“You don’t need anything else to make you cockier.” She caught him under the arms, more gently this time, and helped pull him to his feet, without answering his question.
A body lay in front of the cart, and another lay behind them several feet away. A vengeful angel indeed.
“Did ye kill them all?” he asked.
After he was to his feet, she hopped off the cart, obviously ready to relinquish her care of him. “No, Gregor got away when I attacked. There were only three of them. Him and these two.” She nodded to the bodies. “That was over an hour ago. You took a long time to wake up.” Her voice held a slight strain.
He slanted a glance at her. “Were ye worried about me, my angel?”
Her face darkened into a scowl. “Don’t call me that.”
“Ye were worried.”
She stared up at him, and he tried not to waver on his unsteady legs. “Don’t make me regret my decision to stay any more than I already do. I let him go to save you.”
He couldn’t help the grin pulling at his lips any more than she could probably help the grimace of irritation. “Then ye’ll regret it even more now that I’m awake.”
“I already do.” She made her way to the horse attached to the cart and began to unhitch the beast. “We need to hurry so we can try to find them.”
“If it was over an hour since Gregor left, as ye say, then it won’t matter where Reginald and his men were camped. They are already gone.”
Chapter 4
Reginald and his men were gone.
Sylvi stood up from the scorch of earth where a fire had once been, the charred remains still warm. Their encampment was a mere 20 minutes from where she had attacked Gregor’s party. If she had abandoned Ian, she would have found them.
Instead, she’d gathered him onto one horse with her and trailed the second horse at their side as they followed the trail to the remnants of the abandoned encampment.
She glanced to where Ian lay propped against a tree with the tethered horses while she examined the area where her enemy had recently been. A glossy sheen of sweat glistened on Ian’s pale skin, and his eyes kept fluttering closed. At least he was wrapped in the thick blanket to keep him from the biting chill.
Still, guilt twisted in her stomach. He had trusted her and she had almost failed him by waiting too long. And even still, she lamented her choice.
The coins she’d received in payment from Gregor hung heavy at her side. The desire to scrape her dagger over each one left a restlessness dancing over her nerves. But she dared not do it in front of Ian.
He’d have questions. And would probably be incessant about them. The very thought sent an irritated tightening over the back of her neck.
She strode over to him and put a skin of ale to his mouth. “Drink.”
He turned his head to the side. “I canna drink anymore.”
“Drink.”
He squinted up at her. His light brown eyes were the color of honey in the sunlight. “Ye’re trying to kill me with drink.”
“No, I’m trying to get you to purge the poison from your body.” Percy had often spoke of the benefit of drinking considerable amounts of liquid after having ingested a tonic one no longer wanted in their body.
His jaw tensed with a grimace, but he took the ale from her and took a swig of it.
“Keep it. Keep drinking and try to stay awake.”
His hand fell limp in his lap, fingers gently curled around the neck of the skin. “I wouldna need to purge it if ye hadna poisoned me.”
“They won’t be looking for you anymore.”
“Nay, but now they’ll be looking for ye.” He punctuated his statement with a steady stare up at her.
She looked around the encampment, where wheat-colored grass lay in dented patches, indicating something large had been placed there. Like tents, carriages. They had obviously been there for several days, but it was impossible for her to tell how many men. Ian had said they moved fast, and they were already well over an hour ahead of her.
A single trail led from the camp and into the woods, riddled with multiple pockmarks where hoofprints dented the shallow snow.
She regarded Ian in his miserable state. While she was sympathetic to his condition, she could not let this opportunity pass. She untethered one horse and swung up onto its back. “Stay here.”
“Ye’re leaving me?” he asked, his tone incredulous.
“I need to follow the trail. Either I return to help you, or you can take the horse when you feel able.”
She glanced down at him and regretted doing so. The sickly pallor of his skin indicated he would not be getting on his own horse anytime soon. She hissed a command from between her teeth and plunged out of the clearing to the trail.
The marks were easy to follow for a good hour before they met at a crossroads on a main path. Many wagon wheels had etched the soggy earth, as well as countless shoes and hooves. The three other directions had similar indentations, making it impossible to figure out which way they had gone.
Sylvi ventured each of the three other directions, but without success. She was not skilled enough at tracking to discern from other wagon wheels the ones belonging to Reginald’s group.
Dejected but still determined, she returned to where Ian remained propped on the tree. His lips had a slightly bluish tinge. He needed to return to his room at the inn.
“You need to get warm.” She knelt at his side and slid her hands beneath his arms to help him up. His body was firm with muscle and flexed against her grip in an effort to help.
“It would appear we’re no’ the only ones after Reginald and his men,” he said.
“Oh?” She propped him against the tree.
He braced his hand against the rough bark, wobbling slightly. “Two men were looking for them. I told them I dinna see anyone in the group and was taking a rest as I’m ill.” His bloodless lips lifted in a ghost of a smile. “They got close enough to me to see my clothes were finer than that of a marauder, and then they were all too eager to leave me be. I guess yer potion has several benefits, aye?”
Two men. She’d seen two men on her return but had given them little thought as they had seemed well dressed and were alone. Reginald clearly had many enemies. Or perhaps if he was still dealing in fake gold, he was on the edge of being found out.
Sylvi wanted to scrape the coins. She rubbed her fingers together at her side to obliterate the pressing need. Had she not been so concerned about Ian earlier, she would have done it while he remained asleep. Only she’d not once thought of the coins when she’d thought him dead by her doing.
Her voice was hard when she spoke. “I hope you are well rested on the morrow, for we will leave at first light.”
“We? Ye like me enough to keep me around, my angel.” He winked up at her.
The name crept up her spine and clenched at each muscle along the way. He had been so foolish when he woke, calling her his angel. Demanding a kiss.
Her face went hot.
Why the hell had she kissed him anyway?
To get him to stop his talk of her being an angel. Or maybe out of guilt for having put him in that situation. Or maybe even curiosity.
He’d been a pathetic thing when he first woke. Eyes glassy, face still pale.
But also handsome, if she were being honest. His lips were full beneath his beard. Full and soft. Warm eddies swam low in her stomach.
“Don’t call me that,” she snapped. She hated the weakness of emotions. They pulled her from her task. Had she not allowed herself to be drawn into promising Ian his safety, she would be tracking Reginald now and Gregor would already be dead. “You know more about these men than I do, and these men have evaded me for far too long.”
“And what of me?” Ian asked in a bland tone. “What if I have somewhere to be?”
She rolled her eyes. “You spent the last week wandering the town from tavern to tavern. You’re aimless.”
; He went quiet for a moment, and when she finally looked down at him, he drew another sip of ale from the skin. His gaze on the surrounding area was thoughtful.
He wasn’t looking at her. She could scrape one coin now.
Just one.
“I need to relieve myself of all this ale.” He hefted himself to an unsteady standing position.
“Dare I ask if you need my help?” she offered warily.
The quirk of his mouth told her a foolish reply was on its way before he could even open his lips. She put up her hand to stop him. “Just go.”
He staggered away, at least offering her the courtesy of not doing it in her presence. His gait was wobbly, but not tipping to either side enough to warrant concern. He’d be fine.
She turned away from him and opened the sack at her side. Her fingers trembled. With haste or need, she did not know.
An image of her father flashed in her mind, as large and strong as Odin, his eyes ocean blue and his hair the same white blonde as her own. He held a coin in front of her, his hands seemingly too large to do the skilled work of a goldsmith. But he was a master of his craft, creating the most intricate pieces of jewelry.
His latest commissioned masterpiece had been perched between his thick thumb and forefinger. The gold winked at her. More money than she’d ever held. He lifted a tool shaped like a miniature pick and scraped it over the top of the coin. The expertly applied gold had peeled back to reveal flat, gray metal beneath.
It had been those men who had paid her father so dearly over the prior year to create batches of those perfect coin imitations and then had killed her family. Those men had known where in the shop the coins were stored, and they had taken every last one of them.
Though it’d been over seventeen years ago, she still scraped every coin that passed her hand, seeking a path to their killers.
She grasped the first coin in her palm and dragged the tip of a new dagger over its shiny surface, scoring the gold to reveal gold beneath. She pulled up the second coin. Gold.
The third. Gold.
She clutched the fourth in her dampening palm and scraped. The gold curled away in a wiry strip and revealed the flat, gray metal beneath.
•••
Ian let his body sway in time with the horse. It was easier to give in to the motion than fight it.
His breath huffed out in front of him in a white fog. The cold prickled against his skin despite the heavy plaid he’d wrapped around his shoulders. No matter how much ale he drank or how many times he pissed, his muscles still refused to cooperate with the same strength and ease as before.
Sylvi rode ahead of him, her back straight, her face locked in determination. She had peppered him with questions about Reginald and the men earlier in their journey.
Where did Reginald like to go? Everywhere, not visiting the same place twice.
How many men were in the camp? Around two dozen.
What sort of weapons and specialties did they have? They were mercenaries and marauders with various tactics.
Did Ian know much about Reginald? He knew enough.
Had Ian traveled with them? At a time.
She had grown suspicious then, her gaze hard and her following questions asked with such an edge to her tone, he’d decided to scale down his replies on his association with the men.
When she’d asked about the gold coins, he declared himself ignorant of any activities. For the most part, he had been. He knew of them, and that Reginald had been involved for some time. In truth, Ian was being brought closer into the inner circle before he left, only days away from uncovering what Sylvi wanted. And he was damn glad he’d left when he did.
After a while, when Sylvi evidently had enough information to placate her frantic mind, she went completely silent, as though digesting all the information he’d provided.
Ian had wanted to protest coming on this journey, but Sylvi had been right about the week prior to her attacking him. Painfully right. He was aimless.
Lost, alone, and aimless.
Ian clung to his horse while his mind wandered over his predicament. Despite the burn of used muscles, his grip was too light and he rocked dangerously from side to side on the beast. His body was too weak, too uncooperative. He glanced at Sylvi, but she had not seen his lack of balance. He gritted his teeth and righted himself before collapsing against the horse’s neck from the effort.
It wasn’t the leaving of his home Ian regretted, it was how hard it was to find a new place in the world. Being a mercenary should have been so easy, but not at the cost. Ian had not left a place of barbarous punishment for a life where the weak suffered.
He was no farmer, no innkeeper, no blacksmith or baker. The various jobs he had picked up on the road had taught him all that. He was nothing more than the wayward eldest son of a cruel laird, stained with the crimes he could not stop.
Slightly recovered from the exhaustion of steadying himself on the horse, Ian pulled himself into a slouched sit. He would not have Sylvi look back and find him weakly slung over the animal.
She might not be his future, but perhaps he might find something while assisting her. If nothing else, he could help her right some wrong. His angel, indeed. She might ease his soul more than she realized.
After all, there was a reason she hated Reginald and his men. And with Reginald being the arse he was, Ian had no doubt it was something bad.
He wanted to ask what the affront had been, but knew he’d have better luck getting his angel to dance with him than he’d likely have getting her to speak to him.
All the women he’d been with in his life had spoken without seeming to breathe between their prattling. Now he’d finally found a woman who didn’t care to speak at all, and it made him near mad to know what hummed in her mind.
She looked back at him. “It will take us six days to arrive if you don’t hurry.”
At least now Ian knew what she was thinking.
Ian was glad he’d expended the effort to sit up and tried to straighten his back, but his body was suddenly too heavy for even that. “Maybe I like spending time with ye.” He winked to cover the grimace.
“There are better ways to spend time together than on the open road in the middle of a Scottish February.”
“If that’s a suggestion, I’ll gladly take ye up on it.” He paused and grinned at her. “My angel.”
She turned away in disgust, just as he’d hoped, and he let his body sag forward on the horse. Holding himself upright while she looked back at him was a near impossible feat. His charm had no effect on her as it did with other women. At least it worked to his advantage this time.
He’d rather die than let her see him still so weak.
Truth be told, even if she had been suggesting a tumble, he wouldn’t have the strength for even that.
Frustration knotted in his gut. He’d always been strong, skilled with a weapon. He’d relied on it for piquing the interest of tavern lasses, he’d used it to keep himself safe and protect others, and he’d used it to provide food and work after having left home.
His body seemed like the damn ale skin Sylvi kept forcing on him, a floppy casing with naught but liquid inside.
He looked up and found her staring back at him, her brow furrowed. She turned her horse right so abruptly, Ian struggled to get his to turn in time as well. Streams of smoke billowed trails over the distant tree tops. A village was nearby.
He hoped to God they were going there.
“Is this yer way of suggesting … ?” he asked with a bawdy grin.
“You’re too weak to ride.”
Her blunt reply lanced through his pride and staggered his ability to parry with a witty response.
“I can keep going.” He hoped he had the grit to match his words. Ordinarily he would. He had always been able to take on physical challenges with ease.
Sylvi did not so much as turn back to glance at him.
“In fact, I can go all day
and all night.” He winced at his own awful jest.
If he lost his strength from the poison, it would be one thing. But if he lost his sense of humor, death might as well take him now.
Within the lesser part of an hour, the hooves of their horses met the churned snow and mud of the small village. With only two inns to choose from, Sylvi had selected the one with its door properly hung and the sign new enough to still have visible grain in the wood.
He hadn’t bothered to speak anymore on the way inside, nor as they made their way to their room. Not even to make a flirtatious comment on them sharing a room. He was too damn tired.
She nodded toward the narrow bed when they arrived. “Rest.”
He did not protest. Weariness pulled at him with such insistence, he barely took notice of the simple room’s appearance, noting only the thick blue plaid laid out over the bed.
He collapsed onto it, barely noting the creak of ropes beneath him before sleep claimed him.
It was much later when he woke. He was unsure how long he’d slept, but the room had gone dark and cold. The hearth did not glow with so much as a single red ember. He could not see to tell if Sylvi was still inside with him. He pulled his arms to his chest and squeezed, testing his weary muscles.
The strength there constricted and hope flickered through him. Was he stronger again?
He straightened his legs until his muscles flexed and a whisper of his former power sang through them. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, and his stomach contracted with the easy effort. He wanted to stand and perform his battle exercises and feel the life in his body. He pushed out of bed and hit something soft and warm in the dark. His feet went out from underneath him and sent him crashing to the ground.
The chill of an icy blade touched his throat.
“Sylvi?”
The weapon pulled away from him. “What the hell are you doing?”
His face went hot and he was grateful for the darkness. “What the hell were ye doing sleeping next to my bed?”
“Sleeping.” Her footsteps were heavy on the floor, suggesting she still wore her boots. The splintering shift of wood sounded, followed by the familiar clacking of flint. Sparks glowed in the hearth. A pop and crackle came from the same direction, and the warm glow of a new fire lit the room.
Highland Wrath Page 4
