Page 12 of Bride of the Beastly Laird

He turned away, but she was certain he’d felt it too. A connection between them that sent a dart of pleasure straight to her heart.

A woman with a babe in her arms and a small girl by her side approached them from a small cottage at the end of a long pathway. Beside the path grew an assortment of leeks, cabbages, radishes and carrots. Chickens pecked in the upturned soil.

Arran doffed his hat. “Greetings, mistress. Forgive us fer our intrusion. Might ye help us quench our thirst?”

The woman bobbed a quick curtsy to Arran and offered a shy smile. “I’m called Abigail, and this wee girl is Morag.”

Standing back, Dahlia observed this exchange. It softened her heart toward Arran to hear him address the woman with respect instead of roughly demanding her to serve them. It was clear from the worn condition of the simple cottage and the few other unkempt buildings, that the family who resided there would have little to share.

“Aye, melord. I’ll bring ye something from me kitchen.” Before scurrying into the cottage, she handed her wean to the small girl who enfolded the baby in her arms and followed her mother inside.

“Go stretch yer legs, Lady Dahlia.” Arran walked the horses over to a tree not far from the cottage. After tying both horses’ reins together, he knotted them tightly around a low branch.

Dahlia needed no urging, and strode off ,keen to get the stiffness out of her shoulders and legs. Arran was beside her as she reached the edge of the woodland.

“Och, man. D’ye need tae keep yer eye on me all the time? Am I tae have nay time tae mesel’?”

He drew closer, speaking softly. “I’m nae concerned with ye running off, lass. I’m simply taking a moment tae enjoy yer company.”

“Och?” She scanned his face for a hint of derision but his features were open, his green-and-gold eyes under long, dark lashes, holding no trace of suspicion or ridicule. In fact, if she dared to allow herself a renegade thought, his eyes held nothing but admiration.

“Now that we are away from prying eyes and listening ears I can confess Lady Dahlia, that the task of taking ye tae Castle Mackinnon is nae one I savor.”

He met her gaze and there it was again, that missed beat of her heart and the strange pounding in her head.

“I regret I have been ordered tae become yer captor when, tae tell the truth, I dinnae care tae see ye suffering at yer fate. I would rather set ye free.”

His soft tones took her by surprise. But there was something else that set her pulse racing. All at once she realized his voice was one that reminded her of the gentle voice she recalled from four years ago. Her thoughts tumbled her back to that ill-starred attempt at escaping from Mackinnon Castle and the Laird James’s determination to force her to wed.

Black-Mask had been tall as Arran was but, as she’d never seen his face or hair, she was left with her suspicions.

She glanced up at Arran with curiosity, but she read nothing in his even features that indicated he had known her years before.

At that moment, wee Morag appeared beside them bearing two rough clay beakers filled with ale.

Arran undid the leather purse tied at his belt and took out two small coins. “Here, wee lass, this one is fer ye.” He handed her the smaller of the two coins, “And this is fer yer maither.”

The child ran off with a broad grin across her face, her pigtails flying behind her.

A smiling Dahlia watched the child go. “Ye’ve made that wee family’s day. Mayhap their whole week.” She took a sip of the refreshing ale.

“Dinnae sound surprised, Lady Dahlia. Me name may be Mackinnon but I’m nae a robber like me cousin. I wouldnae take from the poor people without making recompense.”

Before she could respond there was a terrible sound of breaking and crashing, and a piercing scream rang out.

CHAPTER FIVE

Arran and Dahlia both swiveled at the sound as the screaming continued unabated.

Two women had taken off running toward a small cottage situated at the edge of the woods, some way from Abigail and Morag’s little home. It was clear that part of the roof had collapsed and that someone was in dire trouble inside what was left of the tiny building.

“Hold this,” Arran thrust the beaker of ale into Dahlia’s hand and dashed forward. She placed the two clay vessels on the grass and hastened after him. He was closer than any of the other villagers and arrived at the door well before the others. He pushed in, followed by Dahlia and another older woman behind him.

A man lay groaning under a large beam which was clearly part of the roof support.

The woman spoke soothingly to the man who clutched at her hand. “We’ll have ye out of there in nay time, Colban. We’ve a braw lad here tae help.”

“Aye Jenny,” the man whispered, closing his eyes.

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