My Lady Captor. Hannah Howell

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ They were not out of danger yet, and, despite his helplessness, he wished to be aware if it struck.

      “That mon is walking our way, Sorcha,” Margaret said, looking back. “He appears to be encouraging a few of his companions to join him.”

      “Curse the fool.” Sorcha stopped, turned, and readied her bow, expertly notching it. “I fear I must remind the dog of his own cowardice.”

      “Ye arenae going to kill him, are ye?”

      “I cannae think of any mon who deserves to die more than that one, but nay, I willnae kill him. I will only show him that I can if I wish to.”

      She smiled faintly and shot her arrow. It pierced the ground at the man’s feet, bringing him to an abrupt halt. He stared at the arrow then at her. When he took another wary step toward her, she calmly fired a second arrow. Again it landed directly in front of his feet. He took a few hasty steps back. His companions immediately deserted him, scurrying back to the far safer task of stealing from dead men. A moment later, he joined them.

      “Do ye think he will leave us be now?” asked Margaret.

      “I think so, but we had best keep a close watch on our backs. Hurry along, Margaret.” As Margaret tugged the pony into its plodding pace, Sorcha followed, but kept a cautionary eye on the scavengers. “We need to place a goodly distance between this dark place and ourselves. Not only do I wish to be away from those dogs, but we are too close to the English here for my liking. In truth, I think we may be in England itself.”

      “Ye dinnae ken where we are?”

      “Oh, aye, I do. I just dinnae ken who lays claim to it this year.” Sorcha laughed softly as she watched Margaret’s expression waver between fear and confusion. “Dinnae trouble yourself, Cousin. I may not ken exactly whose lands we stand on, but I ken weel how to get back to Dunweare. We will be home on the morrow. Now, we must try to reach a safe camping place and tend to the wounds these two fools have gained in this unending squabble with the English.”

      Chapter Two

      Ruari cried out, opened his eyes, and saw only blackness. It was a moment before he could subdue his panic enough to realize he was still beneath Sorcha’s cloak. At some time during the slow, torturous journey he had lost his grip on consciousness. He felt smothered, and struggled to move his wounded right arm enough to tug the covering from his face. His awkwardness made him curse even as the cloak was pulled from his face. Taking a few deep breaths, Ruari stared into Sorcha’s rich brown eyes.

      “We are about to camp for the night, sir,” Sorcha said. “As soon as the campsite is readied, I will see to your wounds.”

      “And the lad?” he asked.

      “Margaret has helped him o’er to a tree. His wounds arenae severe. Once we were out of sight of the battlefield, he sat up on the pony. We believe he was banged on the head, fell, and was left behind.”

      Slowly turning his head, wincing as even that small, cautious movement brought him pain, Ruari looked around the camp until he espied his young cousin Beatham. Despite his anger over Beatham’s disobedience, Ruari was relieved to see that Sorcha was right; the youth did not appear badly hurt. In truth, the boy was clearly well enough to indulge in a little flirtation if Margaret’s smiles and blushes were any indication.

      Still moving cautiously in an attempt to minimize his pain, he watched Sorcha prepare a fire and then looked over her choice of camp. He had to admire her selection. It held enough trees and undergrowth to allow them shelter yet not so much that an enemy could approach them completely unseen. It was also on a rise that allowed her a good view on all sides. Someone had taught the girl well, he mused, and wondered why. The expert way she set up camp only added to his curiosity.

      All interest in her strange skills fled his mind, thrust aside by his pain, as she and Margaret shifted him from the litter to the bedding Sorcha had spread out by the fire. His wounds were serious, made all the more so by the long hours they had been left untended. As the women removed his armor and clothes, the urge to slip into the blackness was strong, its promise of sweet oblivion from his pain a great temptation. He clung to what few shreds of awareness he could, however. Ruari did not fully trust his rescuers yet.

      “Ye would ease our distress greatly if ye would swoon,” Sorcha muttered as she washed the blood and dirt from his body.

      “Our distress?” Ruari spoke through gritted teeth, even her gentle touch almost more than he could bear. “I am the one in pain, woman. What trouble can it cause you?”

      “I have always found such stubborn bravado troubling. I ken that ye cling to your senses as if ye held the Holy Grail and I am some heathen trying to snatch it from your hands. Ye allow yourself to suffer needlessly. That, my fine knight, is the act of a fool.”

      “The mon is in great pain, Sorcha,” Margaret said. “’Tis unkind of you to insult him.”

      “He deserves such insults.”

      “Heed me, woman,” Ruari began.

      “Hush, fool. Ye can bemoan my impudence later. Bite on this,” she commanded even as she stuck a thick piece of leather between his teeth. “Ye have three deep gashes that need stitching—the one on your right arm, the one on your belly that nearly cost ye your innards, and the one on your left leg. Either ye were attacked by a veritable horde of Englishmen or ye were too stupid to fall after receiving your first serious wound.”

      “’Tis a miracle he has not already bled his life away,” murmured Margaret.

      Sorcha thought so, too, but said nothing, concentrating on closing the worst of his injuries. She closed her ears to the sounds of pain he could not fully stifle. Although she detested adding to the man’s agony, she comforted herself with the knowledge that she had no choice. The moment she tied off the last stitch, she looked at his face. His eyes were so glazed with pain they had lost all color, as had his face, and she knew he was barely conscious. She urged Margaret to go and finish tending the youth’s minor hurts, and bandaged Ruari herself.

      Now that she had finished the more onerous task of treating his injuries, she found herself taking an unsettling interest in his battered form. He was a big man, tall and strong, yet not bulky. His was the lean, hard strength of a wild animal. His skin was smooth, taut, and several shades darker than her own, almost as if he had allowed the summer sun to touch every inch of his body. As she wrapped clean strips of linen around his wounds, she found it difficult to resist the urge to smooth her hand over his skin to see if it felt as good as it looked. There was no hair on his broad chest. Tiny dark curls started just below his navel, ran in a straight line to his groin to provide a soft protection for his manhood, and diminished to a light coating on his long, well-shaped legs. He was, she decided, an exceptionally fine figure of a man.

      Inwardly cursing her own weakness, she quickly finished bandaging him and covered him with her cloak. It was fortunate that his wits were dulled by pain or he would have noticed her ogling him like some greedy whore. She brushed the sweat-dampened black hair off his face, realized she was lingering over the chore and flushed guiltily. Sorcha wondered what ailed her as she tugged the piece of leather from between his still-clenched teeth.

      “Are ye done mauling me, woman?” Ruari asked, astonished at how weak his voice was.

      “Aye,” Sorcha replied. “Ye may yet live.”

      “He is going to be all right?” asked СКАЧАТЬ