing her arms tight against her chest. “It’s my fault,” she said. “And I was actually happier before. Even marrying Robert couldn’t be worse than the way I am feeling now, seeing those men die—”
Ian moved in, wrapping his arms around her. He held her tight, his chin on top of her head. She felt stiff and cold. He tried to warm her with his body heat, to take the pain she was feeling upon himself.
“Don’t do this to yourself,” he begged her.
“There are things that go on in this life that no one understands. Perhaps running away was a mistake or perhaps you were meant to be here and everything happened exactly as it should have. I don’t pretend to understand the world, Cailín.
All I know is that you can’t go back. The past is done. It’s out of your hands now.”
“Don’t say that,” she whispered. “Please don’t say that.”
“It’s gone,” he pressed sadly.
She moved, forcing him to loosen his hold. From her belt she pulled a card. Ian had to lean back to see it properly. It was a picture of a rider on horseback swinging a sword. “What is it?” he asked without recognition.
“The Knight of Swords. It’s a tarot card, Ian. Used to tell one’s fate. I’ve carried it with me ever since Madame Linka told my fortune and I met you.”
“You don’t believe such nonsense, do you?”
“I don’t know.”
“I do. No one can tell the future.”
She raised tortured eyes to him. “Then why has it all come true?”
“Lyssa—” He wanted to reason with her but he didn’t know how. This was not his spirited Cailín but a woman who had just learned her limitations, who had discovered fear.
And then, she broke down, crumpling the card in her fingers. She would have collapsed on the ground, her body racked with heart-stopping sobs, if he hadn’t been holding her tight.
Ian was at a loss. “Please, Lyssa. It’s not your fault,” he said. But she was retreating to a place he couldn’t go…a place that frightened her.
He couldn’t stand idly by. Not without a fight to bring her back.
So, he did what he could do, what he wanted to do. He kissed her. Savagely, possessively, completely.
And to his surprise, and everlasting joy, she kissed him back.