Becca St.John (4 page)

England, for God’s sake! She, a Scot through and through. A woman who dresses like a man, rides and fights like a man. A woman not much used to the ways of women and she wants to live with them?

They’d never accept her down there with their fancy ways. And this clan of women healers did not sound like a safe place to be. They’d keep her busy enough protecting them. Sassenach burned healers as witches. Fools.

God Almighty. He’d forgotten the tales of women set upon for healing others. The priest said as much last summer.

He had to keep Seonaid here, in MacKay territory.

Maybe they could go as far as she wanted, long enough for her to see sense, then he would bring her back. That’s what he would do.

Deep in his grumbling, Padraig failed to scan the land, to listen to sound carried on the breeze. He rode down into a valley and up again.

Could she still see him? Did she watch? He shifted, to see if he saw her and stopped breathing.

Five men rode toward Seonaid and Deian.

They’d had horses and found a way to bring them up the rise.

He’d forgotten to check on them, the men from the beach. She had as well, though she’d ridden south, past the place where they had come up from the beach. She’d obviously made a huge arc, angled away from that point, for she was well west. Doing that made her feel safe enough to ride casually, too confident the danger was over.

He heeled his mount, took off down the rise into the gully, back up again. Closer to the men than they were to Seonaid. He had to take them by surprise, curtail them, otherwise they would split, capturing both him and Seonaid. He couldn’t allow that, pulled his bow off his back. They rode steady, but not fast. Even so, they would catch their prey soon enough.

He leaned into Tarvos, pulled an arrow from his quiver, notched it even as Tarvos’s hooves pounded the earth, covering the distance. No need to start the attack. Not yet. The moment one man turned toward him, he would shoot. First, he had to get closer, closer still.

The bugger on the far right lifted his head, started to turn.
Twang
, Padraig’s arrow flew through the air, piercing the neck of the man who turned. Within a breath, he sent another clear through the chest of the man at the back of the group. Three more rode faster, now aware of confrontation. If they were men at all, they would regroup and come for him.

And leave Seonaid safe.

He had to warn her. From deep in his lungs, his battle cry emerged, shattered the air. Her mount reared, pivoted on its haunches. One look and Seonaid shot off as though the faeries themselves carried her.

Aye, good
.

He pulled his sword from its sheath, headed toward the survivors, three of them trying to encircle him, capture him, but too far out to close the gaps. If he succumbed, he could not protect the woman and her child. If he didn’t remain bait, they would go after her.

He charged straight for the closest, the head of the circle, knowing the others would close in now. His opponent stood firm, then hurtled forward, his sword raised. Each man’s weapon aimed at the other, to disarm, dismember. Padraig determined to behead the man. That always stopped attacks, if only for a moment, as the others stopped to see one of their own lose his head.

But the man was good, blocked Padraig with a jarring jolt, fierce grimaces. They pushed, their weapons locked together, equally matched, side by side, mounts panting angrily. Mad fury lit his opponent’s eyes, no doubt matching his own.

The other two would be approaching, circling, to come up from behind. He needed an advantage, but there was none. All his opponent had to do was stall and Padraig would be dead, unable to protect.

Seonaid would be on her own.

Blood suddenly gushed from his rival’s mouth, tension slackened. For two beats, both swords were held up by Padraig’s strength alone, before he realized what he was doing and dropped his arm. The man collapsed, an arrow through his back. No time to wonder, Padraig faced the two who were left, retreat in their startled stares. They would be off, within moments, racing back to their boat. No doubt, the riderless horses would follow.

Before they could go, before the downed men’s mounts could follow, Padraig reached for the reins of the one nearest him. A lifeless body slumped over its withers. Even as the other men turned, he saw Seonaid reach and grab the bridle of another horse, a corpse dangling from its stirrup.

Padraig sucked in great drafts of air. Seonaid joined him.

“You should have stayed with the boy,” he grumbled, glad she hadn’t.

“Aye, and if you lost, would I have been with him then?” Seonaid rode up beside him, having untangled the man from the horse she led.

Both horses needed feeding and care.

“The horses were fenced in a wee spot, waiting, I’d be thinking,” Seonaid explained, as she jumped down. “Too long, by the look of it.” She stroked the nose of the beast she’d caught and sighed. “Shall we see what they left us?”

“Aye.” Padraig joined her, pushing the dead man’s body off the horse he led, as she rummaged through a bulging saddlebag.

“I’m more interested in who they are and why they’re here.” He grabbed some rope, to hobble the horses.

“Raiders?”

“A bit early in the season for that. Stores are always meager in the spring.”

She pulled a satchel of coins out of one of the bags, tested the weight of it with one bounce, peeked inside. “Gold.”

“Gold?” He looked over her shoulder, felt the heat of her through his trews, the scent of her teasing him away from practical thoughts. He had to be practical.

“Why would anyone be carryin’ gold coins out here?” He took the bag from her, treating it much as she had done. “Where would they be goin’? It’s our land here, clear to the Kyle of Minth, high as the North Sea.”

“Traders?”

He nodded, slowly. “Perhaps.” Not likely, though. He couldn’t tell her that. Couldn’t tell her what a worry this was. Seonaid confirmed they’d arrived by boat. They had to have sailed right past Glen Toric to get to where she saw them. Past their guard, without being stopped. They would be going past Glen Toric again. Too far to warn the clan of danger, Padraig doubted one ship would try to take on the castle. Not on its own. Were there others, did they gather troops with the promise of money?

Did the clan have so many enemies out here?

“Is it so strange to see men here, other than our own?”

“Not unheard of, that’s why I followed you. But not like this, with coins like this.” Perhaps it would be better if she were frightened. “Shame they canna’ talk.” He looked at the dead men

“Are you goin’ to follow the ones who rode away?”

He studied the horizon, the men no longer in sight. “No.” They’d be on their ship by now, counting their losses. He’d not reach them unless some still hid, somewhere, out there between the rise and fall of the earth. In that case, he needed to be with Seonaid.

He was pleased to see she tried not to show her relief. She, more than any other, knew the wickedness of unscrupulous men. With five of them, she risked far worse than what her brother had put her through. Even worse, knowing young Deian was there, hiding, alone.

Lochlan, Seonaid’s brother, Deian’s father.

Of course, that’s what Lochlan and his band of renegades were after when they kidnapped wee lasses from across the highlands. Those lasses weren’t for his band. There were too many captives for that, too many mouths to feed. Lochlan had meant to sell them to these men. They would not be knowing Clan MacKay had rooted out Lochlan and his men.

They had no way of knowing the men they came to meet were dead.

“We can go back, you know,” Padraig offered. “There’s safety in Glen Toric.”

“We can’t.” She pointed behind him, “Look.” Another horse, pulling to be free, trapped by a dead rider entangled in the reins, snagged on an outcropping of rock. “I’ll get the horse.” She strode off to free the animal of its burden and soothe it enough to get it back to the others

He knew what she was about. Three extra mounts to switch rides and riders, to go further every day.

Stubborn, that’s what she was, stubborn. And for what? To go to the English?

He spat, refusing to imagine what would have happened if he hadn’t been there. But he couldn’t stop the horrific scenarios running through his mind, chilling his blood.

“Well,” he finally offered, when she returned, “at least the boy will have his own ride now.”

“Aye.” She remounted, her jaw edged with determination. “And you can help me cook at night.” She looked up. “Or we’ll all starve.”

He stared, stunned, laughter rumbling to the surface. She wanted him to join them. Sensed the need of it despite an obstinate belief she didn’t need anyone.

Perhaps there was a God. For he could think of no other reason Seonaid would give him the one thing he needed. Time enough to change her mind, win her heart, and woo her home.

CHAPTER 4 ~ THREE ON THE ROAD

Almost daybreak. He’d slept too late.

He eased out of a length of plaid used as a blanket and ignored the light drizzle of rain. Deian slept on his own, on the far side of the fire, his back to a boulder. Seonaid was on guard, he’d relieve her, give her a few moments rest.

He climbed a hillock, for a better vantage, to find her. She stood just below the crest. Completely dressed, with bow slung from shoulder to opposite waist, quiver on her back and a sword at her side.

Dressed to kill. She’d done just that, saving his life, only now she knelt, so deep in prayer she hadn’t heard his approach.

A praying woman? Seonaid? She didn’t wear her religion for others to see. Never spoke of it or used the self-righteous judgment of the pious. How could she, after being on the whipping end of pious tongues?

He’d never known of the church’s saints or God to offer comfort. So why would she hope for that? If she was a praying woman, and it looked like she was, it certainly failed to make her life any easier.

Dear God, he hoped she didn’t think to ask forgiveness for all she ran from. As if that was her fault. He snorted. Even the death yesterday was not her fault. She saved them all by killing the man.

“Are you meaning to join me or are you just trying to keep me from my prayers?” She didn’t bother to look up but remained on her knees, head bowed, hands clasped in supplication.

“You’ve naught to be ashamed of.” This did draw her attention.

“Ashamed of? You think guilt is my reason to pray?”

He shrugged. Church things weren’t much to him. He attended, when he had to, and was known to throw a prayer to the heavens when caught in the worst of predicaments, but on the whole, he left holiness to old women and priests.

“Are you a heathen?”

She didn’t like his chuckle. He held back, shifted, uncomfortable. She nodded. “Aye, so you are.”

He didn’t know what to do with that, wanted to deny her allegations, but refused to kneel and pray with her. So he turned back to the camp. He’d rouse the boy, see who could pee the furthest. That’s what men did in the morning. They didn’t drop to their knees and pray to a God who allowed a young girl to be beaten and raped by her brother.

Who didn’t stop renegades from raping and murdering young innocent girls.

Aye, he’d go and relieve himself of yesterday’s waste and sigh with the pleasure of it. More pleasure than anything God had to offer.

vvvvvv

Seonaid followed the savory scent of fresh trout to find Deian chatting away, Padraig chuckling. Neither saw her, for Padraig started to sing a ditty far from appropriate for a lady, even less so for a young lad.

Men
.

“Is there one for me?”

Deian held a skewered fish over the fire, Padraig had another.

“Oh, aye, we worked hard to feed you, didna’ we?” Padraig jostled Deian’s hair, as the boy bounced on his feet.

“We tickled the fish, Mama, and they came right into our hands.” He crowed with delight.

“Did they laugh?” She moved in beside her son. Willing him to be as happy and pleased with her as he was with Padraig.

One fish, already cooked, lay on a rock by the fire.

“That one’s for you, Mama. Padraig said you get the first one.”

She reached up to tousle Deian’s head, but he pulled away. “Did it laugh, when you tickled it?” She lifted the skewered fish, picked off a piece of meat, as she realized Deian never laughed with her. She always got the scrunched up face, serious face.

“Aye, it did,” Padraig promised, solemnly, “but only under water. Hard to hear through the thrashing about. Isn’t that so, lad?”

Deian’s head bobbed up and down, now thrilled with the adventure, when he’d been naught but bored the day before. How long before this drizzle spoiled his mood?

And he’d be bored again, once they’d traveled any distance. Padraig couldn’t stop that.

“Is it good, Mama?” He looked up at her, all innocent anticipation.

“Oh, aye, it’s delicious.” She hunkered down to his level. “Did you cook it?”

“Padraig helped me.”

“Of course.” She sighed and stood up. “Are you certain the fires are safe?” she asked her son’s favorite person.

“We fared well enough through the night, and we’ll have it out and be gone before it draws any attention.”

With a curt nod, she put her fish down, went over to pack up the horses.

“Aren’ you goin’ to eat your fish, Mama?” Deian called out.

“I’ll eat while we ride.” Unbidden sharpness edged her words. She shot a look at Padraig who lifted his hands, dismissing himself from blame for whatever irked her.

She turned back to her task.

The ride was quiet, somber. Deian sensed what Padraig knew. Seonaid’s temper neared the surface. Not a good thing, if you wanted your ears to survive along with your masculinity.

All three rode. Deian insisted on riding and both adults knew to be prepared for him to take off. Which he had, twice, not helping Seonaid’s tenuous hold on her ire.

The boy certainly learned quickly. He handled the horse well. And a big brute it was, too. Peregrine would be the better ride, but the boy understood the tie between a captured horse and power. Winnings gleaned from battle. Aye, he learned quickly.