The Warrior Bride (6 page)

“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 shuffled 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 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.

She raised her knife and her brows in slow tandem and he crossed his arms against his chest and stared.

“You are the most difficult” He searched momentarily for the proper word. “warrior I have ever met,” he said.

“It is you who are difficult.”

He made a sound like a winded horse, but she ignored him.

“‘Twas not I who asked you to interfere in me mission.”

“Nay, but ‘twas-What mission is that?” he asked. She scowled. His shoulders and chest were near as broad as a stable door and yet she doubted if he packed a thimble’s worth of fat. Nay, it was muscle that rippled beneath his tunic and she would be lucky to hold him off for. so much as an instant, with a blade or without, if he decided to force his hand. She’d been raised as a lass for the first several years of her life, and as a lass she’d learned her weaknesses. ‘Twas as a boy she’d found her strength, and ‘twas as a boy she’d survived.

Oh aye, things could have been worse. She could have been abandoned to die in infancy. But she had not. Nay, her blood kin had seen fit to give her to another. To an old man called Barnett. An old man who did not want a girl child, an old man whose wits were addled by loss and hopelessness. An old man who longed for the return of his son. But the son was dead, and she could not replace him, no matter how hard she tried, no matter what skills she acquired or what battle she fought. And in the end she’d been abandoned both by Barnett and by herself, until only the warrior Hunter was left. With no room for softness or giving. No room for a maid or the wee lass she had once been. But Hunter did not miss her and she would not turn back.

“I did not ask you to interfere with me life,” she said, and kept her voice low and steady. Nay, she could not hold him off by force, for her own strength lay in wit and dexterity, but if he wanted a battle, he would have one. “In truth, I begged you to leave.”

“Begged,” he scoffed. “You wouldn’t know how to beg if Saint Peter himself were your tutor. What the devil were you thinking standing those brigands alone?”

She stared at him, awestruck and silent, then, “Might you believe I invited the bastards to accost me? Do you think I asked them for trouble?”

“Aye! That is exactly what I think, for if you wanted no trouble you would have kept me at your side.”

Perhaps her surprise showed on her face. “To protect me?” she asked scornfully. “To be me champion?”

“Aye,” he growled. “Mayhap I could do a better job than your knight in yonder stable.”

“He has been more loyal than most.”

He watched her carefully, as though her words told him a thousand secrets she did not want spilled. She tensed.

“So he is a Munro steed,” he mused.

She considered denying it, but he had heard the truth spoken to the brigands, and lies were naught but more difficulties. “Aye,” she said. “The Munros bred him.”

“Their mounts are usually white.”

“So I am told.”

“And well treasured.” He paused. “Why did they give him to you?”

She said nothing as she seated herself on the edge of the bed.

“So you are a Munro,” he said.

“Of course,” she agreed, and laughed. “After his mother’s death, and before his father attacked Evermyst’s folk, the fierce Innes Munro, the barbarian bastard of old, nurtured a wee girl child, then raised her to battle like a man. Perhaps they trained me to combat their Fraser foes.”

“Evermyst and Windermoore are foes no longer,” he said. “Not since Anora’s marriage to Ramsay. Not since he gave up trying to win a Fraser bride and became the peaceful bridegroom of Lady Madeleine.”

“Perhaps,” she said.

“What do you mean, perhaps?”

“Not all Munros are thrilled with their laird’s new and gentler ways.”

“How do you know this?”

She shrugged. “Did you not say I was one of them?” “If you are not a Munro, then who are you?”

“I am a warrior, and not to be underestimated.”

“Aye,” he growled. “And nearly a dead warrior for your foolishness.”

“So ‘tis true,” she scoffed. “You would be me champion?”

His scowl deepened. “Mayhap.”

Tension sparked between them. “Have you any idea how long I have been protecting meself, champion?”

For a long moment he said nothing at all. Instead, he remained perfectly motionless as he watched her, as if any movement might distract him from his thoughts. “Nay.” His voice had dropped and his eyes were narrowed. They were solemn and dark, nearly the same hue as his sable hair, held back from his face with a single strip of untanned hide. “Tell me how long you have been on your own, lass.”

For a moment there seemed to be no air in the room and for that same length of time she almost longed to tell him of her life, of being left with an old man who did not want a lass, of her futile struggle to become what he wanted her to be. But she knew better than to air the truth. She forced a laugh. “‘Tis none of your concern. Indeed-”

“But I am curious,” he said. “How long has it been?”

“Long enough so that I do not need your assistance, of that you can be certain.”

”That did not seem to be the case a few short hours ago.”

She was silent for a moment, remembering. Aye, it had been a tight spot, but she had been in tight spots before and lived to tell of it. She needed no one. Not the family that had forsaken her, not the baron who had betrayed her, and certainly not this man. She had proved as much before and she would do so again. “Leave me be,

MacGowan,” she said. “If you wish it I will agree that you saved me life. You can return to sipping ale before the fire in lofty Evermyst and tell the lads how you saved the warrior from sure death. Perhaps if you tell it well the maids will sigh and swoon at your bravery. I’ll not call you a liar.”

“Aye,” he said, “and do not forget that you stole me steed.”

She had almost forgotten. Indeed, he had run a goodly way to catch her. What the devil was he made of? “Next time I will ride faster,” she vowed.

He raised a brow at her. “So you delayed, did you?

Were you waiting for me, lass?”

She laughed, and he canted his head at her.