My Lady Captor. Hannah Howell

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СКАЧАТЬ see to his injuries as soon as we are out of sight and reach of these human carrion.” Sorcha began to fully detail what she would need to make a litter.

      Ruari covertly studied the two young women he was now dependent on. The one called Margaret was a well-rounded fair-haired beauty with wide blue eyes and all the dimples any man could ask for. The woman called Sorcha was the one who drew his keenest interest, however, and he found that curious. Margaret was far more suited to his usual taste. Sorcha’s heavily lashed, huge brown eyes were her best feature. They were dark pools reflecting a keen wit, strength, and determination, qualities he had never considered flattering in a woman. She had a small face, her fine bone structure clear to see. Ruari suspected that if she ever curved her full, tempting mouth in a smile, there would be no sign of a dimple. Her hair was thick and hung to her tiny waist, the rays of the setting sun touching upon reddish highlights in its rich chestnut depths.

      Inwardly frowning as he recognized his attraction to the woman, an attraction strong enough to be stirred despite his pain and weakness, he carefully inspected her tiny figure. The drab gray gown she wore was snug, hugging every slim curve. Small high breasts, a tiny waist, and slim, shapely hips stirred his interest even though such a figure had never caught his eye before. She moved with a lithe, easy grace he had to admire.

      What troubled him more than the fact that he was attracted to a woman who met none of his usual requirements was that this tiny woman was saving his life. That was surely going to produce a lot of jests from his kinsmen. The highly praised and honored Sir Ruari Kerr saved by an insignificant lass from an insignificant branch of the Hay clan? Ruari winced as he all too easily imagined the laughter of his kinsmen.

      The sound of a footfall drew him from his bout of self-pity. One of the scavengers was approaching his rescuers. Ruari hastily assumed the posture of a dead man, praying he could keep his breathing shallow enough to be indiscernible. He heartily cursed his wound and the loss of blood which left him so weak. It insured that he could not fight. If death approached, he would like to be able to at least try to strike out at his killers before they cut his throat. All he could do was lie silent and pray that Sorcha Hay was as clever as she seemed to be.

      Sorcha warily eyed the tall thin man as he stopped in front of her. She did not like this sign of strong interest on the part of the battlefield thieves. She definitely did not like the delay this intrusion caused. Now that she knew Dougal’s fate and what she needed to do to help him, she was anxious to leave this place of unshriven dead and the treacherous humans who preyed on such misery.

      “I see that ye build a litter,” the man said, his voice soft and cold as he fixed his dark, unblinking stare on Sorcha. “Have one of you injured yourself?”

      “Nay, sir, but I thank ye for your concern,” Sorcha replied, cautiously setting her hand on her sword beneath her cloak. “We but need something to carry two bodies.”

      “Two bodies? Why do ye wish to remove the dead from the field?”

      “Not all the dead, sir. Just two.”

      “Dinnae be clever, lass,” he muttered, pointing one long, bony, and filthy finger at her. “Ye had best tell me what I wish to ken or ye and your bonnie companion may join these corpses.”

      “My cousin found one of our kinsmen upon the field, and we wish to take him home. We intend to take this mon as weel.”

      “Oh, aye? And I am to believe that he is a kinsmon, too?”

      “Nay. I didnae claim him one, did I? He is richly dressed, of a breed not often left to rot on the battlefield. I thought that returning his body to his kinsmen may weel bring me a coin or two.”

      “Ye ken who this mon is?” the scavenger asked, eyeing Ruari speculatively.

      “Aye, weel enough. The markings on his scabbard and his clan badge tell me to take him to the Kerrs of Gartmhor. I ken where that is.”

      “They are a wealthy clan,” the man murmured, idly caressing his sword.

      “They are, but I dinnae think they will pay so much for a corpse that ’tis worth ye dying to gain it.” She nudged back her cloak so that he could see that she, too, had a sword.

      When Margaret stepped up beside Sorcha, her hand on her sword as well, the man held his hands out in a conciliatory gesture. “Be easy. Ye have claimed the booty, and I honor your rights to it.”

      The moment the man slinked away Sorcha ordered Margaret, “Take Bansith and get that laddie ye found, then come right back here so we can toss this hulk of a mon on the litter.”

      “Are we to leave this place now?” asked Margaret as she grabbed the pony’s reins.

      “As swiftly as we can. The glint in that adder’s eyes made me verra uneasy.”

      “But he said he would honor your right to the booty.”

      “That mon wouldnae ken what honor was if it grew legs and walked up to spit in his skinny face. Go on, Margaret, and be verra careful.”

      “Shouldnae ye go help her?” asked Ruari after Margaret left.

      Sorcha looked at Ruari, wondering how he could speak, yet still maintain his pose of death. It was so good a pose it made her uneasy. “That mon recognized your worth, sir. ’Tis best if I dinnae leave ye unguarded,” she replied, keeping a close watch on the scavengers and trying to talk clearly without moving her lips too much.

      “And ye think a wee lass like yourself can stop him from taking whate’er he pleases?”

      “Aye. The mon is a stinking coward. As long as he must fight to gain what he wants, I hold the advantage. I could not, howbeit, regain something once it is taken. So, the wisest, safest plan is to keep a verra tight hold on what I have.”

      “And ye think your cousin can do the same?”

      “Aye, and verra weel, too. One thing it is not difficult to make Margaret understand is when she is in danger, and she has been weel trained to defend herself.”

      Ruari had no opportunity to respond as Margaret returned. He was astonished at the speed with which she had accomplished her chore, but even more so when he saw the youth draped over the pony. His young cousin Beatham had disobeyed orders and joined the battle against the English. Ruari prayed the boy’s wounds were not severe if only so the rash youth would soon be well enough to be disciplined. Just as Ruari thought to say something to his errant cousin, Margaret and Sorcha moved him onto the litter. Although the women were gentle and surprisingly strong, pain tore through his battered body, stealing his ability to think. It took all his will just to keep from crying out. Despite his efforts, a shaky sigh escaped him as they settled him onto the litter.

      “Hush,” Sorcha ordered, removing her cloak to spread it over him.

      “He is sweating badly, Cousin,” Margaret whispered.

      “Dead men arenae supposed to sweat.”

      “Ye had best cease talking to this dead mon, then,” Ruari said, his voice a hoarse shadow of itself.

      “Aye,” agreed Sorcha. “And I had best cover that poor ghastly face of yours.”

      He closed his eyes even as she tossed the hood of the cloak over his face. When the pony began to move, dragging the litter over the rough ground, his pain increased. СКАЧАТЬ