Chapter 2 #3
If a man said the same he might well be compelled to teach him better manners at the end of his sword, but now he merely scowled. “Me mother is many things,” he said. “But a fool, she is not.”
Silence fell between them.
She tilted her head. “You cherish her?” she asked. Her voice was strangely soft and he nodded in some confusion.
“Aye. Certainly. And you?” he asked, but she had turned away already.
“You change the subject,” she said. “Because you know I am right. Men make fools of themselves for no reason more substantial than the sight of a woman’s body.”
“’Tis not true.”
She laughed. “Oh, aye, it is and you well know it. One glance of a woman’s bosom and all thought flies from your head.”
“I was merely surprised,” he countered.
“Surprised! You looked as though you’d swallowed your heart. Had I not wished to kill you I would have laughed at the sight of your face. Tell me, MacGowan, have you not seen a woman’s breasts before?”
He mouthed something, but no words came for a moment.
“Well?”
“Of course,” he said. “I’ve seen . . . scores—”
“Then why did you all but swoon at the sight of mine?”
“’Tis a far cry from the truth. In fact, I barely . . .” He wasn’t sure, but he may have winced at this point. “. . . noticed.”
“Truly,” she said, and scoffed. “So I could disrobe this very instant and you’d not be the least distracted.”
“Nay I—” he began, but the possibilities suddenly penetrated his brain. Beneath his plaid, his interest raised its horny head. “Are you considering it?”
Hunter’s gaze held his and then, slowly, irrevocably, she lowered her hands to the buckle on her scabbard. It came away in her fingers and fell to the ground.
Lachlan stared like one in a trance, and then, like a butterfly, her fingers moved the slightest degree.
For a moment, he was almost aware of danger, but already the narrow blade had been slipped from the hidden sheath and was flying through the air.
He heard the hiss of its passage as it skimmed past his ear and sped with vicious intent into the tree behind him.
He turned to glance at the reverberating hilt, then back at her.
“Go back to your mother, MacGowan,” she growled, and turned scornfully away. “There are dangers afoot and I have no time to keep you safe.”
“If you would cease trying to kill me there would be no need to worry for me safety.”
“Trying to kill you!” she scoffed, and laughed. “If that were the case, laddie, you would already be dead.”
He smiled. “I think not . . . lassie.”
“I am not—”
“Not a lassie, not a lady. What are you then?” he asked, and stepped up to look down at her from a closer angle. “For you surely are not a man.”
“Nay, I am not,” she hissed. “For I have more important things to do than preen my fragile ego.”
“And what things might those be?”
“’Tis none of your concern, MacGowan, but I’ll not have your death on me hands. Go home to your clansmen. Tell them you bested Hunter the great warrior if you like.”
“Why would me life be endangered if I remained with you?”
She watched him for a moment, but finally she turned away with a shrug. “I travel south, down to the borderlands. They have no love for bonny Highlanders who wear their plaids like a badge of honor.”
“Why?”
“Are you so coddled as to have no knowledge whatsoever of the world? There is no love lost between England and Scotland. Surely you know—”
“Why do you travel south?” he corrected.
“’Tis none of your concern.”
“Perhaps ’tis true,” he agreed. “Nevertheless, I shall remain with you until me debt is paid.”
“So you insist on continuing this foolishness until you have saved me life?”
“Aye.”
“Then I shall threaten me own life and you . . . in your manly way, can convince me to go on living.” She glared up at him. “Then we can have done with it here and now.”
“I think not,” he said and turning, pulled her knife from the tree behind him. Holding her gaze, he sent it shivering past her toe and through her boot’s exposed sole.
She didn’t flinch. Indeed, her gaze never left his. Even when she bent to pull the blade free, she continued to watch him.
“Aye,” she said, and straightened slowly, “you’ve had some tutelage, MacGowan. Mayhap the border reivers will not find you such easy fodder after all. It seems I shall find out, whether I want to or not.
“You skin the hare. I’ll kindle a fire. We can bed down here until nightfall.”
They made a meal of rabbit and dark rye bread.
Their mounts grazed where they would. Both steeds had seen enough of life to avoid the toxic bracken that flourished there, and although Hunter’s dark stallion fed contentedly on the tough grasses that grew sporadically amidst the ferns and mosses, Lachlan noticed that he did not venture far from the maid’s side.
Instead, he lifted his head often to make certain she was still in sight.
He was a fine animal, long of limb, but not as broad as his own Mathan.
Three white socks marked his legs, and knotted into his long forelock was a pierced agate.
’Twas strange, he thought, and glanced at Hunter where she rested some rods away.
She herself wore no ornament, and yet her mount was adorned.
But something flashed into his mind then—the image of her bare bosom.
He was wrong, he realized suddenly, for between her bonny breasts there had been a pendant of some sort.
Lucky pendant, he thought, and with that image firmly in mind, he rolled himself in his plaid and went to sleep.
Lachlan was never sure what awakened him, but when he became fully alert and glanced at the spot where Hunter had bedded down, he knew the truth immediately; she was gone. He cursed in silence as he straightened his aching back, then turned to find his steed and . . .
He swore aloud this time, for the grove of rowan trees was empty.
Aye, she’d taken both horses and left him afoot.