by Amanda Scott
“Prithee, sir, stay as near the downhill shrubbery as you can when you pass me,” she said quietly. “I need to watch Boreas, so I can command him if need be.”
She was pleased when he did not question her or ignore her request as many men would have. He just shifted his left hand to her right shoulder and eased past her, pressing into what, on him, was waist-high shrubbery.
His body brushed against hers, so near that he pressed the sheathed dirk she wore under her skirt into her hip and thigh. Only after he had moved ahead did she see that he had drawn his own dirk. His sword remained in its sling.
Boreas blocked the path, his head still high.
Snapping her fingers twice, Catriona watched the dog shift body and head until both aligned with the direction of the disturbing scent.
When Fin glanced back at her, lifting an eyebrow, she murmured, “Whatever he senses is directly ahead of him.”
“Man or beast?”
“I cannot say for sure, but human, I think. Were it a wolf or a deer, he would show excitement rather than wariness. He looks much as he did yestermorn, with you, although he showed more intensity then because of the blood. Likely one man, or more, lurks ahead. Were they in the open, fishing or the like, Boreas would not be so wary. His behavior indicates that he is curious but also protective.”
“So he does not trust me to protect you. Is that it?”
“He is not thinking about you, only of what lies ahead of him, and of me.”
“Then we’d best find out what it is,” Fin said.
As she watched him stride toward the dog, Catriona reached through the right-hand fitchet in her kirtle to grip the handle of her dirk. Their apples, in a small cloth sack with its long end wrapped around her linked girdle, were out of her way.
Boreas had not moved. But as Fin neared him, Catriona put two fingers to her mouth and gave a low whistle. At the signal, the dog began loping up the hill, ranging back and forth and barking deeply.
If archers lay in wait there, they might shoot. But the weaving dog made a poor target for any man concealed in woodland or shrubbery.
Fin made a better one.
She was about to shout that he should beware when a man stepped out of the shrubbery. Pulling off his cap to reveal thick, curly red hair, he shouted, “Call off yon blasted dog, lass! ’Tis only me!”
Chapter 5
Fin glanced back at Catriona, who looked annoyed.
When she eased her hand free of the slit in the yellow kirtle, he wondered if she carried a weapon. He had not considered that possibility, but it would help explain her confidence the previous day when she’d had only Boreas for company.
She did not speak as they watched the redheaded man bound down the hill toward them, leaping over bushes as he made his way to the track.
“Who is that?” Fin asked.
“Rory Comyn,” she replied, her eyes never leaving the other man. “Boreas,” she said then so quietly that Fin barely heard her, “to me.”
The dog loped back. Just before it reached her, she made a sweeping gesture with her right hand. Stopping, the dog turned, fixing its gaze on Rory Comyn.
“Stop there,” Fin said when the man reached the track ten feet ahead of him.
Comyn snatched his sword from the sling on his back and held it at the ready, snapping, “Who are ye, and where d’ye think ye be taking her ladyship?”
Fin watched every move but did not reach for his own sword and held his dirk low. A fold of his plaid hid it from the other man.
Comyn was some inches shorter than Fin was, although he was as broad across the shoulders and thicker at the waist. He wore a green and blue plaid, kilted at his waist with a wide leather belt, and rawhide boots to his knees. He held his sword steady. His dirk remained sheathed at his waist.
In reply to his question, Fin said quietly, “They call me ‘Fin of the Battles.’ ”
Comyn’s eyebrows shot upward, suggesting that he recognized the name. But he said with a cocky grin, “Do they now? Do they also give ye leave to take liberties with other men’s women?”
“I am no man’s woman,” Catriona snapped from behind Fin.
“Aye, well, ye will be mine, lass, just as soon as we get matters sorted.”
“Nay, I will not.”
“Just ye wait until James and your father return, lassie. Then we’ll see.”
Having noted that Comyn had addressed them both as if they were inferiors, Fin said, “You would be wise to address her ladyship more courteously, sirrah.”
“I’ll address her as I please,” Comyn said, spreading his feet and extending his sword toward Fin. “Or d’ye think ye can make me speak doucely?”
“I think you had better not try me,” Fin said.
“Sakes, I’ve heard of ye, but now that I see ye, I’m thinking someone has already tried to teach ye your manners. It doesna look as if ye bested him.”
The smirk on his face spoke volumes. Fin hoped that if Catriona deduced the same thing from it that he did—that Comyn had shot the arrow himself or had ordered someone else to shoot it—she would keep silent.
It was always wiser, he believed, to let an enemy think that you knew less than he did until the time came to reveal his error. He suspected nonetheless that Comyn was the sort who always pretended to know more than he did.
Catriona remained quiet, and Fin held his tongue, too, to see what Comyn would say or do next. For a time, tense silence prevailed.
Comyn took two steps forward.
Then, from behind Fin, came a disturbance of pebbles and a low growl.
Catriona said, “How many men did you bring with you, Rory Comyn? Are they such cowards that they dare not show themselves, or did you order it so?”
So the dog had sensed more men above, had it? Fin wondered if the men on the wall at Rothiemurchus could see them or would be much help if they could.
Comyn said, “Ye ken fine that your own brother James said that it be time and more for ye to wed, lass. I dinna ken if your da agrees with him yet that I should be your man, but James wields strong influence with Shaw MacGillivray.”
“Do you think so?” Catriona said. Her flat tone gave no indication even to Fin if her brother’s possible influence over her father disturbed her.
With a crack of laughter, Comyn took another step forward, saying, “Ye’re a one, lass. But ye’d do better to speak wi’ more warmth when ye talk to me.”
Fin said, “Call out your men, Comyn, or depart with them. You choose.”
Comyn grinned. “Or what? D’ye think ye can take on all of us, man? Sakes, ye’ve not even drawn your sword.”
“You should be glad of that,” Fin replied. “Whether I can take you all depends on how many you have with you. I do know that I can kill you before any other man reaches us. Nay, don’t move,” he added, hefting his dirk.
“That against me sword? Ye’re daft!” He took two more steps toward Fin.
“If you look toward the island, Rory Comyn,” Catriona said in a tone as calm as Fin’s had been, “you will see two boats setting out from Rothiemurchus. You do yourself no good by threatening a guest of our household.”
A piercing two-note whistle sounded then from above them on the hillside.
As it did, Comyn leaped forward, clearly intending to cut Fin down.
Fin’s sword was out in a trice. Deftly parrying the blow, he sent the other man’s weapon spinning up high and far out into the loch.
Staring in shock at the flying sword and then at Fin, Comyn reached for his dirk.
“Nay, lad, don’t be a fool,” Fin said, smiling. Without taking his eyes off him, he added, “Your blethering is over for today. Look yonder on the hill.”
Comyn frowned and glanced over his shoulder at the hillside, where two men were coming out of the woods at nearly the same spot that he had. However, each had his hands clasped atop his head, and two other men followed, dirks in hand.
The younger and taller of the two armed men shouted in br
oad Scot, “We found these lads lurking yonder, sir, watching you!”
“Who the devil are they?” Comyn demanded.
“My men,” Fin said. “But I tell you without boasting, sirrah, that if that is your army, dispatching the three of you would have been but mild exercise for me.”
Comyn grimaced and looked again at the loch, where ripples still flowed from the spot where his sword had splashed into the water.
“ ’Tis true, that,” Fin’s wiry equerry, Toby Muir, said gruffly in Gaelic. “These two be worth nowt, sir. They didna take their eyes off ye, even to look behind them, till our Ian here asked them, gentle like, if they’d like to meet wi’ their Maker today.”
“You searched them, of course,” Fin said.
“Aye, sure,” Toby replied. “And took away such weapons as they had.”
“Ye’ve nae right to take our weapons or to threaten us!” Comyn snapped.
“Take your grievance to the Mackintosh,” Fin said. “It means nowt to me.”
“I’ll talk anon wi’ Shaw MacGillivray. Then ye’ll see.”
Provocatively, Catriona said, “Come back with us, Rory Comyn. The Mackintosh is at the castle, so you may make your complaint to him now.”
“I ken fine that he’s there. But I’ve nae wish to fratch with him. I’ll bide my time till your da returns. Tell your friend here to give my men back their weapons and we’ll go. Ye’ll owe me for mine,” he added with a challenging look at Fin.
“You should be grateful that I was willing to spare her ladyship the sight of your blood,” Fin said. “You all lost your weapons through your own folly. So let it be a lesson to you. But get hence now, the three of you.”
“Aye, go, Rory Comyn,” Catriona said. “If my father wants you, he’ll send for you. He’ll not be pleased to hear that you attacked a guest of his at Rothiemurchus.”
“We’ll see about that,” he said. But after another glance at Fin, he gestured to his men to follow and strode angrily back up the hillside from whence he had come.
Returning his sword to its sling, Fin clapped each of his men on a shoulder as he said, “You timed your arrival well, lads. Lady Catriona, pray allow me to present to you my squire, Ian Lennox, and my equerry, Toby Muir. Ian speaks little Gaelic.”
“I can get by if you speak slowly,” Ian said as he made his bow.
Catriona greeted both men with her customary grace, but Toby was watching Boreas narrowly. “Wi’ respect, m’lady, be that great beast friendly?”
“Aye, he is,” she replied, smiling. “Boreas, give the man a paw.”
The dog sat, tail thumping, and raised a forepaw to the grinning Toby.
Fin looked toward the loch. “Do we wait for your boats?”
“Nay, I’ll wave them off unless you want to go back,” she said.
“I want to see that burn,” he said. “My lads could follow us, but we won’t all fit in your coble when we return. Still, I expect they can swim to the island.”
“Nay, then, master, unless ye’ve acquired a taste for wet clothes,” Toby retorted. “We left our sumpter pony laden wi’ your gear in yon woods above.”
Laughing as she raised a hand, Catriona said, “They will want food and rest in any event. Our men can take them across now with your gear, sir.”
“That suits me,” Fin said. Looking thoughtfully from Ian to Toby, he added, “Toby, after you rest I’ll want you to return to Perth. The Mackintosh has agreed to the request but bides here at Rothiemurchus and will for some weeks yet, I trow.”
Doubtless noting Catriona’s curiosity, Toby glanced at her and back at his master before giving a nod. He asked no questions, but Fin had expected none.
“What was that about?” Catriona demanded when she and Fin were out of earshot. They had not waited for the others to deal with the pony and the baggage.
Fin said evenly, “Now, lass, if I could tell you that, do you not think that I’d have spoken more plainly to Toby?”
Catriona was accustomed to men who kept secrets, but custom made them no more acceptable. Grimacing, she said, “I’ll find out, you know.”
“You will, aye, but not until you must. And before you assure me that I can trust you to keep silent, I will tell you that I do believe I could. But I dare not risk even a slight possibility that you might be a prattler. Moreover, you are sensible enough to admit that if I did risk it, you might think me one who trusts too easily.”
She had been poised to tell him curtly that she was not a prattler, but his last statement silenced her. She might say or think such a thing of him in such a case.
Had he just manipulated her feelings to make his silence seem right?
“Do you mean for us to stroll all the way?” she asked. “Or may we go faster?”
He gestured for her to lead the way. When she obeyed, sending Boreas to range ahead of her, Fin said, “I hope you do mean to refuse that churl Comyn.”
“I do. In troth, though, I don’t mean to marry any man yet, if ever.”
“Why not? Most lasses want to marry as soon as they can, do they not?”
“Perhaps, but even if I were willing to leave here, I’ve known too many young men who have died—three cousins and an uncle in just the last two years. And four and a half years ago, the wretched Camerons killed eighteen of Clan Chattan’s finest in one battle alone, at Perth. Mayhap you heard something about that, sir.”
“I did, aye,” he said quietly. “A terrible affair.”
“Aye, well, no worse than others. But I love my family. And I don’t want to live as a stranger in another one, being as miserable as my good-sister is. In troth, though, if I find a man lacking all eagerness for battle, I might well marry him.”
“You would?”
She smiled wryly, knowing that he could not see her face. “When I am lying in bed at night, imagining a perfect life, I do like to think that I would.”
“But?”
“In troth, I admire bravery and would likely think that such a man was a coward,” she said. “Sithee, the plain fact is that I like making up my own mind and acting on my own thoughts. And I hope to go on doing so for a long while yet before I must subordinate my wishes to a husband’s commands.”
“But your family cannot mean for you to marry Comyn.”
She wished she could reply to the statement as fiercely as he had declared it. Sighing, she said, “I won’t do it, but Rory Comyn was right about one thing. My brother James has said that it is more than time that I married. Before he and the others left for the Borders, he threatened to arrange a marriage for me himself.”
“But surely your father—”
“He is the one who matters, aye. And he can be more indulgent, but…”
“How stands your other brother?”
Smiling again as the younger of her two brothers leaped to mind, she said, “Sithee, Ivor calls me Wildcat, so he just laughs at James and says that until they find someone who can tame my wild ways, any such effort must end in disaster.”
“So, you are wild then and not just possessed of an independent mind?”
Nibbling her lower lip, watching her step, and wondering why she was telling him so much about herself, she said, “Some do call me wild, aye.”
“I have seen how fond you are of roaming the woods alone, even when you must know that such woods harbor villains,” he said.
His tone of voice sent a shiver up her spine and reminded her of how swiftly he had disarmed Rory Comyn—almost as swiftly as Ivor might have. The edge in his voice reminded her of Ivor, too. Hoping to turn the subject from herself, she said, “So you suspect, as I do, that Rory Comyn or one of his men shot that arrow.”
“That smirk of his made me sure of it,” he said. “Does it not occur to you that if he has been lurking about, watching Rothiemurchus, he or one of his lads might have seen you row across the loch yesterday and followed you, taking care to keep the dog from catching his scent? If, in doing some such thing, your Comyn saw me, might he not have suspec
ted that I had come to meet you?”
“He is not my Comyn,” she retorted.
“He thinks he is.”
“Well, he’s not! Faith, you don’t think I was going to meet him, do you?”
Fin did not reply, so she whirled to face him, to make sure that he understood her loathing for Rory Comyn before they took another step. Having assumed that he had dared to disbelieve her, she was astonished to see him smiling.
Her hand, with a mind of its own, had risen to strike. She quickly lowered it.
Her reaction told Fin that his silence had somehow sparked her temper. But her flashing eyes and glowing cheeks stirred only a strong urge to kiss her, despite certain rules that applied to knights who escorted young noblewomen. The first and foremost rule forbade the knight to take unfair advantage of the lady.
And, too, a wise man would first consider her grandfather… and Rothesay. Alienating the Mackintosh or infuriating the prince would be imprudent at best.
There was also the fact of his being one of the “wretched Camerons.”
Her lips parted, and Fin felt his cock leap in response.
Anger stirred then, at himself. How could he even be thinking of her in a sensual way when he had sworn to seek vengeance against… nay, to kill her father?
“Is aught amiss, sir?” she said. “You were smiling and now you frown, but I don’t think that you are angry with me. Does your head ache again?”
Her concern awoke a long dormant sense of warmth inside him. He tried to recall the last time someone had made him feel so. Wishing that he deserved her disquiet, he said gently, “My head is fine. I was wondering if your love of wandering or your quick temper had led you to think of yourself as a wild creature.”
Looking relieved, then rueful, she said, “As you have just noted for yourself a second time, sir, my temper does inflame quickly. My brothers tease me about it. Ivor says I spit like a fierce kitten. But in troth, I just say what I am thinking.”
He nodded. “I have seen that, but a lass’s temper rarely troubles me. It troubles me more when she risks her life or her safety foolishly. I trust that you will heed your grandfather’s command to end your solitary roaming until we can be sure that your woods are clear of Comyns and any other such vermin.”
