Читать книгу Highland Warrior - Hannah Howell - Страница 8

Fiona dreamed of her horse tossing her to the ground and running away, leaving her to her fate. She scowled, wondering why she felt as if the contrary beast had thrown her, then fallen on top of her. Still more asleep than awake, she opened her eyes, but she saw neither grass nor rocky ground, only a blanket. That made no sense. People did not leave blankets spread about ready to catch someone thrown from their horse.

Forcing the lingering clouds of sleep from her mind, Fiona raised a hand to rub her eyes, only to gape. Her wrists were tied together. A heartbeat later, her memory returned and her mind cleared. It was no horse on top of her, squeezing all the breath from her lungs, but her captor.

She tried to wriggle out from beneath him, but he had her firmly pinned to the blanket. All she accomplished was to rouse him enough to make him shift his position a little. Fiona nearly gasped aloud when she became aware of exactly what was now nudging against her backside. She not only had a very big man crushing her; she had a very big aroused man crushing her. Although she told herself the way her heart raced was due to fear, she knew she was lying. There was a faint touch of alarm within her, for the man felt to be impressively well endowed. What truly upset her, however, was the sudden urge to move her hips and nudge him back. Obviously, a night’s sleep had not restored her senses at all.

When she felt him nuzzle the side of her neck, a strange warmth flooded her body. Even as she savored that feeling, she could hear her brother’s wife laughingly say that a man often rises with the sun. Her blood cooled. Sir Ewan was probably not even fully awake. He had simply risen with the sun, felt a warm female body at his side, and was planning to make use of it. Well, if he was going to nuzzle and nudge, she thought crossly, he could at least know whom he was doing it to.

“Get off me, ye great ox,” she muttered, moving whatever part of her body she could in a vain attempt to push him away. “I cannae breathe.”

Ewan opened his eyes and stared down at the woman he was sprawled on top of. He was tired, having gotten little sleep, but he woke up quickly when he realized the position he was in. God’s teeth, he had been nuzzling her neck and he was as hard as a rock. Even worse, he had obviously been rubbing that hardness against her lovely backside. The position they were in was so deliciously suggestive, he trembled faintly from the sheer strength of his desire. Silently cursing, he moved off her so abruptly, he sharply yanked on her bound wrists.

“Pardon,” he mumbled and, hearing his men begin to stir, reached over to untie her.

Fiona slowly sat up and took several deep breaths to calm herself. She had the unsettling feeling it was going to be a long while before she could forget the feel of his big, strong, and highly aroused body pressed so close to hers. That both frightened and annoyed her. Not only did she know nothing about this man, but it was a very poor time for her to be suffering such an attraction, or infatuation, or whatever it was that was plaguing her. She already had one too many men in her life, she thought angrily as she stood up, brushed herself off, and started toward the trees.

“Where do ye think ye are going?” he demanded as he leapt to his feet and began to follow her.

“Tis morning. What do most people have to do in the morning when they first awake, ye fool?” When she heard him continue to follow her, she whirled around to confront him, and was pleased when he hastily backed up a step. “I dinnae need any assistance.”

“But ye do need guarding.” He swiftly looped one end of the rope he still held around her wrist and retied the other end around his own. “Weel? Go on.” He almost backed up another step when she glared at him.

For one brief moment, Fiona considered not going. It would be humiliating to relieve herself with him standing so close by. Unfortunately, her full bladder was making it all too clear that she would regret that decision, would humiliate herself even more if she did not hurry on her way. Muttering curses against all men, she started on her way again, glaring hard at his broad back when he took the lead.

As she found herself on one side of a tangled clump of shrubs with him on the other a few minutes later, Fiona did wonder why she was so disturbed by it all. She had been raised by her five brothers, and there had been very little refinement or delicacy at Deilcladach for the first thirteen years of her life. When Gillyanne had arrived, some gentling of their rough ways had followed, but she doubted anyone would consider the MacEnroys refined. Performing a basic, necessary function within the hearing of another should not be troubling her as much as it was. It troubled her so much that, despite her desperate need, she was unable to relieve herself until he began. When had she become such a delicate flower of womanhood? Fiona prayed that her sudden sensitivity was not because she had some mad wish to appeal to the man.

“I need to wash,” she said when he began to drag her back to the campsite.

Ewan looked at her, idly wondering why he should think she looked so tempting when she was scowling at him. “Ye do understand that ye are a hostage, dinnae ye, and nay a guest?”

Fiona looked pointedly at the rope leashing her to his side, then looked back at him. “I believe my poor, wee woman’s mind has begun to grasp that fact. I still want to wash.”

“I think ye were raised with too light a hand upon the reins,” he grumbled as he led her to a small brook several yards away.

“I think I was raised perfectly.”

She ignored his grunt and tried to ignore the rope on her wrist as they both knelt by the brook to wash their faces and hands. Taking from her pocket a small square of embroidered linen Gilly insisted she carry at all times, Fiona dampened it in the cold waters. She was rubbing her teeth clean when an abrupt sense of approaching danger made her tense. A heartbeat later, as she searched the wood for some sign of what had stirred her alarm, she felt Ewan tense.

“Enemies?” she asked in a near whisper even as she stood up with him. “So close to your lands?”

“On every side and round every corner,” he muttered. “How fast can ye run?”

“If we werenae tied together, I could beat ye back to the camp.”

“Just keeping pace with me will do for now.” He caught the glint of sunlight hitting metal in the thick wood on the other side of the brook. “Now.”

They had not run far when Fiona pulled a little ahead and Ewan realized she had not been giving him some idle boast. She was not only swift, but agile, nimbly dodging or leaping over every obstacle in their path. The moment they reached the camp, he untied the rope around their wrist as he curtly told his men to prepare for an attack. He shoved Fiona toward Simon and commanded the youth to guard and protect her.

Fiona bit back a protest as Simon dragged her to a spot near the horses and to the rear of Ewan and his men. Now was not a good time to argue over her right and ability to defend herself. She did wish she had her sword, however. It felt wrong to stand there completely unarmed, a youth of but sixteen summers her only shield against any enemy who might reach them.

That enemy reached the camp but a moment later. They swarmed out of the wood from two different directions so swiftly and silently, Fiona was astonished that the MacFingals were not startled into a dangerous moment of hesitation. Instead, they met the attack with a speed and ferocity that was awe inspiring. Although Simon was doing an admirable job of watching for any man approaching them, Fiona did the same. She kept an especially keen watch upon the horses. This might not be a raid, but that would not stop anyone from trying to steal whatever they could get their hands on.

The MacFingals were efficiently decimating their enemy even though the odds against them were nearly three to one, and Fiona began to relax. She hated fighting and bloodshed, but was pleased that her captor and his men were so skilled. These men had not come to make peace, but to kill. What did trouble her was what the great skill of the MacFingals implied. It seemed they were far too accustomed to people trying to kill them. Staying with the MacFingals might provide her with a haven Menzies could not find, but it appeared it would not be a particularly safe haven.

Just as the enemy began to retreat, Simon cursed and shoved her more firmly behind him. A huge, filthy, hirsute man ran toward them, stopping just out of the reach of Simon’s sword. The man grinned, revealing rotting teeth through his greasy beard. Fiona tensed when she realized none of the other MacFingals had noticed that one of the enemy had slipped past them. Instinct told her that Simon was skilled with his sword despite his youth, but he was facing a man nearly a foot taller and several stone heavier.

“Give up, laddie. Ye cannae win against me,” growled the man.

“Beating ye willnae e’en raise a sweat,” drawled Simon.

Fiona had to admit that, for such a sweet lad, Simon could produce an impressively chilling smile.

“Boastful wee maggot, arenae ye. I mean to gut ye, wean, and then I will plow the lass o’er your bleeding carcass.”

Something in the way Simon shifted his weight on his feet told Fiona the fight was about to begin. Cursing her helplessness, she moved away from Simon, not wishing to impede him in any way. The first clash of their swords made her wince despite the other sounds of battle assaulting her ears. Simon quickly revealed his greater skill, but she knew it might not be enough. If his bigger and stronger opponent could hold on long enough, he could wear Simon down. There was also the simple fact that Simon was only sixteen and could not have gained the battle experience his opponent had.

She began to look for some way to help. Her weapons were with the horses, but she resisted the urge to go after them. Not only would she be putting herself at risk by traversing such open ground, unarmed, in the midst of a battle, but if Simon sensed her leaving, it could fatally distract him.

A cry from Simon drew her full attention back to him. He was bleeding from what appeared to be a serious wound on his arm. Although it was not his sword arm, the loss of blood would quickly weaken him. She prayed fervently as she again searched for something to use as a weapon, only to hear a groan and a thud to her right. One of the enemy had staggered away wounded from the battle and had collapsed from a loss of blood just a few feet away. It was a rather gruesome answer to her prayer, but she was not about to disdain it. Fiona did not hesitate to relieve the fallen man of his sword and dagger.

Even as she turned back to Simon, she saw him falter. The youth had not leaped clear of his foe’s sword quickly enough and now had a wound on his belly. Simon fell to his knees and his opponent smiled. The way the man prepared to swing his sword told Fiona he had every intention of severing Simon’s head from his shoulders. Fiona did not hesitate. She thrust her sword into the big man’s side. When he screamed and turned to look at her, she plunged her dagger into his heart. The man staggered back a step then slowly fell down, his gaze never wavering from her face.

Fiona shuddered, appalled by what she had done despite the necessity of it. She watched the man’s eyes empty of life and fought the urge to empty her belly. This was sure to haunt her dreams for a very long time.

Slowly, she became aware that the battle had ended and wondered how long she had been staring at the grim results of her actions. Fiona forced herself to turn her attention to Simon, who still knelt upon the ground. As she knelt by his side, Ewan and Gregor ran up to them. She supposed that, once she had recovered from the horror of killing a man, she would appreciate the looks of astonishment and respect the two men were giving her.

“Get Simon on a blanket and bare his wounds,” she said as she stumbled to her feet. “I will need that small leather bag from my saddle. It carries what I shall need to tend his injuries. I will return in a moment.” She raced to the wood, knowing that she could no longer control the urge to be sick.

“Shouldnae ye follow her?” asked Gregor as he picked Simon up in his arms.

“Nay, she will return,” replied Ewan as he moved toward the horses to get what was needed for Simon’s care. “She will be back to tend Simon.” Ewan was a little surprised at how certain he felt about that.

“Weel, if she means to tend him, why did she run off at all?”

“I suspicion she has gone to empty her belly into the bushes.”

“Ah, I used to do the same when I was a lad.”

By the time he and Gregor had gotten Simon settled on a blanket, his shirt removed, the boy appeared to revive a little. “She moved like lightning, Ewan,” he rasped as Ewan bathed away the blood from his torso.

“Aye, she was quick,” agreed Ewan, pleased to see that the wounds were shallow ones.

“I failed ye. If she hadnae found those weapons, she would have died once the mon finished me off.”

“Ye didnae fail me. The mon was bigger, stronger, battle-hardened, and had a longer reach than ye. Ye have the skill to win in an even match or a fair fight. Ye just have to learn the skills to win in the uneven and unfair ones. As soon as ye heal, we will begin those lessons.”

Ewan saw Fiona returning. Her stride was steady, but she looked wan, and when she drew closer, he could see that she had wept. He was glad to see that the body of the man she had killed had been taken away. She needed to be steady of hand and clear of mind to tend Simon.

“Ye saved my life,” Simon began when Fiona knelt beside him, only to be hushed when she gently pressed her fingers against his lips.

“Ye put yourself between a sword and my heart. Twas my duty to see that ye didnae die for it. Now, let us see to these wee cuts.”

“Do ye ken much about tending such wounds?” Ewan asked.

“Aye, I was taught a great deal about healing from our Gilly and her kin,” she replied as she gently bathed Simon’s wounds, checking carefully for any dirt or bits of cloth that might have become trapped within. “These are nay verra dire wounds and have bled freely, cleaning themselves weel. Some salve, some stitches, and some rest until they close and all should be weel.”

“Can he be moved once ye stitch him?”

“How far do ye have to go and is it rough ground?” Fiona knew it would be best if Simon rested for a few days before he was moved, but understood that their safety required them to leave this place.

“Near half a day, but nay too hard a ride. A pallet wouldnae be too rough on him.”

“And ’tis verra necessary to leave here right now? Hold him steady, please. I fear this will burn some, Simon.” As soon as Gregor and Ewan pinned Simon to the blanket, Fiona washed his wounds with uisque-beatha. “Ah, good, that sent him into a swoon.”

“Why did ye pour that onto his wounds?”

“It has proven to be a help. The wounds dinnae seem to get infected when ye bathe them in the drink. Now, if ye would be so kind as to keep holding him still, I will stitch him up.”

Ewan watched the skillful way she worked, her stitches done quickly, but neatly. Simon would be left with scars, but her small, tidy stitches ensured those scars would not be like the ugly, ragged ones marring his flesh. The swift efficiency with which she worked assured him that she had not lied or boasted when she had claimed knowledge of healing. Then Ewan recalled her question about the necessity of moving Simon.

“The men who attacked us were Grays,” he said as she completed her stitching and began to cover Simon’s wounds with a salve. “Some fled. They could gather more men and return within but a few hours. Now that they ken we are here, I think that it exactly what they will do.”

“So, this wasnae a planned attack?” She tied off the bandage she had wrapped around the wound on Simon’s arm and, with Gregor’s help, began to wrap a bandage around the youth’s stomach.

“Nay, I think they just stumbled upon us. I am certain they will be eager to try again, however.”

“Then we move on. Can Simon be taken upon a pallet without costing us too much time?”

“Aye, I planned to do that. Tis why I feel we will need half a day to reach Scarglas.”

Fiona nodded as she stood up. “Make the bed of it as soft as ye can with blankets and tie him to it. Twill lessen the roughness of the journey.” She picked up her bag. “I will see if there are any other injuries that need tending.”

“A few wee ones. We were lucky. We lost no one. We had warning enough to be ready for them.”

Ewan watched her move toward his men even as he ordered two men to make a pallet for Simon. She was suffering over what she had done. He could see it in her eyes, hear it in her voice. Although someone had trained her how to fight, and trained her well, Ewan felt sure she had never had to kill a man before.

He sighed, feeling both regret and anger. She now had blood on her hands because of his family. His father had ensured that they were surrounded by enemies, too many of whom would like to rid the world of anyone who claimed Scarglas as his home. Ewan could not recall when, if ever, he had been able to spend a day, even an hour, without watching for an attack. It was wrong to drag her into the midst of all that trouble, yet he had no choice. He could not leave her wandering about such a dangerous land on her own, nor could he deny his clan the chance to gain some much-needed ransom for her. The best he could do was work hard to make certain her stay in this benighted land was not a long one.

Which was not going to be easy if she continued to refuse to tell them who she was and where she was from, he thought as he helped prepare the pallet for Simon. Ewan considered threatening her, frightening her into telling him what he needed to know, then quickly shrugged aside that idea. Not only did he doubt he would do so effectively since he could not actually carry out any of his threats, but he doubted it would work. Instinct told him that threats and intimidation would either be disbelieved by Fiona or would simply make her even more determined to tell him nothing.

Once prepared to leave, Ewan found himself with yet another problem. It should have been a simple one to solve, but his own contadictory emotions made it difficult. Fiona had to ride with someone, but he found he was reluctant to have her share a saddle with any of his men. Inwardly cursing, he set her on his saddle and mounted behind her. Having her so close was undoubtedly going to make the ride to Scarglas a long and uncomfortable one. Unfortunately, he suspected watching her ride along in another man’s arms would be even worse.

After only an hour of feeling her slender body so close to his, catching her sweet scent each time he breathed, Ewan knew he needed to distance or distract himself. “Is today the first time ye have been in a battle?”

“Aye,” Fiona replied, fighting the urge to nestle back against him. “I have been in a few wee fights, e’en wounded a mon or two, but I have ne’er killed a mon.” She shivered as the image of the man’s empty, staring eyes filled her mind.

“He was about to take Simon’s head from his shoulders.”

“I ken it.” Feeling chilled and her back aching from the struggle to keep a distance between them, Fiona cautiously began to relax against him. “There wasnae any other choice. E’en if I could have borne letting Simon die, I still had to do it. Once Simon fell, the mon was coming for me.” She sighed and relaxed against Ewan’s broad chest a little more. “I always feared I would hesitate when it came to actually killing a mon.”

“But ye didnae.”

“Nay, God save my soul, I didnae. My brother was right. When confronted with someone who wants to kill me or kill someone I preferred to keep alive, I was able to find the stomach to do what I needed to. I just wish he had been wrong about how I would feel after I was safe again.”

“Twill pass. Your brother sounds a wise laird.”

She laughed softly as she felt her weariness begin to weight her limbs. “Nay always wise, but he kens how to keep us safe.” Fiona had the unsettling feeling she had just given Ewan some small hint about who she was, but was too tired to worry about it. A small hint would not help him much, and she would simply be more cautious in watching out for a trap. Too many carelessly dropped small hints could quickly add up to enough of a whole to end her game. After she had rested, she would try to recall all she may have let slip already, and be more wary in her answers and her conversation with everyone. As she closed her eyes, she prayed exhaustion would keep the dark dreams away for a little while.

Ewan grimaced as his body responded immediately to the soft woman resting against him, but then he smiled. Fiona was not so very skilled at deception. She could not hold all the truth inside. He would not need threats to gain the truth, just time. When at ease, Fiona spoke freely, unable to guard her tongue as closely as she needed to. He would warn everyone to listen carefully to all she said. It would take time, but he was certain that, piece by tiny piece, Fiona would reveal who she was, whom she belonged to, and where she was from. When he slipped his arm around her small waist to hold her steady, he told himself he was pleased. He sternly told himself he would be glad to see her leave and ignored the sneering inner voice that called him a liar.