CHAPTER 2

Roarke wakened with a filthy curse.

“Here, now, there’s no cause for foul language,” scolded Magnus. “If my fair Edwina were here, she’d make ye hold soap in yer mouth till ye vowed never to speak so again. And I warn ye, she’d not be swayed by yer uncommon size or the black look yer givin’ me now,” he added, chuckling.

“Are you sure you didn’t get confused last night and stitch the head of that bloody arrow into me?” growled Roarke irritably.

Magnus proudly held up the arrow he had been cleaning. “Here’s the whole shaft right here. I’ve put a wee notch on it, so I’ll know it from the others. That way I can save it for a special occasion.”

“Wonderful,” Roarke muttered, awkwardly easing himself onto his good hip.

He glanced moodily around the campsite. The cool gray of dawn had spilled into the clearing, causing his men to stir. The Falcon’s band, however, was already wide awake. Finlay was seated on a rock with his sword in his lap, honing the broad blade against a small stone, while young Lewis was meticulously repairing some minor tear in the net that had trapped Roarke’s men. Melantha and Colin were nowhere to be seen.

“Where are the other two?” asked Roarke.

“They went hunting,” Magnus replied, vigorously shining the head of his prized arrow with a tattered corner of his plaid.

“Excellent.” Donald yawned. “I’m famished.”

Myles grunted and stretched his bound arms. “So am I.”

“Warriors do not eat from the hands of their enemies.” Eric cast them a dark look.

“Now, Eric, I see no reason to starve just because we are sharing company with this fine band of outlaws.” Donald smiled pleasantly at Magnus.

“Absolutely right,” agreed Myles. “No point in going hungry.”

“You’re both weak.” Eric snorted, disgusted. “Hunger makes a warrior strong.”

Donald could not help but laugh. “Is that so? I’ll be sure to remind you of that the next time I watch you devour an entire leg of venison.”

Roarke studied his men, considering. With two members of the Falcon’s band gone, this was a good opportunity to overwhelm these remaining outlaws. The fact that he and his men were bound and weaponless put them at a disadvantage, but Magnus’s advanced age, Finlay’s brashness, and Lewis’s fearful cowering made the odds much more equitable. He cleared his throat and glanced meaningfully at his men. Donald responded with a barely perceptible tilt of his head.

“I hate to be a bother, Magnus, but my men need to relieve themselves,” Roarke said. “Perhaps they should do so before Melantha returns, to spare her any embarrassment.”

Magnus’s eyes crinkled with amusement. “Melantha is scarce likely to be bothered by the sound of ye draining yer ballocks. The lass could hardly live in the woods with the rest of us and worry about such triflin’ matters.”

“Nevertheless,” Roarke persisted, “my men would rather see to their needs without a woman watching.”

“Shy, are ye?” Magnus chuckled. “Very well, laddie. Finlay, take these blushin’ lads one at a time and let them water the woods. Not far, mind ye. Just over by that tree will do fine.”

Finlay hopped down and pointed his freshly honed sword at Donald’s chest. “Try anything and I’ll skewer you like a rabbit on a spit.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Donald assured him, looking more amused by his threat than concerned. “I do believe I will need to have my legs freed if I am expected to get up.”

“Lewis, quit fussin’ with that net and help Finlay,” ordered Magnus.

Lewis hesitated, eyeing Donald uncertainly.

“Now, lad, ye needn’t be afraid,” Magnus soothed. “Finlay here will make sure he doesn’t bite you.”

Not looking terribly reassured, Lewis carefully laid down the strands of net he was working on and slowly moved toward Donald.

Donald smiled and bent his knees, ostensibly to scratch his bound ankles. Once Lewis was close he would kick the unsuspecting boy in the chest, knocking him onto his back. Then Donald would spring to his feet, place his booted foot on the lad’s neck, and threaten to crush his throat if Finlay didn’t lay down his sword.

“I’m thinkin’ ye should stretch those legs of yours out a bit before Lewis unties them, laddie,” Magnus said, blithely polishing his arrow with his plaid. “Ye’d not want to accidentally kick poor Lewis, now, would ye?”

Donald managed to look credibly affronted. “Good Lord, Magnus, what kind of a warrior do you take me for?”

“Forgive me, lad,” he apologized. “ ’Tis just that ye’re a MacTier, and as such we have to be extra careful.”

Roarke kept his expression indifferent, but inside he felt a stab of admiration. Clearly Magnus was not quite as naive as he appeared.

“That’ll be Colin and Melantha,” Magnus said, returning his attention to his arrow.

Roarke scanned the surrounding woods. He strained to hear, but could not detect the faintest crush of a twig or the rustle of branches to signal that someone was coming.

“You’re mistaken, Magnus. There’s no one there—”

“Good hunting?” asked Magnus as Colin and Melantha suddenly emerged through the trees.

Colin tossed a coarse brown sack onto the ground. “A few skinny rabbits and some small birds. If they’re made into stew and stretched with some vegetables, they should last a while.”

“That sounds absolutely wonderful,” said Donald, returning to the clearing with Finlay. “But please, don’t trouble yourself making a stew—roasted on a spit will do just fine.”

“They aren’t for you,” Colin snarled.

“Are we not to be fed, then?” enquired Roarke mildly.

Finlay snorted in disgust. “You came here to kill us, and now you expect to have your bellies filled?”

“Starve me if it pleases you,” returned Roarke, “but at least feed my men. They have not eaten for nearly a day.”

Melantha tossed him a look of contempt. “A day without food is nothing. Your men are strong and can easily endure it.”

Golden petals of sunlight had filtered into the clearing, and as they flickered across her fury-clenched face Roarke was suddenly struck by the pale fragility of her. Melantha’s shapeless chain mail and leggings effectively concealed the curves of her body, but Roarke did not need to see her waist or hips to know that this girl was intimately acquainted with the hollow ache of hunger. Last night in the soft glow of the fire her cheeks had seemed high and elegantly sculpted, but in the harsher light of day her beauty was revealed to be a little too lean. Her cheeks and jaw bore the sharply cut contours of deprivation, and the delicate skin beneath her dark eyes was shadowed by sleeplessness and months of insufficient nourishment.

“Well, now, I’m not sure ’tis a good idea not to feed these big brutes,” interjected Magnus. “After all, we don’t want them fallin’ ill.”

“Magnus is right,” relented Colin. “I suppose if we’re not going to kill them, we have to feed them.”

“Fine,” Melantha snapped, turning away. “Feed them something—but not the meat.”

“Oatcakes all round, then,” declared Magnus brightly, rubbing his hands together in anticipation. “Lewis, fetch some from yer bag and give them to our prisoners.”

Lewis obediently went to his horse and retrieved a worn leather satchel from which he produced a number of hard, lumpy biscuits. Scurrying about like a skittish hare, he somehow managed to distribute them among Roarke, Donald, and Myles. But as he approached Eric, the gigantic blond warrior gave him a murderous scowl, causing poor Lewis to stop dead in his tracks.

“Keep your food,” Eric growled.

Roarke sighed. “Just eat it, Eric.”

Eric adamantly shook his head. “The biscuits are poisoned. In a moment you’ll be screaming in agony as your guts boil up into your mouths.”

Donald and Myles stopped chewing and stared at their half-eaten oatcakes in dismay.

“Good God, lad,” sputtered Magnus, slapping his knee with amusement, “if we wanted ye dead, we’d not waste perfectly good oatcakes on ye to see the job done!”

Finlay raised his blade so that its wickedly sharp edge glinted in the sun. “I’d just cleave you wide with my sword and let that be the end of it.”

“There, you see, Eric?” said Roarke, his tone placating, “if your guts are going to come out, it will be through your belly, not your mouth.”

Eric stubbornly shook his head. “They lie.”

“Then don’t eat it,” snapped Colin. “Our food is too precious to be wasted on you. Lewis, finish giving out those damn things and let’s be on our way.”

Lewis hesitated, then broke off a piece of the oatcake he was holding out to Eric and ate it himself.

Eric’s expression twisted into a hideous mask of fury. “Do you dare to taunt me, you skinny, spineless pup?”

The blood drained so completely from Lewis’s face Roarke was certain the lad would faint. Nevertheless, he did not retreat—perhaps because his fear had paralyzed him.

“ ’Tis…’tis safe to eat,” he stammered, meekly offering Eric the remainder of the biscuit.

Eric’s enraged expression froze.

“Take it,” Lewis urged. “You’ll be hungry later.”

The enormous warrior stared in complete bemusement at the thin, outstretched hand trembling before him.

Finally, acutely aware that everyone was now staring at him, he grudgingly accepted the oatcake.

“Is he always this hard to feed?” asked Magnus curiously.

Having taken care of Eric, Lewis tentatively approached Melantha and held a biscuit out to her.

“You have it, Lewis,” Melantha said. “I’m not hungry.”

“Eat it,” ordered Magnus sternly. “Ye’ve put nothin’ in yer stomach since yesterday morn’.”

“I’m not hungry.”

He snorted in disbelief. “No, of course not—ye’re never hungry when ye think there might be someone else needin’ it more than you. But if ye starve yerself to death, what good will ye be to us then?”

“The day is nearly half gone,” she said, abruptly changing the subject. “Get them on their horses and let’s go.”

“That’s it, try to turn my attention to something else,” muttered Magnus, shaking his head. “But when ye’re too weak to climb up on Morvyn and lead us, don’t be bellyachin’ to me about how unfair it all is.”

“Come on then,” said Finlay, bending to untie the rope binding Roarke’s ankles. “Up with ye and onto yer mount.”

“It’s generous of you to allow us to keep our horses,” observed Roarke, suppressing his grimace as he slowly rose to his feet.

“I would have taken great pleasure in making you walk barefoot.” Melantha swung herself lightly up onto her horse. “Unfortunately, I cannot permit you to slow us down.”

Roarke frowned. “Slow you down?”

“We can hardly have ye trailin’ after us on foot, now, can we?” said Magnus, leading Eric’s and Myles’s horses to them. “Especially with that backside of yours laced full of stitches. It would take us over a week to get home.”

“Home?” Myles looked uncertainly at Roarke.

“ ’Tis not that far,” Lewis assured him as he freed the warrior’s ankles. “Two days’ journey at most.”

“Why in the name of St. Columba do you want to take us there?” asked Donald. “You’ve taken our weapons and our valuables. What more do you want?”

“They intend to slaughter us like helpless animals before their people,” Eric surmised direly. “Then they will spear our heads on pikes to rot as a warning to others!”

“Good Lord, lad, wherever do ye get such foul notions?” wondered Magnus, looking genuinely horrified. “I’ll have ye know we’re God-fearin’ thieves, not heathen savages.”

“Then why are you taking us with you?” demanded Roarke.

“We want to see how much you’re worth to your laird.”

Roarke looked at Colin in disbelief. “You intend to ransom us?”

“You MacTiers have stolen much from our clan. We intend to use you to get some of what belongs to us back.”

Roarke tightened his jaw, struggling to keep his sorely frayed temper under control. It was bad enough that he had been shot in the arse, robbed, and made a prisoner by the very outlaws he had been sent to capture. But to be imprisoned and held for ransom by this preposterous little party was more humiliation than he could bear. He could just imagine MacTier’s reaction when his laird received the missive from the Falcon demanding payment. Once he recovered from his shock, his laird would be infuriated that his finest warrior had failed in what Roarke had assured him would be a childishly simple mission. After years of brilliant service, in which Roarke had successfully led scores of men into the bloodiest of battles and on the most harrowing of raids, he had come to this. He had been captured by an asp-tongued wisp of a girl in coarse leggings and a battered steel helmet, a decrepit old man who looked as though he might trip and impale himself on his own sword at any moment, and three striplings who barely qualified as grown men, never mind warriors.

Everything he had fought so tenaciously to procure for himself these past twenty years would be completely, irretrievably lost.

“You have no hope of securing a ransom for us,” he said flatly. “Laird MacTier will not pay.”

Magnus scratched his white head. “Why not, lad? Does he not like ye?”

“To pay for our return would subject all of his warriors to the risk of being trapped and ransomed in the future,” Roarke explained. “MacTier cannot possibly agree to your demands.”

“You had best hope that you four hold a special place in your laird’s heart,” Melantha warned, “or there is no value to our letting you live.”

“He will not pay,” Roarke insisted. “You should take what you want and release us. I give you my solemn word that we will not seek you out, but will simply return to our holding.”

“Now, that’s a joke,” scoffed Finlay. “Expecting us to trust the word of a MacTier.”

“You came here to kill us, yet you expect us to release you?” A bitter laugh erupted from Colin’s throat.

“I am trying to prevent you from doing something that will only endanger you and your people,” Roarke replied. “By ransoming us, you will infuriate Laird MacTier, and I warn you, his wrath will be awesome.”

“We are well acquainted with MacTier’s vile ways,” Melantha snapped. “Now get on your horse, or I shall have Magnus shoot another arrow into you to get you moving.”

Magnus fitted his prized arrow against the string of his bow. “Take yer time decidin’, laddie. Truth be told, I’m curious to see how this shaft flies.”

Roarke muttered a curse, then reluctantly limped to his horse and heaved himself up, gritting his teeth against the pain the movement cost him.

Realizing they had no choice, his men did the same.

“My men will form a ring around you at all times,” Melantha informed her prisoners. “If any of you try to break from the group, you will be shot—is that clear?”

“If I am shot, I will kill two of you with my bare hands before I hit the ground,” vowed Eric darkly.

Magnus chuckled. “Got a real fire in yer ballocks, don’t ye, laddie? Ye remind me of myself when I was a lad. What ye need, if ye don’t mind my sayin’ so, is a good, strong woman to put out some of those flames.”

“I was just saying the very same thing,” said Donald, amused.

“I could tell ye tales that would make yer eyes pop right out of yer heads!” bragged Magnus, pulling himself up onto his horse. “I’ll have ye know that in my youth, I was known all across Scotland for the glorious feats I performed.” His eyes twinkled with pleasure as he settled into his saddle and urged his mount forward. “Of course in those days, I was known as Magnus the Magnificent….”

She hated them.

Her animosity festered like a weeping wound, filling her with such acrid loathing she was scarcely aware of anything else. Not hunger, nor weariness, nor even the pain of her aching muscles could detract from the emotions roiling through her as the little party rode north.

There was bitter irony to the fact that she was taking these MacTiers to her holding, as opposed to trying to drive them away. Here she was, leading this murdering scum back to the very place where they had already inflicted horrendous misery and destruction. MacTier had sent his forces once before. For one hideous day they had held her people in the jaws of terror, slaughtering men, terrorizing the women and children, and stripping the cottages and castle of every object of beauty or value. It had been the end of Melantha’s life, or at least the end of the life she had known. In those agonizing hours she went from being a laughing girl, who had lived safely sheltered within the glorious heather-covered mountains that surrounded the MacKillon lands, to being an inferno of pain and rage that threatened to consume her within its flames if she but let it.

Her people would be terrified when they arrived, of that there could be no doubt. But once they understood that these despicable warriors were the key to forcing Laird MacTier to make restitution for all he had wrought upon them, her clan would see she had made the right decision. The only other choice was to murder these men, and despite the suffering the MacTiers had so cruelly inflicted upon her and her people, somehow she could not bring herself to do that. Magnus was right—she and her men were thieves, not cold-blooded murderers. Her loathing of the MacTiers was absolute, but she would not permit them to turn her into one of them. To do so would be to let them wrest away the last few shreds of her integrity, leaving her but a cold, vacant shell of the girl she had once been.

She would not let them have that final victory.

“The light is falling,” observed Colin, riding up to her. “We should find a place to make camp.”

Melantha studied the soft glaze of slate and peach seeping through the canopy of trees overhead. Afternoon had melted into early evening, and the air was cool and fragrant with the scent of crushed pine and sweet earth. It was as good a moment as any to stop. But she had been away from her younger brothers for well over a week, and she was longing to see them again. The prospect of closing the distance between her and Daniel, Matthew, and Patrick, even by just a few more miles, was far more enticing than the promise of rest.

“Do you think Magnus is tired?” Her voice was low so the old man would not hear her.

“He doesn’t seem to be,” Colin replied, glancing back at the white-haired elder.

“…and then I raised my rusty sword,” Magnus was boasting, lifting his sword in the air for effect, “which was so blunt ye could scarce have used it to carve butter, and with my broken arm hanging at my side, I cut down every one of those murderin’ rascals, till all eight of them lay in a twitching, bloody heap before me….”

The MacTier warriors kept their expressions politely composed as Magnus recited his wildly exaggerated tale. Magnus mistook their skeptical silence for rapt fascination, and immediately launched into another story.

“We will ride on,” Melantha decided. “That way there will be less of a journey tomorrow.”

“It has been a long day, Melantha,” Colin reminded her gently.

“I’m fine, Colin.”

“I wasn’t thinking of you—I was thinking of me having to endure another hour of Magnus’s outlandish stories.” He smiled, then turned his horse and rode back to join the others.

“…and then there was the time I had to battle a terrible, two-headed beastie,” Magnus continued excitedly, “with naught but my trusty sword, which nearly melted when the horrible creature breathed its ghastly fire upon it….”

Melantha inhaled deeply, savoring the spicy tang of pine and earth. The smell of life, her father used to call it. Breathe deep, lass, he would say, thumping his great barrel of a chest. Breathe deep, my bonny Mellie, and know that the woods and meadows and sky and dirt of this blessed place are part of you. Never forget that, my sweet lass. God has blessed you by making you part of the most glorious place on earth. And Melantha would puff out her skinny little chest and draw in a great gasp of air until she thought she would surely burst, and as she held it her cheeks would swell into two bulging apples, which would always make her father laugh.

She would have given anything to hear her father’s laughter again.

A rustling sound tore her from her thoughts. Looking ahead, she saw a deer burst from the trees, then disappear. Melantha instantly bent low over Morvyn and urged him into a gallop as she freed an arrow from her quiver. There was no time to inform the others—the deer was moving too fast. She could not risk losing it to the thick forest and the rapidly fading light. She and Morvyn thundered in and out of trees, heedless of the branches that clawed at them. Morvyn snorted with excitement as he pounded through the woods, sensing Melantha’s urgency and eager to please her.

It had been a long time since her people had enjoyed the taste of venison, for the animals that had once crowded the woods on their lands had been all but eradicated by a devastatingly cold winter. By the time spring finally arrived, most of the poor beasts lay frozen and starved, their bodies shredded by wolves. Hunting parties had only produced small game, which was scarcely adequate to feed her people, especially since the MacTiers had either stolen or slaughtered all their livestock. This single deer could not begin to feed Melantha’s entire clan, but its precious meat and hide would be a welcome treasure nonetheless. She thought of her brothers with their thin little arms and rawboned legs, and the pleasure that would light their gaunt faces when she returned home with a fine deer.

“Faster, Morvyn,” she urged. “Come on, faster!”

Morvyn snorted and flew forward. The light dulled to a flat gray as they pressed deeper into the woods, but Melantha’s hunting senses were keen and she knew the deer was not far ahead. Another few yards and they were nearly upon it. She took careful aim, guiding Morvyn with her legs as she kept her gaze locked upon her prey.

A massive fallen tree suddenly obstructed their path. She scrambled to grab the reins and pull Morvyn back, but he had already begun to jump. Melantha clutched wildly at his thick mane as he struggled to heave his massive body over the unexpected barricade.

His right foreleg slammed into the heavy trunk, making an ugly crunching sound. Morvyn screeched in agony while Melantha cried out and vainly tried to shield herself as they crashed to the ground.

“…and then there was the time I had to rescue my fair Edwina from a rascal band of Campbells,” continued Magnus excitedly, “who were so bewitched by her comeliness that I had to hack them into bloody, steaming chunks of—here now, what’s that noise?”

“Sweet Jesus!” swore Roarke, hearing Melantha’s cry. He kicked his heels deep into his horse and galloped into the woods ahead.

“Here, now, ye can’t be ridin’ off like that!” protested Magnus, fumbling for his bow and arrow. “Ye’re a prisoner!”

“You’ll have to forgive him,” apologized Donald. “I’m afraid he doesn’t have much experience with being held captive.”

“Stay with the others!” snapped Colin to Lewis and Finlay before thundering after Roarke.

Roarke tore through the woods as fast as his mount would carry him, heedless of the pain of his wound. A trail of broken branches and freshly churned earth indicated the path Melantha and her horse had taken, but the light had waned, making it difficult to follow the course at such a reckless speed. After a few moments he cursed in frustration and abruptly stopped, uncertain which direction to pursue. A pain-filled whicker reverberated through the trees. Roarke urged his charger forward again, crashing through the forest like a madman. Finally he saw her horse lying helplessly on the ground, whinnying in pain. Melantha lay in a crumpled heap beside him, unmoving.

Roarke dismounted quickly and limped toward her. Kneeling down, he grasped her shoulders with his bound hands and turned her over. Her face was pale and still, save for a crimson stream leaking from a deep gash in her forehead. A faint gust of breath trickled from her, thin and shallow as a baby bird’s, but there nonetheless.

“Melantha.”

Her eyes flickered open. Once again the hard edge of her anger had softened, transforming her into a far different girl from the one who had snapped that if he died it would merely save her the trouble of killing him. The woman he held in his lap was as beautiful and enigmatic as she was fragile. They were enemies, but in this shadowy, stolen moment, as she gazed up at him with those magnificent forest-colored eyes, he found he was drawn to her.

It had been nearly two years since he had touched a woman, for the coarse, unwashed whores who had been available to him and his army as he fought on behalf of his clan and King Alexander had held no appeal to him whatsoever. He had all but forgotten what it was like to feel the soft silk of a woman’s lips caress his own, to know the sweet pulse of her breath as it fluttered against his cheek, warm and filled with promise. He longed to touch the creaminess of Melantha’s earth-smudged cheek, to trace his fingers along the delicate line of her jaw, and rake his fingers through the dark tangle of her hair.

Unable to control himself, he bent his head and captured her mouth with his.

The whisper of her breath froze and her body stiffened, but she did not push him away.

“Get the hell off her, you bastard!”

The words crashed over them like freezing water. Roarke shifted Melantha off his lap and clumsily rose, preparing to face Colin’s rage.

“No!” shrieked Melantha, scrambling to her feet. She threw herself against Roarke, knocking him back a step before turning to face Colin.

“I’m going to kill him!” he vowed savagely, his sword raised.

“It isn’t what you think, Colin!”

His eyes grew wide. “My God, Melantha, you’re bleeding!”

She raised her hand to her forehead, then stared in confusion at the scarlet staining her fingertips.

“You fell from your horse,” Roarke explained. “You must have struck your head in the fall.”

Melantha turned her gaze to the injured beast. “Morvyn!”

Her mount attempted to rise, then whickered in pain and collapsed to the ground once again.

“Oh, God,” cried Melantha, racing over to him. “You’re all right, my sweet lad, you’re fine,” she crooned, gently stroking the animal as she surveyed his legs, trying to ascertain which one he had injured. “Colin, please help me with Morvyn,” she pleaded brokenly.

“If you try to escape, I will slaughter your men,” Colin promised Roarke. “Do you understand?”

Roarke nodded.

“ ’Tis his right foreleg,” Melantha reported as Colin knelt beside her.

Colin expertly ran his hands over Morvyn’s rapidly swelling leg. The horse whinnied with pain and tried to pull away.

“Easy, now,” said Colin, stroking the horse to calm him. “Rest easy.”

Morvyn studied him a moment, his velvety nostrils flaring with each rapid breath, his eyes dark and filled with suffering. Colin continued to stroke the animal’s neck, murmuring low words of reassurance. Finally Morvyn lay back against the ground and permitted Colin to finish his examination.

“Is it bad?” asked Melantha, biting her lip.

Colin eased the horse’s swollen foreleg onto the ground. “I fear it’s broken, Melantha.”

“No.” She shook her head.

“Poor Morvyn must have struck it very hard when he tried to clear this tree.” Colin’s tone was low and soothing, as if he were speaking to a distressed child. “His bones are not as strong as they once were, and his leg just cracked.”

“It isn’t cracked,” Melantha insisted, laying her hand protectively on Morvyn’s sweat-soaked shoulder. “It’s just sore and swelling a bit, that’s all.”

“He cannot stand, Melantha,” Colin pointed out, gently placing his hand over hers. “He cannot move.” He hesitated a moment before quietly stating, “We’ve no choice but to end his pain.”

“No!” She knocked Colin’s hand away. “You’ll not touch him, Colin, do you understand? Not you, nor anyone else. It’s my fault he’s injured. I’ll tend to him.”

“We’ve no time for that, Melantha. We have to get these MacTier prisoners back to our holding—”

“The MacTiers can wait,” Melantha interrupted. “It will soon be dark, so we have to stop anyway. We’ll make camp right here, and I’ll tend to Morvyn, and by morning the swelling in his leg will have eased and he’ll be fit enough to stand.”

Colin regarded her with aching regret. “He’ll never stand again, Melantha. You must accept that.”

“You’re wrong. And I’ll not let you kill him when it’s my fault for riding him so fast when the light was falling and he was tired. I caused him to miss that jump, Colin,” she said, her voice nearly breaking. “I’ll not let you slay him for something that was my fault.”

Roarke studied her. He had thought her cold and unfeeling, but he had been mistaken. The same woman who had shown not the tiniest fragment of concern for him when he had been wounded was now almost shattered by the possibility of losing her beloved horse.

At that moment he would have let her build a cottage around the damn animal and stay here for as long as she wished, as long as it made her happy.

“Very well, Melantha,” Colin relented. He laid his hand with tender familiarity upon her cheek, a gesture that Roarke found both telling and a little irritating. “We will make camp here, and you can tend to him.”

Melantha swallowed thickly. “Thank you.”

“But if he cannot stand come morning,” Colin continued seriously, “we have to end his misery.”

“He will stand,” Melantha assured him in a small, fierce voice. “I will see to it.”

“So this is where ye be hidin’,” said Magnus, emerging through the trees. “We’ve been searchin’ all of God’s green earth tryin’ to find—good Lord, lass, what’s happened to yer head?”

“It’s nothing,” Melantha assured him.

“Ye’ve cracked yer pate and ye’re halfway to bleedin’ to death, and ye call that nothing?”

“It’s Morvyn who has been injured,” Melantha said adamantly. “I need some strips of linen or wool to bind around his leg to stop the swelling. Lewis, have you any extra fabric in your bag?”

Lewis shook his head. “You’re welcome to have my plaid, Melantha.”

“Now, there’s a sight I don’t much care to see,” said Finlay. “Little Lewis’s freckled arse polishing his saddle all through the mountains.”

Lewis regarded Finlay with irritation. “Melantha needs some fabric. Besides, my shirt is almost long enough to cover me.”

“I’ve a better idea, Lewis,” said Colin. “Each of you take your dirks and cut a length off your plaids, but not so much that you can’t secure them around your waists. Between the four of us, we should have enough cloth to bind poor old Morvyn’s leg.”

“You’ll have more than enough between the eight of us,” interjected Roarke.

Melantha looked at him in surprise. “You would spare us some of your plaid?”

Roarke shrugged. “I hate to see an animal in pain.”

“Of course you do.” Colin’s tone was flagrantly sarcastic. “That’s what you MacTiers are known for—your soft hearts.”

Roarke ignored him and kept his gaze fixed on Melantha. “You may take whatever you need from our plaids.”

“You seem to forget, you’re our prisoners,” pointed out Finlay. “We don’t need your permission to take something from you.”

“Now, Finlay, let’s not be rude,” scolded Magnus. “ ’Tis most obliging of Roarke here to make such an offer. Most obliging.”

Melantha stared at Roarke a long moment. His expression was utterly composed, revealing no trace of the kiss they had shared moments earlier. Her body stirred at the memory. Shame washed through her, making her feel small and soiled.

Had her father been alive to hear that she had not resisted the touch of her clan’s sworn enemy, he would have been mortified.

“I don’t want your plaid,” she said coldly.

Roarke shrugged. “If you change your mind, my offer stands.”

“She won’t be changing her mind,” Colin snarled, glaring at Roarke. “Lewis, cut the plaids and help Melantha tend to Morvyn. Magnus and Finlay, get these MacTiers secured to trees so we can make camp. We will stop here for the night.” He shoved Roarke toward a tree.

Pushing aside her shame for the moment, Melantha focused on the task of helping Morvyn. She ordered Lewis to cut the swaths of fabric he collected from the other men into narrow strips while she went to a nearby stream and filled a leather pouch with water. Then she tied the strips of wool together, dipped them into the frigid water, and carefully wrapped the sodden bandage around Morvyn’s swollen leg. He endured her ministrations stoically, although it was clear it pained him to have his foreleg handled. Once the leg was thickly sheathed in cold wrapping, Melantha poured more icy water on it, trying to chill his throbbing flesh and keep the swelling to a minimum.

“Shall I fetch more water for you, Melantha?” asked Lewis.

She nodded. “Fill this pouch, and empty my saddlebag and see if it will hold water as well. Morvyn must be thirsty by now, and I’m going to have to keep chilling this bandage through the night if I’m to get the swelling down. The cold will help to ease his pain as well.”

“How’s he farin’, lass?” asked Magnus, going over to join her as Lewis left.

“Better.” Melantha gently stroked her horse’s neck. In truth she could not discern any improvement, but she was not about to admit that. “I’m certain by tomorrow he’ll be able to stand.”

“Of course he will, lass,” Magnus agreed. “A few hours of rest, and old Morvyn will be as fit as ever. A true warrior can’t be kept down by something as paltry as a banged shin, ye know. Why, courage runs thick as oatmeal in his veins, just as it did in yer father’s.”

Melantha nodded.

“Well, then, how about I clean that nasty nip on yer head?” he suggested brightly. “It seems to have stopped bleedin’, so I’m thinkin’ I can spare ye my stitches—though I’m happy to give ye a tuck or two if ye’d like.”

“I’m fine, Magnus,” said Melantha, wholly uninterested in the state of her forehead.

“Ye’re not ridin’ home sportin’ a mess like that, or old MacKillon will have me hauled before the council demandin’ an explanation.” He dipped the frayed end of his plaid into the pouch of water Lewis deposited beside them. “First they’ll be wonderin’ why yer helmet wasn’t on yer head where it’s supposed to be.”

Melantha winced as Magnus daubed at the dried blood. “I was hunting a deer. I only wear my helmet for raiding.”

“Seems to me ye nearly bashed yer skull in, all the same,” Magnus observed. “Which suggests yer helmet should have been on yer head.”

Melantha sighed. It was useless to argue. Ever since she had agreed to let Magnus be part of her band of thieves, the aged warrior had appointed himself Melantha’s guardian. Whether they were raiding sheep or attacking a party of unsuspecting travelers, Melantha could always be sure that Magnus was near, ready to fly to her rescue if he decided she needed him. Although often this resulted in his charging forward at inopportune moments, occasionally he actually did help her.

His presence had certainly been beneficial when Roarke was about to cut her head off.

“There, now,” Magnus said, surveying his work with satisfaction. “If ye’re lucky, ye’ll not have a scar.”

“I don’t care if it scars.”

“No, of course ye don’t.” Magnus chuckled, shaking his head. “That’s because ye’re too busy thinking of ways to rob MacTier to be concerned with yer own appearance. If yer father could see ye gallopin’ around the woods in leggings and chain mail, he’d be wonderin’ just what kind of wild lass he’d raised.”

“He’d be proud,” Lewis interjected loyally as he dropped an armful of grasses by Morvyn’s head. “Proud.”

“Well, I suppose he might be at that,” allowed Magnus, his mouth curved in a reluctant smile. “There, now, ye’d best leave poor old Morvyn to rest and get some sleep yerself, lass. There’s naught more ye can do for him tonight.”

“I have to keep wetting his bandage to keep the swelling down—but I’ll get some rest,” she promised quickly, seeing Magnus was about to argue.

“See that ye do. And eat somethin’,” he added sternly, “or I’ll open yer mouth and cram the food in for ye.” With that unlikely threat he went and stretched out by the fire.

Roarke lay on his good side with his arms and legs bound, watching Melantha. Despite her assurances to Magnus, she did not eat. Instead she remained by her horse, crooning to him in a low, gentle voice as she squeezed cold water on his injured leg and tried to coax him to eat.

The night deepened to a silver-flecked cape of black before she finally yielded to her weariness. Still, she did not find a place for herself beside the low flames of the fire. Instead she withdrew her sword and curled up beside Morvyn’s head, keeping one hand ready upon her weapon and the other lightly resting upon her horse’s neck.

It was much later when Roarke finally spoke, sensing that she, like he, could not sleep. “Even if his leg is not broken, it is certain he is finished with riding,” he observed quietly.

Silence stretched between them.

“I know,” Melantha finally admitted, her voice barely a whisper.

“Then why do you fight so hard to save him?”

He could not see her clearly through the darkness, but he knew she had begun to stroke her horse. “One does not reward a friend for years of loyalty and service by getting rid of him the minute he is no longer of value. Morvyn deserves more than that.”

“But if tomorrow he cannot stand, what will you do?”

“He will stand,” Melantha assured him fiercely. “And then I will take him home, where he belongs.”

“To what end?” persisted Roarke, trying to understand. “His days of carrying you on his back are finished.”

“He will rest until his leg has healed,” Melantha replied, “and then he can spend the rest of his days grazing in meadows, feeling the sun warm his coat, and watching as one season turns into another. That is far more fitting than to cut his throat and leave him to rot alone in these woods.”

“He will slow your journey to your holding.”

“I don’t expect a MacTier to understand,” she retaliated scornfully. “You would leave one of your own men to die, if taking him with you meant you would be inconvenienced.”

“I am a warrior. I do not have the luxury of fretting over one injured soldier or horse. I make my decisions based on the greater benefit to my men and my clan. That is what a leader does.”

“I am also a leader,” Melantha informed him coolly. “Don’t forget, MacTier, I am the infamous Falcon your laird sent you to capture. I have led my men on dozens of raids, and each time we have all returned safely. And I would no sooner leave one of my men behind, or my horse, than I would take out my sword and run them through with it. To do so would not only be despicably selfish, it would also be cowardly.”

Roarke closed his eyes, dismissing her as he prepared to get some sleep.

The lass was scarcely more than a child, an unruly girl playing at being a brigand and a thief, so she could bring some pretty treasures home to her clan and impress them with her prowess. She could not possibly understand the unfathomably ugly decisions a warrior had to make as he fought to honor his clan and protect the men fighting alongside him.

But as he listened to the gentle whisper of her voice soothing her injured horse, he could not help but be moved by her misguided compassion.

And feel strangely guilty that tomorrow he would seize her and drag her back to his laird for retribution.