The Rogue (3 page)

She suddenly cocked her head, obviously listening. Not daring to breathe—much less move—he waited for her screech. When her gaze swept past him and she remained silent, he released his breath. The glare bouncing off the water had apparently masked him.

His eyes hungrily examined every inch of her as she waded to shore on long, slim legs and climbed the far bank. She then bent for something in the tall grass, and her bonnie round hurdies glistened in the sun like twin moons. He groaned aloud. The sight—more than any sane man could stare at without turning coddle-brained—made him bounce in response beneath his kilt.

Reluctantly, he dragged his gaze from her delicious bottom and looked about the glen once again. Where was her cur of a husband? How was it possible a wandering knight could stand and stare? Surely so lovely a lass had a husband. But then, mayhap she was widowed. The thought lightened his heart until he remembered upon whose land he stood. The Macarthur’s.

As he pondered the dilemma, the lady shook out a shift. When she raised it over her head, Angus felt hard pressed not to yell
halt!

He then squinted, sure he couldn’t be seeing correctly. She held up not a gown of velvet or brocade with threads of silver and gold but a kirtle, course and dun. He blinked in disbelief as she pulled it over her head. The lass wasn’t apparently of high birth after all. “Humph.”

The possibilities for conquest—of a dalliance—yawned. He smiled, only to feel Rampage’s great head butt his back. The horse nickered softly.

“Quiet, ye damn pest.”  He elbowed Rampage’s deep chest and the horse obediently backed. “Now, stay.” Larger than most cattle and white atop that, Rampage had frightened many a warrior into soiling himself. His mere presence in the glen would likely frighten the lovely lass to death. If not, then surely she’d flee, and he wouldn’t have a hope of catching her. He was on the far side of the pool and she kenned the forest at her back.

Deciding he had naught to lose and more than a handful to gain, he took a deep breath and stepped into the sunshine. To his utter surprise she smiled, quickly turned to her right, and said something he couldn’t hear. Her pace quickened as she walked along the opposite shore. His hopes soared. They would meet by the boulders, where the reeds were thickest.

He then spotted movement in the tall grass just feet before her and halted. Was it her man lying in wait? To her mate did she speak?

Nay. ‘Twas something gray that crept on lowered haunches in the tall grass toward the lass. Was it a lymer—a dog? Hers or her liege lord’s? And if so, why was it skulking about like a—?

My God, a wolf!

He wrenched his sgian dubh from its sheath beneath his left arm. It flew from his hand, his aim true. A heartbeat later and to his horror the lovely lady keened and dropped like a stone to her knees.

 ~#~

Birdi, her nose filled with the unaccountable scent of blood, crooned as she ran frantic hands over Wolf. Had he been fighting? Had he been caught in a villager’s snare? What ailed him? Why had he collapsed? Why did his chest heave so?

Then her hands found the handle of a blade.

She gasped. How had this happened? Though her sight was pitiful, she was certain he’d been coming toward her with his bushy tail wagging, his pink tongue lolling, and the next...

How matters naught, fool! He’ll die if you dinna do something and quickly.

She gripped the blade’s handle with both hands and caused him to whimper. She leaned forward, a hair’s breadth from his magnificent pale ears. “Hush, sweet dautie, hush. Trust now as ye have in the past.” Blinking away the urge to keen for her friend, she rocked off her knees and into a squat, planting her feet wide to be sure she made firm contact with Mother. Holding her breath, she yanked the blade. It came loose; Wolf keened, and then fell silent. Blood, scarlet as any sunset, bubbled up through his gash like a sacred spring. She pressed crossed palms to the wound to stem the flow. Painfully aware of the furious rhythm of his heart beating beneath her hands, she reached out to the powers surrounding her.

When familiar heat surged through her quaking limbs, her own heart finally slowed. She took a deep settling breath...The power was again within her. All would now be well for her friend.

She closed her eyes and whispered, “Mother of All, I, Birdi, take upon myself this wound...

~#~

Chest heaving, Angus dropped to his knees beside the fallen, raven-haired woman. His bloodied sgian dubh lay in the grass at her side. His stomach turned.

How in God’s name could this have happened? He threw a blade as accurate as any man and had for more years than he could recall.

Hands shaking, he cradled the woman in his lap, surprised by her slight weight. As his free hand skimmed over her kirtle, seeking the sticky wetness of blood, his peripheral sight caught something moving at the tree line.

Angus growled deep in his throat. The blasted wolf.

The beast slowed, looked over his shoulder at him, flattened his ears, and then bolted into the woods, his tail between his legs.

“Ye damn well best run, ye miserable—”

The woman in his arms moaned.

The wolf forgotten, Angus quickly resumed his search for her wound. He pulled her kirtle up exposing her long slender thighs and rounded hips. What lay hidden within the dark curls at the apex of her thighs no longer held interest. He could only stare at the deep gash his knife had made at her waist.

Praying he hadn’t hit anything vital, he tore a strip from her kirtle hem—’twas cleaner than anything he had on —and wound the fabric about her waist to stem the blood’s flow.

His gaze raked the woods for her croft, any place to shelter her and properly tend her wound. Finding not so much as a path, he cursed. Then he remembered he’d skirted a village not long before he settled to wait out the day. He let out a piercing whistle.

Rampage whinnied as he crashed through the tree line. His thundering hooves quickly ate up the distance between them. The minute he came to a prancing halt, Angus tapped his shoulder. “Down.” The horse immediately obeyed, well used to his master being too weighted down in armor to vault.

Angus then scooped the lady into his arms. She groaned loudly and his heart leapt for joy. “Lass, can ye hear me? Can ye open yer eyes?”

The woman’s sweeping lashes slowly separated to reveal the most extraordinary eyes Angus had ever seen. The palest of blues, almost white, and outlined by dark rings, they reminded him of the ice mountains he’d once seen floating past the point of Cape Wrath. She blinked.

“Aaah...”

“Hush, lass, I will get ye to help.”

“Nay...” She then fainted again.

Cursing himself for an idiot, Angus clutched the pale lass to his heaving chest, tightened Rampage’s girth as best he could with one hand, and then slipped a foot into the now low-slung stirrup.

Mounted, he clucked, and the horse rose. Angus turned Rampage toward his enemy’s village.

Just minutes later and with the lady yet to reawaken, Angus pounded on the most outlying croft’s door.

It opened immediately. A shriveled man gazed out the portal, his eyes narrowed and cloudy as milk. “Aye, what do ye want?”

“A healer,” Angus boomed, “for the lady.”

“Go there.” The querulous man pointed a shaking finger toward the big croft across the road.

“The one with ivy?” He didn’t trust the blind man to know in which direction he pointed and had no time to go knocking door to door to find the right one.

“Aye, ‘tis.” With that the old man slammed his door shut. 

Growling, “A welcomin’ bastard,” Angus strode a hundred yards to the next croft.

A child opened the door. Her smile of welcome faded and her eyes grew round as six-pence as her gaze ran up his body. When it settled on the woman in his arms she screamed, “
Maaaa!
”

A wizen-faced woman came out of the shadowed interior to stand in the doorway. “What can I do for—”

The woman’s gaze had locked on the lady in his arms and she immediately started shouting, “Away with ye! Out! Go!” She slammed the door in his face.

“What the...” He’d never met so unlikable a group in his life! His worry growing and his patience on a short leash, Angus strode to the next croft, the last before the road dropped down toward a valley and into the main village. When a man opened the door Angus growled, “This woman needs help. She’d been st—”

The door slammed in his face.

“Bloody hell!”

Angus raised a foot and kicked the door in. It crashed against the wall with such force the walls rattled and a chair fell over. He strode in. With his teeth bared, he glared at the occupants—a man, a frail woman, and two babes—all huddled in the far corner of the croft’s only room. “Will ye not help this lady?”

In answer the adults silently shook their heads.

What ailed these people that they couldn’t see the lass was in sore need? That she could die. “Dressing! Get me dressing and poultice before I lose what little patience I have left to me.”

The man waved frantically at his wife. She made the sign of the cross and with the wee lass clutching her skirts, bolted to a small chest. She pulled out a crock and strips of sheeting. The woman then pushed the lassie toward her husband and cautiously approached Angus, her hands held out. “Here, sir knight. Take these with our blessings and go.”

“Why will ye not help one of yer own?” He held out the woman in his arms. “She’s not but a wee lass.” Surely, this wife kenned that he—a man—couldn’t tend her? He had to leave her here.

“She isna a Macarthur and no one here will offer more than we,” the man growled from the corner, his hands gripping his son’s shoulders. “Take what my wife offers and go.”

“Man, are ye blind? She needs help.” Had Angus not been the cause of her injury, he would have dropped her on their rush pallet and walked out the door. But having been the cause, he snarled as he grabbed the offered dressings. “May ye receive as ye give.”

He stormed out. Spying an empty sheep pen at the far end of an adjacent field, Angus vaulted over the low-lying hedge with his mount following.

He kicked open the pen’s gate and laid the woman in the hay. Muttering, “Heathens,” he raised her skirt and removed the cloth he’d wrapped around her waist. He felt monumental relief finding no fresh blood. He’d expected gushes given the jarring speed with which he’d carried her to the village.

He applied the greasy herb poultice the Macarthur woman had given him to the lady’s gash, rewrapped her waist and then settled her skirt back about her legs. He then sat back on his haunches and pondered his dilemma. He studied her face. After a minute, he ran a gentle finger along one jet-black winged eyebrow. And then her lips, so wide and full, they could break any man’s heart. Ack.

“Who, lass, do ye belong to? Where will ye be safe?” He couldn’t leave her here. Not after the reception they’d received. And why was there terror in the querulous man’s eyes as he’d bidden him take the poultice and go? “Do ye belong to their enemy’s liege lord, lass? Were ye lost when I found ye?” He heaved a sigh. One thing was certain. They couldn’t tarry here. When word arrived at the Macarthur stronghold that a MacDougall rode among them, all hell would rain down on their heads.

Time to go.

He slipped both arms under his unwanted lady and stood. He’d been heading northwest, traveling through the upper lowlands toward Beal Castle and couldn’t change course. If he couldn’t find her people on the way, then mayhap the MacCloud would ken from whence the lass came, or at least take her in. Aye.

He mounted, settled the lady securely in his lap, and pressed his heels to Rampage’s flanks.

As they reached the last of the village’s fields the gangly lad he’d seen in the croft stepped out from behind a copse of pine. Sweating—his gaze darting along the road— the lad held out a cloth bundle. “Sir knight, ‘tis for the spae, tribute for the dolly.”

Angus scowled. What spae and what dolly? “Lad, out of my way.”

“Please, sir.” The lad hopped from foot to foot as he held out the bundle. “‘Tis only barley, sir, but all I have to offer.” His gaze again darted toward the village hidden behind a copse. “Sir, convey our thanks, mine and Margaret’s.” The lad tossed the bag up and ran.

Catching it, Angus called, “Ye name, lad?”

The lad turned. “Jamie, m’lord.”

“And this lady’s?” He tipped his head, indicating the woman in his arms.

The youth shrugged. “I dinna ken, m’lord. No one does.” He then disappeared.

Angus slipped the lad’s gift into the bag tied behind his saddle. Why had the lad asked him to give the bundle to a spae? He kenned none. “Humph! These Macarthurs are a breed apart. Aye, and I’ll be most relieved to be away.” He pressed his heels to Rampage’s flanks.

 ~#~

Laird Ian Macarthur glared at his ferrier Robbie Macarthur. “What the hell do ye mean he rode off with her? He
who
?” He couldn’t believe someone had had the audacity to capture his bandrui, his personal spae.

Robbie spun his cap in nervous hands. “I dinna ken his name, sire. Just that he’s a knight.”

“Describe him.”

“Tall, brawn, dark-brown-haired, blue-eyed.”

Laird Macarthur stopped pacing before Dunbar Castle’s empty hearth. “Oh, for—. What banner? What colors did he wear? What horse did he ride, ye idiot?”

Robbie had the sense to pale before his wrath.

“He wore gules—the color of blood, sire. His shield was quartered and bore a raised gauntleted fist. He rode a white charger.”

Ian Macarthur’s blood immediately drained from his head. “Did he bear a scar above the eyes?”

Robbie nodded. “Do ye ken him, sire?”

“Oh, aye. ‘Tis I who put the scar on him.” Ian ground his teeth as a searing heat began throbbing below his wrist, phantom pain from a right hand no longer there, thanks to the bastard Angus the Blood. Only MacDougall would dare cross into Macarthur territory—alone—and take his spae. Foolhardy and proud was Angus MacDougall and now it would be the man’s downfall.

Reaching for his broadsword with the only hand left to him, he ground out, “Saddle the horses.”