Page 4 of A Gypsy in Scotland
Honoria sighed.
If only fate would send her a sign.
In the distance, her brothers mounted their horses. It was torturous to watch them set out on their journey, the carriage filled with their belongings edging forward at a slower pace. She ought to have been in that carriage.
At the gate, Adair drew his horse to a halt and glanced up toward the hill. It had become a ritual of sorts. She would retreat to the hill to brood whenever they left, and he would turn at the gate and…acknowledge her sulk?
She did not quite know. Had never asked.
As Adair turned back to catch up with the entourage, Honoria vowed the following year he would find an empty hill. She’d be with them, or off on her own, or she’d chooseanotherplace to sulk. But this was the last time for their unspoken tradition.
A dull thump drew her focus away from her departing brothers, so faint she almost missed the sound. Her head snapped around, her eyes searching for the origin. Nothing.
With the shake of her head, she rose to her feet and smoothed her skirts. She must be imagining things. But another, more unmistakable, thud followed by an indisputable grunt.
What on earth?
It sounded like a man, maybe a goat. In her undervalued opinion, they sounded much the same.
Gathering her skirts, she marched further up the hill to inspect the thump she’d heard. At the top, she cast a glance over her shoulder to ensure her brothers were no longer in sight before stepping around to the other side.
Her foot caught on something hard.
A helpless cry tore from her lips as she tumbled over a large animal, landing on a crumpled heap beside the thing. Eyes wide, she scrambled away from it, putting enough distance between them to settle her thundering heart.
Good Lord! Her hand settled over her chest.
Was that a man?
She leaped to her feet. That couldnotbe a man. It was a big hulking bear—her brows puckered—with breeches. A bear that wore breeches.
She inched closer.
“As I live and breathe,” Honoria muttered, leaning over the motionless form. Itwasa man. A filthy, bedraggled man, covered in mud and—her heart lurched—blood.
Honoria clutched her throat and glanced furiously about. Should she leave him there? Would he die if she did? He did not seem capable of managing on his own. The man was out cold.
Something thawed in the region of her chest. Or ignited. A spark of curiosity? Fear? Whatever it was, she could not leave him on the hill to die. If whatever wound he sustained did not kill him, the frosty night surely would.
She studied his thick, tangled ebony hair. It covered most of his face, so it was hard to tell his features. He was a big beastie, maybe as tall as her brothers, around six foot two thereabout. Like them, he would tower over her. The thought annoyed her.
She kneeled beside him. How much strength would it take to move him? The last time Boyd had gotten so foxed he couldn’t drag one foot before the other it had taken Lachlan, Gregor, and Kieran to put him to bed. Three of her brothers may very well equal four or five servants.
“Do not worry,” she murmured to the unconscious man. “I will return with help.”
