Page 29 of The Falcon Laird
“A family emblem. Generations ago—from fauconnier to falconer, then to the family name of Faulkener, all with a falcon symbol. A great-grandfather changed it to wings. Angel’s wings, I suppose.”
“Perhaps you are one of the fallen ones.”
He nearly smiled at that. “You have angels waiting on your whim, I think, the way you recovered.”
“I would not go with them,” she said, glancing away.
He frowned at that strange remark. Behind him, he heard John call to him. “Come, my lady,” Gavin said, reaching toward her. “Can you sit my horse with me? We must cross the burn.” Without waiting for a reply, he tucked the blanket around her and slid his arms beneath her to draw her out of the enclosure. She felt light and easy, no burden, as he stood.
As he carried her toward his horse, John and Dominy came forward to dismantle the litter and then tie it behind the saddle of Dominy’s charger. William sat in the high saddle calling out battle cries until John shushed him.
“We dinna want to hail enemies nor strangers, lad,” he cautioned.
“Let me down,” Christian said as Gavin held her. “Mount your horse and then bring me up.”
“As you wish.” He released her, supporting her for a moment until she seemed sure on her feet. He could feel tremors running through her, but she gave a little laugh as if proud to show him she was strong enough to stand. The small spark of happiness brought a glow to her eyes, a transformation that for a moment hinted at true beauty. He blinked, distracted.
He squeezed her shoulders gently. “Do not faint on me, now.”
“I will not,” she said, frowning. “I am much stronger.”
Dominy approached, and took Christian in a warm hug. Gavin felt a twinge when she turned away from him so readily.
Seated crosswise withthe high saddle jutting against her hip, Christian leaned against Gavin’s broad shoulder, his left arm holding her tightly, his thighs, astride the black horse, strong and steady beneath hers. His unshaven chin bristled against her brow as he turned his head, and his voice, as he spoke to JohnKeith, thrummed deep in her ear. All those sensations were oddly yet undeniably pleasant, despite her displeasure with him.
She had not felt so safe, so secure, since she had been a child in her father’s arms. Then she frowned, reminding herself that Gavin was an English knight, and husband or not, should not be trusted. He was no source of safety. Though he taking her back to Kilglassie, she wondered what he truly planned. She knew he meant to hunt Bruce, just as Henry and other English soldiers had done. War would come near Kilglassie again.
Thinking of her castle, she pressed her eyes shut against the memory of its walls ablaze. She did not know what they would find. But she knew Gavin Faulkener would not expect it.
Glancing down at the swirling water as the knight’s white charger eased into the shallows, she knew this burn very well, had crossed here many times. She knew those silvery pools too, and the dark forest and surrounding mountains. She breathed in, relishing the crisp, cold air. But that only tickled her throat and made her cough. Gavin glanced down at her, then he returned his concentration to guiding his destrier over the rocks and into deeper water.
“Hold, you Englishmen!” The loud cry sounded over the churning water. Gavin and Christian looked up at the same moment.
“Jesu,” Gavin muttered. “What is this?”
Two men stood on the bank, legs apart, faces glowering. They held iron-tipped lances twice their height and looked eager to use them.
“Hold where you be!” one of them shouted.
Christian frowned, and sat straighter. She knew these men; brothers, sons of friends. She knew they supported the Bruce’s cause and would not let an English escort pass unchallenged. Gavin swore softly and pulled on the reins, one arm gripping Christian. She sensed the strength and tension in him.
“Who are you?” the taller one shouted. His tipped his lance toward them menacingly.
“I am Sir Gavin Faulkener. There are women and a child in our party.”
“I see that. Ye look to be English, so we’ll hae your weapons and armor.” The men stepped down into the shallow water and advanced toward them.
“If we let you go,” the other one called.
Gavin shifted his right arm as if to reach for his sword, scabbarded at the wide belt around his hips. But he held Christian in his left arm, the reins in his right. Encumbered, he stepped the horse sideways cautiously.
“This woman is ill,” he called. “I ask that you leave us in peace.”
Christian realized the brothers had not yet recognized her; she had changed in the last months due to illness. She would have called out, but her voice was weak and hoarse. Pushing back the plaid that hooded her head, she lifted a hand.
The taller one, wearing a leather tunic with furs wrapped around his legs and a belted plaid draped over him, looked astonished. “Holy mother of God! Lady Christian!”
“Greetings, Iain Macnab, and Donal.”
