His Border Bride. Blythe Gifford

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СКАЧАТЬ stifled a sigh for the loss of her private moment with the falcon and freedom.

      She held her horse to let the girl catch up. Far from looking ready to hunt, Euphemia, on the edge of womanhood, looked as if she were ready to fall into bed with the next man she stumbled across. Not because of her clothes—her dress was as temperate as Clare’s—but even at sixteen, the slant of her smile and the flutter of her eyelashes put men in mind of night pleasures.

      Just as her mother’s did.

      ‘I had to come,’ the girl said, as she caught them. ‘We may not see another day so warm ‘til June.’ A flush touched her cheek and her dark hair tumbled across her shoulders.

      Clare’s tight braid insured her hair would never fly loose, even after a day on horseback. ‘You may join me, but stay close. She’s not been out for days and I intend to be sure she has a good flight.’

      She gazed at the sky, looking for potential prey. Instead, she heard the flapping wings of another falcon. Wee One, hooded, swivelled her head, as if searching for the sound.

      ‘What’s that?’ Euphemia asked.

      Clare peered at the bird—male, she thought, from his smaller size. He flew back and forth across their path, fierce, dark, yellow-rimmed eyes glaring as if he wanted them to stop.

      ‘I don’t know.’ She frowned, suddenly afraid the strange bird might tempt Wee One to freedom. Thinking to escape him, she urged the horse into a gallop, not stopping until she was halfway up the ridge and the tercel was no longer in sight. Waiting for the others, she felt the south-west wind nudge her back.

      Maybe summer would come early.

      ‘Look!’ Angus whispered as the hound pointed.

      A few yards away, a fat partridge huddled under a bush. She would be easy to flush into flight, the perfect quarry for a falcon.

      Clare glanced over her shoulder to be sure they had lost the tercel. Then she removed Wee One’s hood, struggling to hold on to the leather jesses as the wind nearly jerked them out of her fingers. She raised her arm and Wee One took off, wings flapping, until she was just a speck overhead. There, she would wait, as she had been trained to do, until the humans sent her prey skywards.

      Angus set the dog towards the bush, scaring the partridge into flight, where the bird expected to be away from danger, but the small dot in the sky dived for her prey, falling faster than a horse could gallop.

      They stirred their horses and gave chase.

      They were halfway down the valley by mid-afternoon. The bird had worked, tireless, through the day. She had several fine stoops, killing three fowl. Each time, Clare rewarded her with a taste of the flesh. Then, she whisked the prey into the sack for Angus to carry.

      Food rewarded the falcon for a successful flight, but the bird was never allowed to eat without her master’s help. Otherwise, she would learn that she did not need the help of humans after all.

      The last partridge escaped. Clare called her falcon with a shrieking whistle and smiled as Wee One swooped on to her fist, obedient.

      This bird would return to her. Always.

      At the thought, the list of duties left undone rushed back, sweeping away the freedom of the day.

      She turned her horse around, motioning to Angus and Euphemia to follow her. The morning’s warmth had ebbed, and a chilly mist huddled in the valley and obscured the hills, reminding her of the dangers that lurked all around. The Inglis army might be far away, but the Inglis border was not.

      That was her last thought before he rose out of the fog, a golden man on a black horse, like a spirit emerging from the mist.

      A man without a banner.

      A man without allegiance.

      The hound barked, once, then growled, as if cowed.

      The man’s eyes grabbed hers. Blue they were, shading as a sky does in summer from pale to deepest azure. And behind the blue, something hot, like the sun.

      Like fire.

      Any words she might have said stuck in her throat.

      Next to her, Euphemia gasped, then giggled. ‘Where are you going, good sir?’

      Clare glared at her. The girl was hopeless. They’d be lucky to get her married before she was with child.

      ‘Anywhere that will have me,’ he answered Euphemia, but his eyes touched Clare.

      Her cheeks burned.

      Beside her, young Angus drew his dagger, the only weapon he was allowed. ‘I will defend the ladies.’

      ‘I’m sure you will.’ The stranger’s smile, slow, insolent, was at odds with the intensity in his eyes. ‘That’s a handsome dirk and I’m sure you could wield it well against me, but I would ask that you not harm my horse.’

      His tone was oddly gentle. Where was his own squire? ‘Who’s with you?’

      ‘No one.’

      ‘A dangerous practice.’ Did he lie? An army could hide behind him in this mist. Her fault. She had ridden out alone and unarmed and put them all at risk. ‘Don’t you know Edward’s army still rides?’

      He frowned. ‘Do they?’

      His accent confused her. It held the burr of the land closer to the sea, but there was something else about it, difficult to place. Yet over the hill, in the next valley, each family’s speech was different. He might be a Robson from the other side of the hill, scouting for one last raid before the spring, or loyal to one of the Teviotdale men who had thrown their lot in with Edward. ‘You’re not an Inglisman, are you?’

      ‘I have blood as Scots as yours.’

      ‘And how do you know how Scots my blood is?’

      ‘By the way you asked the question.’

      Did her speech sound so provincial to Alain? She winced. She wanted to impress the visiting French knight, not embarrass him. ‘What’s your name, Scotsman?’

      ‘Gavin.’ He paused. ‘Gavin Fitzjohn.’

      Some John’s bastard, then. Even a bastard bore his father’s arms, but this man carried no clue to his birth. No device on his shield, no surcoat. Just that unkempt armour that, without a squire’s care, had darkened with rust spots.

      No arms, no squire. Not of birth noble enough for true knighthood, then.

      ‘Are you a renegade?’ On her wrist, Wee One bated, wings flapping wildly. Clare touched her fingers to the bird’s soft breast feathers, seeking to calm them both.

      His slow smile never wavered. ‘Just a tired and hungry man who needs a friendly bed.’ His eyes travelled over her, as if he were wondering how friendly her bed might be.

      ‘Well, you’ll not find one with us.’

      ‘I didn’t СКАЧАТЬ