Chapter 3 #2
But in that moment Hunter shrieked. The sound echoed like a falcon’s cry in the woods.
Knight lunged forward. Toothless spun toward the beast, but too late.
The stallion struck him with one pistoning hoof.
The brigand went down screaming. Men scattered as the stallion slid to a halt before her.
She made a dive for the saddle, but in that instant an arm encircled her throat, dragging her backward.
She felt a blade against her neck and heard a whispered threat, but she wasted not a moment.
Instead, she swung her feet up against Knight’s ribs and shoved with all her might.
Her captor stumbled backward, then tripped and went down. For a moment his grip loosened on her windpipe. Snatching her dirk from the scabbard at her waist, she twisted wildly about. He died in an instant.
She scrambled to her feet, searching desperately for Knight, but he’d already been mounted by another. She shifted her gaze to the others who stood before her. There was death in their eyes.
She lifted her bloody blade. “Come on then!” she hissed.
There was a moment of quiet, then screams burst from them and they came, swords drawn.
She kicked the first one aside and ducked the second, but the third was there immediately. She parried and twisted away. Pain sliced across her back, knocking her to her knees.
Death thundered up. She heard the boom of its hooves and raised her face to snarl at it. The rider bent toward her. His sword hissed through the air and then . . . like a fallen leaf, it dropped to the ground in front of her.
She tried to reach for it but her arm would not react. Someone shrieked. She twisted about, ready to fight as best she could, but chaos had erupted about her, and as sudden as death, the men lay sprawled on the trampled bracken.
“Hunter.”
Someone spoke. She turned in bewilderment, and there, not an arm’s length from her, was Lachlan MacGowan.
“You are injured.”
She struggled to rise. “Where is he?”
He pressed her back down. “Stay put until I see to your wound.”
“Where is he?”
“Calm yourself. He is dead.”
“Nay,” she muttered, and found her feet despite his efforts to keep her down.
“Steady, lass. They are all dead.”
“’Tis not true. Knight would not—”
“Night?” he said, but in that moment she felt a warm draft on her neck.
Hunter turned and he was there, larger than life, his dark eyes gleaming. She raised a hand to straighten his forelock, and Knight pushed his head forward. Resting his jaw on her shoulder he breathed, loud as a bellows into her ear. She stroked his wide brow and felt her knees begin to buckle.
“Damn!” MacGowan swore and, reaching up, dragged the horse’s head from her shoulder. “Mount up.”
“What—”
“Get up there,” he said and pushing her toward the saddle, tugged Knight’s head forward. “Unless you’re planning to carry him.”
The ride to Jedburgh was not as far as the brigand had suggested. Neither was it a comfortable one. Nevertheless, Hunter survived the journey and managed to dismount in the gathering darkness without assistance.
“We are in need of lodging.” MacGowan’s voice was clear enough as he spoke to the innkeeper, so apparently she was still lucid. “For me companion and meself.”
The proprietor had seen ninety years if he’d seen a day, and each one seemed to weigh as heavily as sand upon his stooped shoulders. “What is it that troubles you?” he asked, and glared askance into Hunter’s face.
“There is naught amiss,” she said, and straightened with an effort.
“You’re as pale as oyster broth. Are you ill?”
“Nay. Merely weary,” Hunter said and, moving carefully, pulled her cape more firmly over her shoulder.
“We want no trouble here,” warned the innkeeper. “I’ve enough problems what with naught but a simpleton and a doxy to lighten me load.”
“I am well, old gaffer,” she said, employing her gruffest tone. “Will you house us or nay?”
He squinted at her for a moment, then nodded stiffly. “Aye. Don’t get your comb up, young cock, I’ve a room for you.”
“We’ll need two,” she said, but he glared up at her with new ferocity. “What’s that?”
“We’ll need two rooms,” she said, her voice hard.
“Well, I’ve got but one to spare. You’ll take it or you’ll not. Which will it be?”
“I—” she began, but Lachlan interrupted her.
“We’ll take it,” he said and reaching out, tugged Knight’s reins from her hand. “I’ll see to the steeds.”
“Nay,” she argued, and yanked the reins back. “I’ll care for me own mount.”
“You need rest,” Lachlan gritted.
“You rest, MacGowan, I’ve no need for your—” she began, but he nudged her slightly. She glared down at his elbow, then looked in the direction he was staring.
The old man stared back. “What’s wrong with the two of ye?” he asked.
“Nothing,” Hunter said, drawing herself up again.
The ancient innkeeper snorted. “You act like a pair of dolts.”
“Listen, old man—”
“Me apologies,” Lachlan interrupted again, and taking Hunter’s arm, steered her toward the stables. “We are but weary. We’ll see to our steeds and find our rooms short—”
“Room!” the old man corrected, then turned to shuffle toward the wattle and daub inn that listed wearily over the partially cobbled street. “And I’ll have me monies in advance or you’ll be sleeping with the beasties.”
“What the devil is wrong with you?” hissed MacGowan.
“Me?” She yanked her elbow from his grasp and though she regretted the movement, she kept her pain to herself. “There is naught amiss with the likes of me.”
“You’ve been wounded, if you disremember.”
“I am well.”
“You’ve been wounded,” he repeated, “and you need a leech to see to your troubles.”
“Nay, I do not,” she said and leading Knight into a wide, loose stall, she turned him about and loosened his girth. Removing his saddle was trickier. She grimaced and Lachlan was beside her in an instant, pushing her away as he lifted the gear from her stallion’s back.
“The old man is right,” he said and tossed the bridle atop her saddle blanket. It was scarlet in color and made of fine wool. Long ago she’d abandoned the blankets woven of straw, for they chaffed Knight’s stout back, and an injured horse was a weakened horse. “You are a dolt.”
Bending painfully, she lifted a handful of bedding from the floor. Twisting it into a knot, she rubbed circles into the stallion’s neck. Knight sighed and cocked a hip, but MacGowan was less content.
“Sweet mother,” he said, and yanked her cape aside.
“Leave off,” she growled and jerked away, but pain skittered across her shoulder and she stopped to hug her arm against her side.
He stared at her. “Get to the inn.”
“Mayhap you’ve forgotten your place, MacGowan. You are naught to me. Certainly no one to order me about.”
“If you do not care for it it will fester.”
“That is me own choice, then.”
He shrugged. “I have a rule.” His voice was low so that none else could hear. “Not to allow any maid to die if I’ve recently saved her.”
They were her own words twisted about and come back to haunt her. “I care not for your rules.”
“I have another rule. To make certain that the maid tends to her wounds else I’ll expose her as the fraud she is.”
“Do you threaten me, MacGowan?”
“Go in,” he ordered. “Your mount will be fine without you.”
She shifted her gaze to the stallion. “Ill care makes him naught but less valuable.”
“So ’tis simply his value you are considering,” he said.
“Of course.”
He snorted.
“You think I lie?”
“I think you would have carried the animal on your shoulders had he been over tired.”
“Coddling is for fools and Highlanders.”
He cocked his head at her. “And which of those might you be?”
She considered arguing, but there was that in his eyes that spoke of lies exposed, so she lifted her chin and left the stable while she still could.
Even though there were lads in the livery, Lachlan saw to the steeds himself, for unless he missed his guess, Hunter would blame him if aught was amiss with the dark stallion when she returned.
Strange, he had not thought her to be the sentimental type, but she seemed firmly attached to the steed called Knight.
With the horses fed and groomed, he made his way to the inn.
Fatigue wore at him as he reached his rented room, but he did not enter immediately, for she would be there, and even in his weakened state, he was entirely unsure he could share a chamber and not be moved.
Standing beside the arched door, Lachlan lifted his hand to knock at the portal, but a shuffling noise distracted him, and soon the ancient innkeeper appeared from around a corner.
“I’ll have me monies first,” he rasped, his hoary fingers outstretched.
“Of course,” Lachlan agreed, and opening his sporran, brought forth a coin.
The ancient proprietor took it without a word, but remained where he was. “Well? What be ye waitin’ for?”
Lachlan glanced toward the door and back. “What’s that?”
“Go in, ye daft bugger,” he said, and shuffled away.
“Oh. Aye,” Lachlan agreed and clearing his throat loudly, pulled up the latch and stepped inside.
Hunter sat upright in bed, her eyes narrowed and her dirk already in hand. Judging by first impressions, she’d removed nothing but her helmet and sword—maybe her spurs, if he was lucky.
He eyed her as he crossed the room.
“Hear this,” she said. “If you so much as touch me hand I will skewer you to the wall.”
He snorted. “I saw you try to lift your saddle, laddie. You’d be fortunate to skewer a fat onion to a trencher.”
“I am not so wounded that I cannot best the likes of you, MacGowan.”
“’Tis good to hear. Take off your cape.”
She rose slowly to her feet, and damn the luck—she still wore her spurs. “As I said, you’ll not be touching me.”
They stood nearly nose to nose.
“And why is that?”
“Because I know how men are.” She smiled grimly. “In fact, I am one meself most days.”
“And pray tell, how are men?”
“Not to be trusted where women are concerned.”
“Ahh, that again,” he said and reached for the silver clasp that held her cape in place.