Highland Warrior. Hannah HowellЧитать онлайн книгу.
She was so far above his touch, it was almost dizzying to look at her. Only hours in her company and he was already fighting a craving for what he knew he could never have. Somehow he was going to have to find out who she was, ransom her, and get her out of his life before he succumbed to his desires, tried to reach for her, and made an utter fool of himself.
“Where did a weelborn lass learn to cook so weel?” asked Simon, taking a deep, appreciative sniff of the rabbit stew Fiona was making.
“Now, why would ye think me weelborn?” Fiona asked as she stirred the stew, wondering if it would be enough for so many people. She had two full pots bubbling over the two fires Simon had made, but twelve men could probably devour it in minutes.
“Ye may nay be dressed as a lady or act much like one, but I ken ye are one. Your clothes and weapons, e’en your mount, are those of a weelborn lass or lad. Ye e’en speak verra weel. And”—Simon blushed—“ye are clean and smell verra nice.”
“Ah, weel, aye, I am weelborn, but the first years of my life were spent living like the poorest crofter.” She tossed the wild onions one of the men had gathered into the stew, and smiled at Simon, who obviously expected a tale now. “For too many years our clan and two others tore each other apart. Finally, there came a time when there was naught left but rubble, burned fields, slaughtered livestock, widows, and orphans. We who survived the last battle which killed the lairds and too many of the grown men rose up from the destruction and swore that it would end on that day. No more feuding, killing, raiding, and all of that. And so it was. Howbeit, for many years, survival and rebuilding took all our few resources. All of us, from the poorest to the laird himself, turned a hand to whate’er work needed doing.”
“Is that why ye were taught to fight?”
“Aye, although, praise God, the peace held and there was little of that. Howbeit, we were so weakened, we would have been easy prey for anyone. It was a hard life, verra hard, yet I can see that some good came of it. We all have gained a wide array of skills, and I believe we are, weel, closer than others. We no longer have to fight each day just to survive, but we ken we can do so if we must, and we ken that every mon, woman, and child in the clan can do the same, willingly and skillfully. Tis a good thing.”
“Aye,” agreed Simon. “Yet, ye must have a laird, aye? One who stands above the others?”
“One who leads the others, aye. But because of what we suffered, everyone is certain our laird will, if necessary, work side by side with his people, whether tilling a field or thatching a roof. They also ken that he will ne’er fill his belly whilst they hunger or sit warm in his great hall whilst they shiver in the cold. There is also the rather comforting knowledge that their laird willnae thrust them into war at the slightest hint of insult, that he willnae allow pride to stop him from trying to reach some compromise or less bloody solution. That, too, is most comforting.”
“Twould be nice. Our old laird fights with everyone, or did. Five years ago Ewan took o’er as laird, and he works mightily to make alliances. Tisnae going weel. Our father made some hard enemies.”
“Oh, ye are Sir Ewan’s brother, too?”
“Half-brother. Bastard born. There are a lot of us. Near three dozen at last counting.”
And what could one say to that? mused Fiona. Since her brother Diarmot had five bastard children, it would seem somewhat hypocritical to condemn such a thing. Yet, the old laird seemed to have gone a bit too far. Such rampant profligacy was probably one reason Sir Ewan was now the laird. That and the hint Simon gave that the old laird had a true skill at offending people, thus leaving his clan surrounded by enemies. Fiona wondered just what sort of place she was being taken to.
For a brief moment, she considered telling Sir Ewan exactly who she was so that she could be quickly ransomed and returned to Deilcladach. Then she inwardly shook her head. Her clan was not so rich it could afford its coffers being emptied because she had been fool enough to get lost and captured. Her family would worry about her, but there was no way she could let them know she was all right without exposing them to what could be some rather exhorbitant ransom demands. There was, actually, one small advantage to the difficulty she now found herself in, although she felt a little guilty for even considering it. Menzies would not find her, could not possibly know where she was. For a little while, she decided, she would be selfish and enjoy that fact.
Declaring the meal ready, Fiona took her share and forced Simon to take his as well. Sir Ewan and Gregor were just walking back into the camp when she told the men they could eat. She quickly moved out of the way, sitting with her back against a tree. She smiled her thanks to Simon when he slipped up next to her and gave her a chunk of bread.
“Your laird travels weel supplied,” she murmured.
“Ah, weel, this bread was given us by two sisters who were quite taken with our Gregor,” said Simon. “The lasses do like our Gregor.” Simon shook his head. “He has two bastards, ye ken. Tis a mon’s way, but it troubles me. It marks a lad. Tis a mark ye can ne’er be rid of. It marks the lass who bears the bairns, as weel.”
Fiona nodded. “It does, true enough. I have a brother who has five bastards, although he may nay be the father of them all. The women said he was when they left the bairns at his door and he accepted them. He is a verra fortunate mon for his new wife has also accepted them.”
“Och, that is fine. My mother found herself a husband, but he didnae want me about, so Ewan took me in. I was just a wee bairn, only three years, and wasnae any use to the mon. Just another mouth to feed, ye ken. Twas for the best. If he had kept me, I would be struggling to make a crop grow in poor land or trying to keep a few beasties alive to sell for a pittance. Instead, I am being trained as a warrior.”
It was not easy, but Fiona murmured an agreement. Fiona would never allow him to see the strong surge of pity she felt for him. It was born of the thought of a small fatherless boy tossed aside by his own mother. Simon was right to say he had a better life than he might have had otherwise. She also suspected he had found acceptance, perhaps even a rough affection, amongst his half-brothers and the others. There had to be some scars upon the boy’s soul, but his sweet, shy nature made her believe that they were not deep ones. Simon had survived and was thriving. That was, in the end, the most important thing.
She was distracted from her thoughts on Simon’s sad beginnings by the other men. One by one, they dropped their emptied plates in front of her. Fiona supposed those grunts they made as they did so were intended as thanks or compliments. It was clear that they expected her to clean up after them. That was irritating, but not unexpected. The look of amusement upon Sir Ewan’s face, however, acted upon her temper as stinging nettles did upon her skin. Only Simon’s quick offer to help saved the man from having his ears vigorously clouted. Grumbling under her breath, she worked with Simon to clean up after the meal she had been ordered to cook.
“What are ye about?” Ewan asked Gregor when his brother carefully studied his back as they walked away from Fiona and Simon.
“Looking for the daggers,” Gregor drawled, and grinned.
Ewan briefly smiled. “Tis indeed fortunate I found all her knives. I suspect I owe Simon a boon for speaking up so quickly and saving me from a sound thrashing.” He chuckled and felt almost as surprised as Gregor looked.
“Ye find her looking as if she wants to gut ye amusing?”
“Aye. Tis a clean, clear anger. Much like a mon’s or a lad’s. I can see it and, I suspicion, soon I will be able to tell what will stir it. That could prove helpful.”
Gregor nodded. “Ye might be able to get her to spill out a few truths if ye get her into a rage.”
“That I might. Tis a far better plan than the one ye had,” he added in a soft growl.
“Seduction is a proven way to pull secrets from a woman,” said Gregor. “If ye havenae the urge to try it, I could—”
“Nay.” Ewan inwardly grimaced over how quickly and vehemently he had spoken. “We dinnae need any more enemies, and