Chapter 2
Vainglorious! Him. Lachlan of the MacGowans. Hardly that. ’Twas that Hunter fellow who was vain. And why? If the truth be told he was probably afeared of fighting. That is why he had refused a battle.
Of course, Lachlan could not blame the warrior.
After all, Lachlan thought grimly, watching the sun break over the eastern horizon, Lachlan’s reputation as a warrior had surely preceded him.
’Twas really quite clever of the wee fellow to suggest a riddle instead of a test of arms. One couldn’t blame him for being cautious, but it certainly would have been satisfying to hear the little weasel admit his fear.
Vain! Him! Well, perhaps he was, but at least he had a reason for his vanity, while Hunter . . .
Lachlan snorted. He could best that warrior fellow with one arm disabled, but perhaps beating him into mash would not be considered Christian.
Thus he would refrain from that particular pleasure.
Still, it would soothe him considerably if he could scare the other a bit.
But there again, that too might be considered less than kindly.
On the other hand, thought Lachlan, rising restlessly to gaze back in the direction from which he had just come the night before, humility was surely a godly attribute, so if one looked at the situation in a certain light, perhaps it was his Christian duty to show the warrior the way to humility.
Aye, he decided, and smiled into the dawn.
Humility may not be his most notable quality, but he was not opposed to helping others find that same saintly attribute.
It was a simple task for Lachlan to find the warrior’s campsite from the previous night, of course.
Following him thereafter, however, was not as easy as he might have expected.
But then, Lachlan had never liked an easy course.
It was the challenge that made a victory rewarding.
And too, it was good to know the man had felt it necessary to be somewhat cautious after their meeting.
Lachlan smiled into the darkness. Aye, the warrior was doing his best to cover his tracks now.
Indeed, he had ridden his mount down a narrow, swift-flowing burn for some ways, but Lachlan had still managed to find the spot where he’d turned his steed out of the water.
Aye, he had found it and he had followed the tracks, and soon he would see his quarry again.
Not to exact revenge for the other’s sharp tongue.
Nay, that would be churlish, and though he may not be as charming as some, Lachlan liked to believe he was a thoughtful sort.
Content with his thoughts, Lachlan tied his stallion to a rowan that grew beside the burn and glanced upstream.
Aye, the irritating warrior had returned to the rivulet’s edge, but not to ride through it again.
Nay, this time he had stopped to water his mount, but he had also made a terrible mistake.
He had stopped for the night—beside the burn.
It was foolish, for though Hunter had anticipated Lachlan’s approach once, it would not happen again.
This time Lachlan would be prepared. He would use all his considerable skills, and he would prove himself the better man.
Unfortunately, it would almost be too easy this time. After all, the campsite was quite near the stream and the sound of the water flowing would cover any slight noise Lachlan’s footfalls might make. But that was Hunter’s mistake.
Easing through the woods, Lachlan held his breath.
He was close now, within a furlong for sure, an eighth of a mile, and not too far to use the utmost caution.
Thus, he tested the direction of the scant wind and circled noiselessly about so that the breeze trickled into his face instead of onto his back.
Not a frond whispered as he passed through the bracken, not a stone was misplaced.
Aye, he had been cautious before, but now he was beyond silent as he slipped through the night.
And then, not thirty rods in front of him, Lachlan spotted his prey.
Hunter. He was there, and the situation was even better than hoped for.
The warrior was bending over the rushing burn.
By the fickle glow of the moonlight, Lachlan could see the man reach into the water.
Aye, even though the other was turned away, Lachlan could tell he was washing up.
Indeed, his back was bare as he scrubbed at his torso, and what a scrawny back it was!
Lachlan stared in disbelief. Without the padded leather jerkin, the man was as narrow as a sapling. His skin was pale in the deepening darkness and even now, with the moon well hidden again, it was clear that his arms were no brawnier than a strapping lad’s.
Sweet mother Mary, he was pitifully lanky. It was almost a shame to frighten the poor waif, and yet . . . the fellow was disturbingly conceited and Lachlan had made a vow to do his Christian deed and teach him humility.
Thus, quiet as a shadow, Lachlan stepped from the woods. The night was silent but for the rush of the burn. Not a sound issued from his footfalls, and he smiled as he stepped up within inches of his quarry. Ahh, how sweet reven—Christian duty felt, he amended.
“So here—” Lachlan began.
In that instant the warrior spun about. His sword flashed in the moonlight.
Lachlan leapt back. Snatching his own blade from its scabbard, he parried desperately.
Their weapons clashed and clashed again.
Sparks flew like shooting stars. Lachlan’s sleeve was torn asunder.
Pain streaked up his arm, but he hesitated not a moment.
Heaving upward, he twisted sharply to the right.
Catching the other’s sword near the hilt, he dipped and dragged, and suddenly the warrior’s weapon was spinning into the darkness and Lachlan’s was poised at the other’s throat.
Lachlan paused, breathing hard. “Perhaps a game of draughts would have better suited—” he began, but at that moment the moon broke free of the bedeviling clouds and shone with ethereal light on his opponent’s—breasts!
Lachlan stumbled backward, reeling as if he’d been struck.
“Holy mother!” he rasped and let his weapon drop from bloodless fingers. “Gilmour was right! I was saved by a woman!”
Hunter swept up her sword and with a movement as swift as a serpent’s strike, she tipped her blade under his and tossed it at him. It sang into the air only to pierce the ground not three inches from his feet.
“Take up your weapon,” she ordered, but Lachlan only shook his head.
“You’re . . . a woman.”
“Aye,” she growled and advanced, sword at the ready, “I am the woman who is about to best the great rogue fox.”
If her words were meant as a slur, he failed to realize it, for his head was still spinning.
“But you have . . . breasts,” he said.
“Pick up your sword!” she demanded and stepping forward, fitted her blade below his jaw, just as he had seconds before. “Or shall I kill you here and now?”
Lachlan tilted his head back slightly, but even so he could see her breasts. And they were beautiful, full and fair and moon-kissed in dusky hues. “Kill me then,” he said softly. “And have done with, for I’ll not fight a maid.”
“Damn you!” she swore, pressing forward. “Defend yourself.”
“Nay.”
“Retrieve your sword!”
“I will not.”
For a moment her blade trembled against his throat, but finally she yanked it away with a curse and pivoted about. Lachlan watched her go, watched her bend and lift and pull her tunic over her head and past her waist.
He closed his eyes and remembered to breathe, but his mind was reeling.
“Why—” he began.
“Don’t speak!” she snarled and, retrieving her weapon, stalked back to him. “Or I swear by all that is holy I shall carve your tongue from your head.”
He nodded once. Aye, maybe ten minutes ago he would have gladly welcomed such a challenge, but ten minutes ago she had been a man. Life was indeed full of surprises.
“You’ll tell no one.” Her voice was as deep as the night again, gritted and quiet, but it seemed different now, imbued with a earthy sensuality that he had somehow failed to recognize.
Breasts! Sweet Mother. Who’d have guessed—besides Gilmour, of course.
Mour had said that Lachlan’s brawny savior had been a woman, had all but driven him mad with the taunting, but—breasts!
“Do you hear me?” she snarled, lifting her sword.
“What’s that?” he asked, and she took a threatening step forward.
“I said, you’ll tell no one.”
Her beauty was hidden from him now, and yet it seemed as if he could see them still, moon-drenched and perfect. “About what?” he asked and tried a smile, but he would never be a success on the stage.
“Damn you!” she swore. “Make your vow or die now.” He was silent a moment. He could feel his heart beating in his chest, could hear his breath and hers.
“Tell me this first,” he said finally. “Why would you hide such beaut—” He paused, searching for words. “Why would you hide your true sex?”
“It matters not,” she said. “Only that I do and that you shall keep it so.”
How could he not have known? “But I owe you me life.” Perhaps he should have been mortified to have been saved by a maid.
In fact, when Mour had taunted him with his theory, he had been, but now, for reasons he could neither explain nor condone, he felt some pride for it.
After all, she had saved him. Not Gilmour, the rogue of the rogues, nor Ramsay, with the “soulful” eyes.
But him. Why? “I owe you,” he repeated, setting aside his thoughts for later dissection. “And I shall repay you.”
“Nay!” Her tone was sharp. “You failed to answer the riddle correctly, thus you agreed to go.”
“Aye,” he said, “but I won the battle of swords and now you shall agree to allow me to repay the favor.”