My Lady Captor. Hannah HowellЧитать онлайн книгу.
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. It would be easy and undoubtedly advantageous to let the blackness fluttering at the edges of his mind sweep over him, but he fought it back. 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.