Читать книгу The Knight's Broken Promise - Nicole Locke - Страница 11

Chapter Four

Gaira kept glancing over her shoulder at the stranger who quietly followed her. No, not quiet. Contemplative. Dark. He was dark like the bottom of a turbulent river. This man, though seemingly tranquil, was as forceful and powerful under his surface as any Scottish river. It made her nervous that he hid it.

He hadn’t said a word since he’d retrieved his horse. Now he walked behind her with the huge horse in tow. She had his dagger and sword, but the horse was laden with a larger sword, blankets and two pouches, one she was sure jangled with coins. He was quiet, but she could almost feel his thoughts. She tried to stop biting her lip.

She had invited a stranger to the camp. An English soldier, who talked of peace but walked with his sword drawn and carried more weapons on his horse. But she had to invite him. What else could she do?

If he truly meant her harm, all he had to do was follow her to camp and catch her unawares. It was best to keep him tied and close. But close did not mean stupid and she had some talking to do first.

She whirled around to face him. He stopped just as suddenly and looked at her expectantly.

* * *

Robert watched the woman staring at him. In less than an hour she had displayed several emotions: bravery, fear, gentleness, affection and humour. Now a myriad of expressions were crossing her face, the dominant one being determination. She clearly wanted to tell him something, but didn’t know how to say it. He felt the heady rush of anticipation. It had been a long time since anyone had intrigued him.

But then he saw them.

Behind her was a crude camp. A fire blazed around a steaming cauldron. The fire was strong and the moon was full. Both provided enough illumination. The night’s light was not playing tricks with his sight.

‘Who are they?’ he asked.

Her eyes, so expressive before, became shuttered. Her only movement was the almost imperceptible tensing of her shoulders, the slight raising of her chin. ‘You’ll not be harming them, you ken?’ She kept her voice low. ‘If you do, I’ll be taking away more than one sword of yours.’

‘Who are they?’ he repeated.

She did not answer him, but kept her eyes unwaveringly on him.

As if pulled forward, he walked past Gaira to face four children who emerged out of the trees. They lined up like soldiers for battle. Gaira hurriedly passed him and stood behind the tallest girl.

The image hit him. These children were not lined up like soldiers for battle, but for inspection. His inspection. Gaira did not stand between them to protect them, but behind them as if to point out their merit.

He couldn’t speak.

She brought the children close to her, whispered low, but she did not take her eyes off him.

‘Children, this is Robert from Dent and he is English.’ She stood and raised her voice. ‘I do not believe he means us harm so I asked him to our camp this eve.’

He could sense their wariness turn to fear, but they did not make a sound, nor did they break ranks. Ridiculous as it was, he could not get soldiering terminology out of his mind.

Pressing her hands on the girl’s shoulders and briefly pointing to the boy of equal height to her left, she said, ‘These are Flora and Creighton, they’re nine and, well, twins.’

Flora and Creighton shared the same dark brown hair and, although he could not be certain, their eyes appeared bright blue.

But where their colouring and height were the same, the way they acted towards him was not. Flora’s nose was jammed into her chest, her lips trembling.

Creighton’s eyes were a flat stare and he held his hands fisted at his sides.

Gaira took a quick sidestep and waved her hand briefly over the head of a boy whose hair looked as if it were trying to escape. ‘You met Alec.’ She roughed the boy’s brown hair and it barely moved. Alec smiled, obviously pleased to be introduced.

‘The little one there is Maisie.’ Gaira pointed to the girl hanging on Alec’s left arm. ‘She’s not two, but learning words.’

Maisie’s hair was so blond it was practically transparent in the firelight, but her eyes were round, green and took up half her face. He could not discern much more of her features because it looked as though she were trying to swallow her free hand and arm whole. Spit glistened.

He forced the words from his mouth. ‘Are these yours?’

‘Aye.’ She jutted out her chin.

None of the children resembled each other and certainly not the tall woman in front of him. The camp itself was a single blanket attached to a rope tied to a tree, making a crude tent too small to fit them all. She had a single horse, with a single satchel.

This woman was not their mother, maybe not even their relation. Yet she claimed them. He didn’t know who she was, or even if she was from Clan Colquhoun, but she had been taking care of four children who had survived the massacre. By herself.

And she was burying their decaying parents’ bodies at night. By herself.

It looked, too, as if she had no protection, no companion and was camping in a godforsaken land on the brink of the most bloodthirsty war he’d ever known in his lifetime.

Her eyes were challenging him, her hair coming loose from the many plaits resembling Medusa’s snakes. In the full fire’s light he could make out the roughness and largeness of the tunic she wore. It was not a woman’s garment, but a man’s. Had she been wearing that before or after she arrived here? There were too many questions.

Whatever he was expecting by coming to this small farming village, this was not it. By coming here, he had wanted to see if the rumour was true—if his English brethren could have the capacity for such horror. He hadn’t expected survivors. Yet here they were: four children and a woman.

And he didn’t know what to do with any of them.