by Alisa Adams
Every little thing was getting to him, like when one of the soldiers tripped and had to stop to remove a stone from his boot when his horse misstepped and had to correct his weight. And the very fact that the girl now walked beside his horse, tethered to his saddle strap, her bare feet likely hurting on the rocky terrain.
It all irritated him. It made him itch.
The girl, Lachlan thought.
That was what he had come to think of her as.
Despite discovering her name the night before, he had been loathsome to use it. The few instances that it had graced his tongue as he had spoken to her, it had tasted sweet. While his deep voice mangled her pretty name into something approximating a growl, her own tone had turned it lilting. She had spoken it with a soft sort of sigh that made him think of what else she might say with that sort of high-pitched exhale. It made him wonder how she might say his name.
Such thoughts were distractions at best and plain stupidity at their worst, and he had rid them from his head by refusing to use her name, even in his own thoughts. He had dubbed her “the girl” in the hopes that his mind and body would retain the idea of her as a nameless child.
In truth, the intention hadn't really worked, and, to compound the problem, the attempt had seen him as prickly as a porcupine all day.
A stone shifted under the girl's foot. He heard it roll from under her sole, but she didn't react. There was a hardening in his gut as he wondered how long she had to have walked without shoes to be so immune to pains like that. When he had first taken her into his tent, her toes had been almost blue with cold.
I did it for food. That was what she had said.
Anger that bordered on violence rose in Lachlan's chest. The idea of a young girl being forced to live without shoes, without food, without choice, was intolerable to him. Just where was the justice in seeing a girl, bullied into the role of a slave, punished for actions she committed while starving?
That was the question Lachlan had been struggling with all night.
The first night of the girl curled up on his floor had been almost entirely sleepless. His instinct for self-preservation had refused to let him fall into slumber when a potential enemy was nearby. The second night, even after he had been mostly reassured that she would not attack him, had been worse.
Instead of imagining her waking him with that little rock blade of hers headed for his neck, Lachlan's tired head had summoned up far more pleasurable ways that the girl with red hair could rouse him from sleep. Initially, he had been able to fight off the thoughts, chastising himself for their dishonorable nature and focusing on trying to fall into dreams. But, as the night had worn on and the morning had approached, Lachlan's exhaustion had made him weak to the daydreams.
The fact that he had been able to hear the quiet breathing of the girl across the room had not helped.
Every instinct in his body had wanted to roll over and gaze at her and her flaming red hair. He had wanted to stare at her face as he had the morning before, reading the youth and worry in her unconscious features. Yet, he had known that a single look would only lead to staring. And staring would lead to imagining those tight little curls spread across his pillow. Or his thighs...
Shaking his head and stamping down on such thoughts for what felt like the thousandth time, Lachlan turned his focus forward. After today, they had only half a day's ride into Scone and then he would be rid of the girl and his inappropriate fancies.
Refusing to indulge the little sense of loss, of missed opportunity, that was trying to sneak into his belly, Lachlan assessed the way the sun had just reached the horizon and scouted across the land for the best place to set up camp for the night. With a simple order and a clear directive, Harris was set his course and the convoy moved down towards an open meadow just a mile away.
By the time they came to rest, had built campfires and set up tents, the sun had entirely set and the darkness had descended like a blanket of black. In a moment of luck, two of his soldiers had spotted a brace of rabbits across the way, were quick enough to see them hunted, and were able to produce something warm for supper.
The smell of the roasted meat was a joy to behold after so many nights feasting on stored goods that had journeyed almost as far as they had, and it filled Lachlan's tent with the warm scent of spice.
The smell had the girl looking up as soon as he entered.
Her eyes skirted over his attire—the same clothes he had worn all day—and then seemed to dim. A moment later, color flushed her face in a way that set it at odds with her hair. Unsure what to make of her reaction, Lachlan simply offered her a plate of food and made to sit upon the side of his cot.
He could have eaten outside with his men and kept his distance from the tent until the necessity for sleep drew him to bed.
Instead, he had come to eat with her. He refused to analyze that impulse.
As she watched him with large, green eyes that seemed to see everything about him, Lachlan wondered if the girl could read his mind. There was a sense of knowledge, wisdom, and pain in those eyes—as if she were an oracle who saw everything. Those pretty, emerald orbs, framed in riotous curls of red, were a shock of bright color in her pale, freckled face. He was forced to constantly look away, else he feared drowning in them.
"Are you really going to turn us over to the prison guards in Scone?"
As usual, the girl's voice was quiet, but not soft. She spoke with determination.
Given that he was bound to do exactly that but did not wish to discuss it, Lachlan remained quiet, refusing to answer her question. His silence, however, seemed to be answer enough.
"Please..." The girl set aside her plate, inching forwards on her knees. She scooted across the floor, as far as her iron shackle would allow, and came to beg a foot from his knee. "Please, don't. It was Garrett that wanted the gold. Gold that he didn't get. You could just let us go. We'll slip away and not come near you again. We'll steer right, I promise!"
Lachlan tried to look away from her beseeching eyes, but they held him in their viridescent aura. A particular word had caught his notice above others.
"Us?"
"What?" she asked, her brows drawing low in confusion.
"You said 'us.’ You are not begging for your release but that of the men as well?" Men was probably a strong word; most of them were no older than her. Then again, by their age, he had already experienced years as a soldier.
He asked because he was surprised at her plea.
Those boys, men, whatever they were termed, collected together into a tribal band of thieves that had starved her and used her as a slave. Even if she hadn't revealed the truth to him, he would have known it to be true. She hadn't spoken with the other prisoners. They did not cluster around her protectively when they had been fastened to trees or made to walk in procession. The very fact that she had been thrown at Harris in the conflict told him that, to them, she was dispensable.
And yet, here she was, pleading for their freedom as much as for her own.
Just what had they done to deserve such loyalty?
"Which is yours?" The words were out of his mouth before he could tamper down upon them. A sharp little bolt of envy had sparked in his lower gut, forcing the question.
"Which is what?" She was confused by the direction of their conversation.
"Your man. Which of the prisoners is your lover?"
Surely, that was the only reason she would fight to save their lives if they had treated her as such?
"None of them."
"Then why would you defend them?"
Anger flashed in her eyes.
"I cannot show empathy without having a lascivious motive?" He was surprised by her choice of language. He had assumed her to be uneducated, and yet she could use words such as lascivious. Just what was this girl's story? Why was she such a paradox?
"You showed me kindness, without ulterior motive, so why am I so incapable?" she argued.
His thoughts only a few hours before would un
dermine her argument, but he had no intention of admitting to them. Nor of acting upon them. She was a prisoner, but that did not make her a slave. It did not make her his slave.
Shamed by the fairness in her words, the kindness of her intentions, Lachlan looked away. He set his plate of rabbit bones to one side and cleaned his fingers on one of the shirts that were bound for cleaning.
"You can plead all you wish," he told her, trying not to let his emotions show through a mask of duty. "It will do you no good. A crime has been committed, and its executioners will receive appropriate punishment. That is the law."
Unable to look her in the eye, to see the sense of disappointment that was likely melting her gaze to tears, Lachlan rose and effectively ended the conversation by beginning to disrobe for bed. He found that nudity forced the girl to look away, and he didn't wish to deal with her stare anymore. Nor the begging words that were spoken with such compassion.
Unfortunately for him, long after the candles were burnt out and the girl's breathing was once more a living torment in the room, her voice was all that he could hear—going around and around in his head.
The next morning, Lachlan's mood had sunk even fouler. In fact, the closer the convoy came to the town of Scone, the worse he felt. Every step his horse took was an insult to the girl's feet beside him. Every inch of progress towards the large and imposing gates of the town walls was a taunting injustice.
Lachlan was being torn in half.
In one sense, he considered the girl—Aoide—innocent.
He could no longer condemn her to anonymity in his thoughts. By the end of a second night of fantasies, her name had broken through, refusing to be denied.
She had fought in the attempted theft only through a need for survival. She was a girl without family or connection; he was sure of it, for she had mentioned none in the two weeks that she had been in his keeping. No weepings for mothers, no worries for siblings. She was a girl alone in the world and without a course to see her secure.
Lachlan had been younger when he had been forced to stand on his own two feet as the provider for his life and that of his brother. But he had been male. He had been able to join the military, to serve as a stable boy and weapon-worker for a few years before progressing to that of a soldier with a decent wage. Had the militia turned him away, he might have found work as an apprentice to a blacksmith or thatcher, plowed fields, or run messages. All such professions were forbidden for women.
What was Aoide to do when she had found herself in the company of the thieves?
Lachlan felt certain that such a question was valid. The girl had not been born to the group of men, for they did not possess the compassion that they might for someone that had been a part of their ragtag family long term. She had been treated like a wasteable outsider, one who did not belong. So, where had she come from? Had she been with parents before that? A husband? Had they died or been lost to her?
Just what had happened to lead a pretty girl of wild hair and shattering eyes to become the scapegoat of an honorless band of brigands?
As they passed through the gates of Scone and marched into the streets of the town, Lachlan was forced to confront his dissatisfaction. As soon as he handed her over to the prison guards, along with her criminal brethren, he would lose all chance to find the answers to his questions. She would be taken and closeted away, given to isolation and damp, unable to share her story with anyone.
A hollow sensation started up in Lachlan's chest, and he pressed the tips of his fingers to its center, rubbing against his skin.
Ever since the girl, ever since Aoide, entered his world, Lachlan had found himself overly sensitive—his skin, his thoughts, his heart. Were he Tomas, a man who liked to make irreverent jests of everything, Lachlan might have blamed it on an illness or the rabbit from the night before. Instead, he was a man of superficial thinking. If two elements coincided, there was usually causation there.
Glancing down at Aoide as she stared open-mouthed at the activities of the Scone residents, Lachlan accepted the fact that he desired the girl. Her past was of interest to him, and the mystery surrounding her had engaged his mind as little else had over the years. He longed to touch her.
But none of that changed the fact that he had a job to do—a duty that would see her placed behind bars.
8
The township of Scone was not as Aoide had been expecting. Knowing the fate that awaited her there, she had conjured to mind dark streets and mutated buildings that hovered the heads of passersby. Trees had turned into looming arms of monsters, and the windows of each structure in her head had been giant watching eyes.
In her head, it had always been night.
Only when standing before the reality of the town was Aoide's foolishness made clear. The front gates of the town led onto a main street that was open and bright. In the afternoon sunshine—dull and overcast though it was—the people of Scone moved about their business with the ease of simple life. A woman called to her children to stop running, a horse-mounted merchant moved through the street towards the intersection up ahead. A maid was cleaning sheets from a window two stories high, and there was an armed service guard marking the corner of the road. The buildings themselves were typical but well made, washed white, and left with exposed beams and disjointed levels.
The entire place was quaint. Had Aoide been arriving by carriage instead of by shackle, she might have liked it.
Having ordered the majority of his men to remain back at camp, Lachlan’s little party fit through the gates and meandered about the sparse crowds with ease. Lachlan, Harris, and three soldiers were more than enough to see to the four thieves being led to their fate. The chest that had caused such a fuss was now mounted to the back of Lachlan's saddle and covered with a blanket, inconspicuous for what it was.
Not that she knew exactly what it was.
Garrett had thought it full of gold, and Lachlan had not corrected that assumption when she had voiced it. For all she knew, however, it might have contained the laundered underthings of the Queen of England! Wouldn’t that have served Old Gar right, in the event that he managed to get his hands on it?
The very notion had her giggling, but she stopped under Lachlan's surprised glance. He had seemed to be in a dark mood all morning, and she did not seek to have such darkness fall upon her. She was already at his mercy in how he turned her over to the authorities. She did not need to raise his ire further.
The town moved around them without much notice. As a significant place of political power, it must have been common for outsiders to be wandering the streets. Passing around a spire in the central square, the group moved by bakers and butchers, textile merchants selling from the back of carts and barrels of fruit and vegetables. There was the sound of an anvil and hammer nearby, the call of traders and the ringing bell of a crier. After the quiet for their journey here, the company of only a dozen men, the hustle and bustle of an active town, was almost claustrophobic.
As they passed a tanner crying his prices, Aoide nearly stumbled over a young girl who came bounding around a corner. The two collided, and the small creature careened to the floor.
"I'm so sorry, are you okay?" Aoide asked, reaching to help her up. Lachlan's horse had drawn to a stop, and she could just reach without the chain holding her back.
When the little hand was safely in hers, Aoide pulled the child back to her feet. She hissed and spied the cut on her palm. Reaching up, Aoide took the little strip of scarf she wore around her neck and yanked it free before holding it out to the girl as a bandage. It was relatively clean, and it wasn't as if she was going to need it in jail.
The child ran off, but the envoy stayed still, hovering in the middle of the street. Confused, Aoide looked up to find Lachlan the cause, just sitting and watching her. Unsure why, she reached up to brush her hair away from her face self-consciously.
Upon approaching a particular building to the western side of the city, Aoide was forced to stop when Lachlan's horse was r
eined in. The structure before them was built similarly to those left and right of it but had been painted entirely white. Its roof was slate rather than thatch, and it bore a written sign above the door. A coat of arms was in place above the scrawl that she could not read.
Aoide swallowed. If this was the prison, it wasn't exactly what she had expected, yet it filled her with terror all the same.
There was a whirl of motion beside her; Lachlan had dismounted. He circled the horse, tying off his reins as he went, and then came towards her with a stride that was as determined as it was quick. With a confused spark of fright, Aoide realized that he was removing the scarf about his hips as he went.
Just what was he about to do in the middle of the—
With a shake of his hands, Lachlan spread the cloth scarf and looped it over her head. She felt the green sash come down over her curls, and he was quick to tie it into place. For a moment, her face was encompassed by thick arms and a wide, heavy chest, her breath hot and ragged. Then there was the cinch of fabric at her nape, and Lachlan backed away a step. Still, he hovered before her, too close to allow her heartbeat to ease. Almost immediately, he reached for her hair.
"What are you—"
Aoide didn't get the chance to finish the question. With careful fingers that were more delicate than such a hulking man deserved to be, Lachlan had extracted several long curls from under the scarf to hang about her face. He then fluffed the ringlets that were about her shoulders, bringing them forward, so they were easy to see. His hands plucked at her shirt, spreading the neckline in a manner that made her gasp and dart backward. Was he trying to expose her breasts? What had gotten into him?
Before she could ask him just that question, Lachlan had removed the shackle from around her wrist and taken her upper arm in a grip that was a new restraint just as strong as the iron. Unable to do more than follow him, she was frog-marched into the building in front of them, the rest of the soldiers following with the chest and prisoners in tow.
