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.”
~#~
Birdi yawned, wondering why the lovely rocking had ceased. It had been most pleasant, being cradled in warmth, listening to the slow steady heartbeat under her ear—
Her eyes flew open.
A man—the largest she’d ever beheld—hovered over her as she lay on the ground.
She screamed.
His large, calloused hand landed firmly on her mouth. “Hush, lass, I’ll not harm thee.” He then looked about.
In a deep, gravelly whisper he told her, “I am Angus MacDougall. I found thee in a Macarthur glen.”
Gael! He spoke not the language of her mother or the villagers but of them —the Canteran —the marauding Highlanders of which her mother had warned.
She clawed at his arms and tried to kick, to roll away, only to feel a fierce pain tear through her side. She gasped and froze in place. Stars! What had happened to her? She looked down, found her thighs bare and her kirtle up about her waist, a waist wrapped in white. Keening, she frantically tried to cover herself, the part—her mother had warned—where she would always be most vulnerable.
He pressed her shoulders to the soft earth. “The bleeding has stopped, my lady, but do not aggravate the wound with thrashing. Please.”
“What...?” Sunlight haloed the man hovering over her. She blinked eyes gritty from sleep in disbelief. He had shoulders thrice the width of hers and arms as thick as an elm’s trunk. She couldn’t discern his features, the sun keeping them in shadow, but could see the outline of shoulder length hair the hue of wet river rock, a few strands gleaming with a touch of amber. A chilling sweat broke out across her brow and her heart leapt as her ears strained, her gaze darted about. Her nose twitched in a futile effort to recognize where she was, who he might be. She took a deep, steadying breath and managed, “Where am I?”
“Ah, ye speak Scot.” Using the same he told her, “Where ye be, fair lass, can wait for later. What I need ken now is yer name and from whence ye hail. We need find yer sept so they can care for ye properly.”
“Sept?” What was this? She craned her neck to see beyond his mountainous form and found nothing but a small square block close to them, no doubt a sheep crib, and the rest just broad splotches of gold in all directions. She inhaled deeply and this time caught the sent of ripening havers—oats. She was in a field. In the open! Oh Goddess, No! Did this man plan to do to her what the other had done to Minnie?
Goddess help me! I dinna want a babe! Goddess, please! Nay!
Horror sent blood roaring into her every limb. Keening between pants, she clawed. Finding herself suddenly free, she scrambled backward. Brittle shafts of grain dug deep into her palms and feet as she tried to place as much distance as possible between herself and the man who would do her immeasurable harm.
He caught her ankle.
Squeaking in tight-throated terror, she kicked her free leg at his head
“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.”
~#~
Birdi yawned, wondering why the lovely rocking had ceased. It had been most pleasant, being cradled in warmth, listening to the slow steady heartbeat under her ear—
Her eyes flew open.
A man—the largest she’d ever beheld—hovered over her as she lay on the ground.
She screamed.
His large, calloused hand landed firmly on her mouth. “Hush, lass, I’ll not harm thee.” He then looked about.
In a deep, gravelly whisper he told her, “I am Angus MacDougall. I found thee in a Macarthur glen.”
Gael! He spoke not the language of her mother or the villagers but of them —the Canteran —the marauding Highlanders of which her mother had warned.
She clawed at his arms and tried to kick, to roll away, only to feel a fierce pain tear through her side. She gasped and froze in place. Stars! What had happened to her? She looked down, found her thighs bare and her kirtle up about her waist, a waist wrapped in white. Keening, she frantically tried to cover herself, the part—her mother had warned—where she would always be most vulnerable.
He pressed her shoulders to the soft earth. “The bleeding has stopped, my lady, but do not aggravate the wound with thrashing. Please.”
“What...?” Sunlight haloed the man hovering over her. She blinked eyes gritty from sleep in disbelief. He had shoulders thrice the width of hers and arms as thick as an elm’s trunk. She couldn’t discern his features, the sun keeping them in shadow, but could see the outline of shoulder length hair the hue of wet river rock, a few strands gleaming with a touch of amber. A chilling sweat broke out across her brow and her heart leapt as her ears strained, her gaze darted about. Her nose twitched in a futile effort to recognize where she was, who he might be. She took a deep, steadying breath and managed, “Where am I?”
“Ah, ye speak Scot.” Using the same he told her, “Where ye be, fair lass, can wait for later. What I need ken now is yer name and from whence ye hail. We need find yer sept so they can care for ye properly.”
“Sept?” What was this? She craned her neck to see beyond his mountainous form and found nothing but a small square block close to them, no doubt a sheep crib, and the rest just broad splotches of gold in all directions. She inhaled deeply and this time caught the sent of ripening havers—oats. She was in a field. In the open! Oh Goddess, No! Did this man plan to do to her what the other had done to Minnie?
Goddess help me! I dinna want a babe! Goddess, please! Nay!
Horror sent blood roaring into her every limb. Keening between pants, she clawed. Finding herself suddenly free, she scrambled backward. Brittle shafts of grain dug deep into her palms and feet as she tried to place as much distance as possible between herself and the man who would do her immeasurable harm.
He caught her ankle.
Squeaking in tight-throated terror, she kicked her free leg at his head
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