“Damn,” he said quietly as he looked over at her, his eyes flicking from her face to her knife and back again. “I was really hoping to be mounted before you noticed me.”
“Step away from my horse,” she said, inching closer, watching him carefully, lest he managed to get the creature untied before she reached him.
“Now, you see...I’d like to do that. I really would. But I need this horse.”
“Step away from my horse,” she repeated, slowly enunciating each word. “Or you’ll feel the bite of a Scottish blade in your soft, English belly.”
“I really wish you hadn’t complicated things so,” he said, and she was taken aback by the genuine regret in his tone just before he leapt toward her. She held the blade in front of her, bringing it down in a sharp arc, meaning to warn him off. She might have been armed, but he far outmatched her in size, and she’d not hold up long against him in a proper fight.
Though he’d moved shoulders first, breaching the distance between them in a flash, it was his foot that shot out to strike at Isobel’s knee. She saw the feint just in time, but he still caught her hard on the shin, and she dropped too quickly to catch her balance again, finding her face full of golden leaves.
By the time she dragged herself to her feet, he’d reached the horse, slicing its reins with a dagger rather than waste time untying them. Izzy charged, knife outstretched, and the horse reared hard. Without reins to help his balance, the man was thrown, and he hit the ground with a sickening thud.
Chapter 2
William Davenport woke with a pounding head to find himself staring into flashing green eyes set in a face so fierce and beautiful it could have belonged to one of the Fair Folk in the tales his mother told him as a child. The effect was spoiled by the tangle of violently red hair that surrounded her face, falling out of its braid in places and decorated with stray leaves, likely from when he’d knocked her to the ground.
He hadn’t wanted to. It was against William’s nature and his upbringing to hurt a woman, but he had a mission to complete, and he’d heard tales of Scottish women so wild they fought alongside their men. His own captain had lost an eye to one in their last battle.
For a moment after he woke, they both simply stared at each other, wariness in their gazes, feeling out the enemy.
The girl spoke first. “The penalty for horse thieving’s the same here as in England,” she pointed out.
“Are you going to string me up, then?” he asked, attempting to push himself upright before he realized she’d secured his hands behind him.
“Do you think I couldn’t manage it?” She nudged his leg with her foot. “You’re hardly more than a slip of a thing. ‘Twould be no trouble at all.”
“But you haven’t,” William pointed out. “You don’t want to kill me.”
“If it would keep the English off our lands, I’d slit the throat of every one of you.” Something in the fierceness of those green eyes made him believe her.
And yet.
“But you don’t want to. You’re not a murderer, and the job doesn’t come easily to you.”
“Keep talking and see how easily it comes,” she said, stepping closer with her dagger drawn.
William shrugged as best as he could manage. He thought he had her worked out, but there was no reason to prod until she snapped. He still had a mission to complete, and he couldn’t do that if he were dead.
She nodded at his lack of response as if satisfied he’d behave for the moment, then she settled herself down on a rock to watch him.
It was a long moment of tense silence, and William took the opportunity to get a sense for his surroundings. Behind the girl, he could see her horse, tethered to a tree with a bit of rope woven through its bridle. He was glad the beast hadn’t run off without its reins. He’d need it still if he were going to escape.
He thought they must be near enough to a road if she were watering her horse here. That was good as well; he’d come this far over open country, but he didn’t know the area this far north well enough to keep on that way. He’d have to take to the roads eventually, which meant he’d have to hide his livery. Blackwell’s man would be an easy mark for anyone with a distaste for the English, which seemed to be most Scots he’d encountered, and since he’d been tasked with stirring up whatever dissent he could find among the ranks, making them doubt and distrust one another and especially Robert, he would have to disguise himself anyway he could manage.
His eyes came back to the girl. She was still watching him, determination in her gaze, like he was a riddle to be solved. Perhaps if he could manage to overpower her, he could steal the tartan she wore across her shoulder and fashion something suitable out of it, something that would hide his identity.
As his gaze followed the length of fabric, trying to determine where it began, where he could unwind it, his mind followed a much more pleasant path, pondering what he would find as he unfurled the fabric from her form.
Despite her earlier words, she was quite smaller than him. He was no mountain of man like many of the Scots he’d seen fighting, but he was sturdy for his youth, muscled as necessary for a message runner. He was tall as well, tall enough to be mocked for it from time to time. The girl came maybe to his shoulders, and her form was slim and willowy. Even the rough-spun dress she wore didn’t hide the narrow hips and pert breasts beneath it. She was almost more boy than girl, but William had enough experience to know that revealing her pale skin under his touch would be no less pleasant for it.
It was only when she stood suddenly, indignation in her gaze, that he realized he must have been staring.
“Forgive me,” he said, hoping he wouldn’t spur her to anger again. “We don’t have many women in our camps. I was simply enjoying the change of scenery.”
Her expression remained fierce, but her cheeks flushed, turning creamy skin to pink, and William’s eyes followed the spread of it to where it disappeared beneath her dress before flicking quickly back up to her face.
“There’s not a man in Scotland who wouldn’t strike your head from your shoulders for looking at me so,” she said, but there was a wavering in her voice that spoke to something other than anger.
“I beg your pardon, madam,” William said, as contrite as he could manage.
She scoffed. “I’m no fine lady for you to speak to me so.”
“But you’ve given me no other name to call you,” he pointed out. Perhaps if he could get her talking, she’d let her guard down, and he’d find a means of escape.
After a moment’s hesitation, she nodded. “Miss Darrow is acceptable.”
“Very well, Miss Darrow,” he said. “My name is Davenport.”
He could see from her expression that she didn’t believe him, but that hardly mattered just now.
“Where is it you come from, Miss Darrow?” he asked, finally managing to shift himself onto his knees.
“Why should you care to know?”
He shrugged. “It seemed a way to pass the time if you’re going to keep me on my knees forever.”
As she looked at him, it seemed to William she made up her mind about something. She gave a sharp nod and approached him, dagger outstretched, held beneath his chin. “Stand.”
His eyes on hers, he slowly rose to his feet. Her dagger stayed where it had been and ended up pressed against his belly, just enough to remind him how close it was.
“I’m not sure I can mount without the use of my arms,” he said, keeping his tone light and easy.
“You’ll walk,” she said, leading him to the horse and taking a rope from her pack.
“I’ll only slow you down.”
“I can afford the time,” she answered, but she didn’t quite seem sure of that. Her movements were ginger, and he saw that she favored one leg. He must have kicked her harder than he’d thought.
“I’m sorry,” he said sincerely as she secured the rope to his bound hands. “About your leg.”
“It’s nothing,” she answered stubbornly. �
�I’m not the one who’ll be walking.”
“True. I don’t suppose you’ve anything in your bag for my head.”
She took the time to fasten the other end of his rope to a tree before moving back to her pack and pulling out a few items.
“Drink,” she said, holding a cask of what smelled like whisky to his lips. He was grateful for it and took a quick sip. Putting the cask aside, she pulled out a few strips of cloth and proceeded to soak one of them in the whisky before pressing it to his forehead.
He swore loudly, and she grimaced. “You don’t want it festering,” she said in the tone of someone who was used to patching up men who didn’t appreciate the pain of it.
A moment later, she was securing another cloth around his head. “That should do you for now.” There was a softness in her voice as she finished, and it made his answer soft as well.
“Thank you, Miss Darrow.”
“You’re welcome, Mr. Davenport,” she answered, and then she took the rope from the tree and mounted her horse, securing William’s lead to the saddle horn. “Come on,” she said. “We’ve a long journey ahead.”
Chapter 3
She’d told the Englishman--Davenport, if he could be believed--that she could afford the time she’d lose keeping him walking, but the truth was, Isobel was not certain of that. She’d no idea what she’d do with him when they crossed into England. She could hardly let him go. He’d be certain to spoil her mission. She could hardly take him with her for the same reason.
Could she leave him bound in the forest somewhere and continue to Carlisle on her own, hoping no one found him before she finished her work?
It was a possibility, but one that made her nervous to consider.
By nightfall, they were barely twenty miles from camp. Isobel had hoped to be at least three times as far, riding at a good pace, but it was clear Davenport could not keep up, though he tried enough when she pushed him.
He was like her brothers, never wanting to admit something was too physically challenging for them. Stubborn, like any Scotsman.
She’d watched him as he walked. His lean shoulders were held straight and proud, and though he was somewhat slender, he was strong. She could see the play of muscle beneath his clothing, and the sight of it quickened her pulse.
She supposed it would serve him right if he died of exhaustion along the way because she’d pushed him too hard and he’d been too stubborn to say, but the thought of driving him to his death held no appeal for her. Though she fought alongside the men when she could, she’d never done more than fire an arrow into English infantry or would someone badly enough to stop them. Killing a man, up close, where she could see the light fade from his eyes at her hand, that was something she’d never yet done.
Despite their meager progress, Isobel knew they’d have to make camp for the night. Davenport could not go on as he was, and her horse was beginning to tire as well. Pulling from the road, she found a small clearing, well-hidden by dense woods, and reined in to make camp.
“Am I to sleep bound, Miss Darrow?” Davenport asked. He’d kept fairly quiet on the road, for which Isobel had been grateful. She needed the chance to gather her thoughts, attempt to plan her course from here, and she’d seen already how charming the handsome Englishman could be. She didn’t need the distraction.
“Only if you intend on sleeping,” she said, slipping from her horse and moving to secure them both to a tree.
“I had hoped to,” Davenport admitted, settling himself at the base of the tree. His eyes followed Isobel as she moved around the camp, unpacking her saddlebag and scouring the area for firewood and kindling. She felt his gaze like a touch on her skin, and it warmed her all over, making her pulse between her thighs, her thoughts traveling in directions they had no right to go.
Though she’d never lain with a man herself, she had too many older brothers not to know precisely what it was her body ached for. She saw so few men she hadn’t known since childhood that the sight of a strange man was having more of an effect on her than it should. It didn’t help that Davenport stretched himself out at the base of the tree, the long, lean line of him catching the sunlight.
Isobel tried to put the thoughts from her mind as she went about starting the fire, gathering water, and cooking some porridge for supper, but she still felt him watching her, unspeaking, and glanced over in his direction herself far too often.
He had nearly fallen asleep, she saw, when the porridge was ready, and she almost hated to wake him. He’d had a long, difficult day. He must be exhausted. Still, if he didn’t eat, tomorrow would be the worse for him. She nudged his foot with her boot, and held out a wooden bowl, steaming with supper.
He snorted as he woke, and she couldn’t help laughing a bit, attempting to hide it as soon as he looked to her.
“Here,” she said, pressing the bowl into his hands. “You’ll want the strength of it tomorrow.”
He glanced to the bowl and then up to her. “And how do you suggest I go about eating it?” he asked, and Izzy felt her face flush. She’d been so focused on not thinking about the strength he held in his shoulders that she hadn’t stopped to think he wouldn’t be able to eat without his hands.
She huffed out a frustrated breath and moved to take a spoon from her pack, returning to him and settling herself on the ground next to him to feed him.
It worked well enough. Davenport held the bowl, and she spooned the porridge into his mouth.
At least, it would have worked well enough except that his eyes stayed trained to her face, occasionally flicking down to her lips as she fed him. He was leaning too close, and the heat of his body warmed hers in the cool of the evening.
He must have noticed this as well because he said softly, “We should rest close together for warmth,” and Isobel’s cheeks flushed again. He was right, of course, but she wasn’t sure how she would handle spending the night curled against his warm, firm body.
After a deliberate swallow, she nodded. “It would be wise,” she agreed, fighting with her body not to show how affected she was by the idea.
Davenport smirked just a bit. “I suppose you want me bound for that as well.”
Isobel rolled her eyes and gave him a particularly large bite to finish off the porridge, hoping to fill his mouth enough to stop him talking.
She turned from him quickly to fill her own bowl, sitting across the fire from him in silence while she ate. He never once looked away.
After she finished, Isobel went to the small, nearby creek to wash their dishes and set them out near the fire to dry. Once again, she went about her work, trying to ignore the Englishman, though his gaze stayed stubbornly upon her, and she felt her nipples tighten at the knowledge, hoping he could not see them through the thin fabric of her blouse.
When she could no longer delay their night’s rest, she laid a blanket on the ground a ways from the fire and settled herself onto it. “Well?” she muttered after a moment. “Sleep if you’re going to.”
Davenport didn’t say anything, but Isobel heard his shuffling movements, and a moment later felt the warmth of his back against hers.
“Goodnight, Miss Darrow,” he said quietly, amusement in his voice.
“Goodnight, Mr. Davenport,” she answered, feeling a touch of the same amusement creeping into her tone as well.
This was likely to be a long night.
Chapter 4
Though Will had purposefully slept with his back to Miss Darrow, by the time he woke, they both had shifted so her head was on Will’s chest, and their legs had become intertwined. He had the fleeting wish that his hands were unbound only so he could he could have his arms around the sweet warmth of her body. Her thigh was curled over his hip such that he felt the weight of it against his hardening cock, and he gave a low moan, still more than half asleep.
The sound must have been just enough to wake the girl. She stirred and curled momentarily closer to him. He nuzzled into her wild, red hair without thought, and she stiffened, then
pushed away.
“Mr. Davenport,” she said sharply. “You overstep yourself.”
He held up his hands as much in surrender as he could manage. “Forgive me. I was lost in a dream,” he said by way of an excuse, though its truth could be questioned.
She gave a quiet harumph, and then her gaze moved to his hands.
“God’s teeth,” she muttered. “Your fingers.”
He looked down to see that his hands were beginning to turn purple from being tied too long. They felt a bit cold as well. She dropped to her knees in front of him and moved to untie his hands, then paused, clearly concerned as to what the right choice was. Will pitied her the decision and said, “I don’t suppose it would make a difference if I were to swear I’d not run?”
“I know too well what the word of an Englishman is worth,” she said, her voice dropping low. Will wondered what had been done to give her such a response.
“I can’t speak of the oaths of Englishmen,” he admitted. “I can only offer my oath as a man.” She still hesitated, her fingers holding the rope at his wrists. “It’s all I have to offer, Miss Darrow,” he pointed out gently.
After another moment, she nodded, and her fingers made quick work of her knots. Will watched her face as he had the night before. He couldn’t make heads or tails of her. She seemed so gentle, had so much capacity for kindness. She was nothing like the hellions he’d been told made up the women in Scotland’s ranks.
He wondered what an Englishman had done to her to make her hate them so.
A hiss slid through his teeth when she unwound the rope from around his wrists. His fingers prickled as the blood resumed its flow, and he rubbed his hands together to help the process.
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