Highland Warrior. Hannah HowellЧитать онлайн книгу.
she answered and could tell by the way his eyes narrowed that he knew she lied.
“Surrender your weapons, woman.”
“I told ye, I dinnae have any more.” Fiona wondered if the fact that the knife sheathed at the back of her waist was digging painfully into her back was the reason her ability to lie was so hampered.
That thought had barely finished forming when she found herself caught up in a fierce wrestling match with the man as he tried to search her for weapons. She got some pleasure out of his curses and grunts, which revealed she was at least discomforting him. Unfortunately, it did not deter him. He quickly began to find all of her knives. His curses increased as he took the two strapped to her wrists just inside the sleeves of her jerkin, the two tucked inside her boots, and the one sheathed at her back. He even found the subtle slits in her breeches that allowed her to reach the knife strapped to each of her thighs and took those. All her struggling halted abruptly when he ran his big, long-fingered hands over her breasts and found the knife sheathed between them. As he tossed that to the man collecting her weapons, he yanked her to her feet, and she wondered why she could still feel the warmth of his touch.
Ewan stared at the collection of weapons a widely grinning Gregor had piled up. He suddenly realized that, at any point during their confrontation, she could have pulled out one of those well-hidden knives and thrown it at him, or slipped it between his ribs. There was no doubt in his mind that she could have done so with speed, stealth, and deadly accuracy. He had obviously not failed any of those tests she had been putting him through. When he looked at her and she smiled sweetly, he immediately grew suspicious.
“Any more?” he asked.
“Of course not.” She met his narrow-eyed stare for a full minute before she sighed. “Just one.”
“Hand it to me.”
His eyes widened as she reached behind her head and pulled a knife from out of the thick coils of her braid. When she slapped it into his outstretched hand, he ignored the hilarity of his men and studied the weapon. It was long with a narrow blade, sheathed in thick, soft leather, and the hilt had been made in such a way it looked like no more than an ornate hair ornament, yet was still perfectly usable.
“Why are ye so heavily armed?”
“Weel, it wouldnae be wise to ride about alone without a few weapons,” Fiona replied as she undid her sword belt and tossed it down with the other weapons, then began to remove the sheaths for her knives that she could reach discreetly.
“Tis nay wise to ride about alone nay matter how weel armed ye are.”
She scowled at him and he tried to fix his attention on her ill humor, but it was not easy. His gaze kept falling to where her hand had slipped inside the clever slits in her breeches to remove the knife sheaths strapped around each slender thigh. Ewan could all too clearly recall the feel of that soft skin. It had taken a lot of willpower to resist the urge to linger there, to stroke that soft skin, and to recall that he was disarming her beneath the amused gazes of his men.
Even worse, his palms still itched with the need to feel those firm, plump breasts again. He had all too briefly felt how perfectly they had nestled into his hands as he had searched her for more weapons. Despite her clothes and the fact that she had been bristling with weapons, he could not ignore the fact that she was a woman, a soft, temptingly shaped woman. Worse still, he seemed incapable of ignoring the fact that he desired her.
“What is your name?” he asked her as Gregor put all of her weapons in a sack.
“Fiona,” she replied and met his hard stare, one that demanded more information, with a smile.
“Fiona what? What clan? What place?”
“Do ye expect me to sweetly reply and give ye all that is needed to rob me and mine?”
Cleverness in a female could be extremely irritating, Ewan decided. “Where were ye headed?”
“Nowhere in particular. I was just riding about enjoying the rare sunny day.”
“Then how did ye end up here?”
“Ah, weel, my mount is a contrary beast. He bolted. I think I must have hit my head on the saddle pommel or the like, for after a rough ride, I became quite dazed. When I finally came to my senses, the wretched beast was moving at a calmer pace, but as soon as I tried to grab the reins, which had slipped from my hands, the horse bolted again. After yet another long, rough ride, he tossed me to the ground and left me here.”
“Is that the beast over there?”
Fiona looked to where he pointed and softly cursed. The big, gray gelding stood only a few yards away, idly feasting on soft grass. If she had known he was so close, she would have tried to catch him, might even have escaped the trouble she now found herself in. Then, she sighed, accepting her fate. Since she had truly needed a horse, it was certain that aggravating beast would never have allowed himself to be caught.
“Aye, that is him,” she replied.
“What is the name it answers to?”
“Several, actually, but if he is feeling particularly contrary, the best one to use is Wretched.”
“Wretched? Ye call your mount Wretched?”
“Tis short for Wretched Pain in the Arse. He is also called Curse to All Mankind, Limb of Satan…” She stopped when he held up his hand.
“Mayhap he wouldnae be so contrary if ye gave him a proper name,” Ewan said.
“He has one. Tis Stormcloud. He doesnae often answer to it, however. And he has weel earned the others.”
“If he is so much trouble, why do ye ride him?”
“He is big, strong, fast, and can go for miles without a rest. Of course, that isnae such a fine thing at the moment,” she muttered and glared at her horse, who looked at her, neighed, and tossed his fine head as if he were enjoying a fine laugh at her expense.
“Stay here,” Ewan commanded. “Watch her, Gregor.” He started toward the horse.
Fiona crossd her arms over her chest and watched him approach Stormcloud. To her utter surprise and a flash of extreme irritation, the man easily caught Stormcloud. The horse did not even try to elude him, seemed positively enraptured. She cursed as he led the horse back to her. When the animal looked at her and gave her a horsey snicker, she stuck her tongue out at him. Her captors found that worthy of a hearty laugh. Even the big man holding Stormcloud’s reins grinned.
“Mayhap, if ye spoke sweetly to the beast,” Ewan suggested, “he would feel more kindly toward ye.”
“I have spoken sweetly to him, in the beginning, when I thought he was a reasonable beast,” Fiona replied. “I spoke so sweetly honey fair dripped from every word. It ne’er worked. Watch.” She stepped closer to the horse and began to flatter him. “Such a fine gentlemon, ye are, Stormcloud. Big, strong, fair to look upon.” She concentrated on keeping her voice low and coaxing, struggling to think of every compliment she could as she wooed him.
Ewan quickly lost interest in the game she played with her horse. He was caught firm in the magic of her voice. It was low, slightly husky, and dangerously seductive. The flattery she filled the horse’s ears with could all too easily flatter a man as well. He glanced at his men and realized they were being as seduced as he was, or nearly so. Ewan hoped their bodies were not growing as taut with need as his was or there could be trouble.
Just as he was about to end the game, to try to break the spell she wove, she reached for the reins. The horse lowered his head and shoved her away forcefully enough to cause her to sprawl on her back on the ground. Stormcloud then produced that sound which all too closely resembled a human snickering. Ewan tried his best not to laugh, but the loud hilarity of his men broke his control.
Fiona cursed softly as she got to her feet and brushed herself off, then glared at the laughing men. “I dinnae suppose ye would have let me