Page 5 of Highland Warrior
There, he looked, she noted with pleasure. His gaze snagged on her creamy breast and pebbled nipple, before he tore it away and reached to cover her again.
“Were ye robbed?” he pressed, “Were ye—” He broke off, color crawling up his neck as his jaw clenched.
“My head.” She pressed a hand to her forehead. “’Tis pounding, but I feel no pain elsewhere, and I have nothing of value to steal.”
“Perhaps someone came up behind ye,” he murmured. “May I?”
At her nod, he reached out and threaded big, careful fingers in her thick hair, probing her scalp with the expertise of an experienced physician.
“Are you a healer?” she asked, turning her head so her lips brushed against the skin of his arm.
“I have some experience with it,” he hedged, pulling his arm away from her with a start. “I doona feel a lump, though that doesna mean one willna develop. Do ye think ye can stand? I’ll want ye away from here in case they come back. There is much danger in these woods.”
“I’ll try,” she said weakly, allowing him to help her upright. Immediately, Vían let his cloak fall to the earth, leaving her only with her almost transparent shift, as she swooned against him.
He caught her easily, and tensed as she pressed her body against his.
“Do ye live here in the forest with yer…father? Husband?” he asked uncomfortably.
“I live alone,” she said against his chest. “I have naught but a cottage by the loch. Can I prevail upon you to take me there, sir? I don’t think I can walk all that way back just yet.”
Lifting her easily, he secured her on the back of his horse before bending to reclaim his cloak. Swinging up behind her, he wrapped them both in the fur, and pulled her back into the circle of his strong arms. “Lean against me, lass. Ye’re like ice. I’ll share my warmth with ye.”
Vían leaned back, letting her head rest in between the grooves of his chest. Pangs of guilt and conscience stabbed at her belly, but she brushed them away. Though he was handsome and gallant, Malcolm de Moray was still a man. Still weak and prone to temptation. He’d take what she offered, or maybe he wouldn’t even wait for her to offer.
And then she’d take from him.
She hoped he didn’t hurry to the loch, though. His body fit so well against hers, and she soaked in the heat radiating from him. She couldn’t remember anything feeling so incredible.
And she hadn’t been warm in over a hundred years.
* * *
Malcolm didhis best to keep his stallion’s gait even. If the lass were concussed, jostling her overmuch could do irreparable damage. The mist seemed to thicken as they plodded toward Loch Doineann, which was more of a pond, in truth, surrounded by lush forest. He tried to keep his awareness on their surroundings in case brigands were about. If he didn’t, he’d focus on how her soft body fit against his, or how supple and tantalizing her breasts had looked. But the forest whispered warnings through the mist that unsettled him.
Beware.It said. Enemies are near.
If his enemies were near, then the Grimoire was too. The scrying stone had told him thus. So what was he doing escorting a peasant home when he should be searching for it?
“I’ve not seen you here in the forest before, how do you know where the loch is?” she asked, pulling his cloak tighter around herself and pressing her shoulders against his chest with a tremor of chill.
“I know every inch of these lands,” he answered simply.They’re my responsibility.
For some reason, he didn’t want her to know who he was. Didn’t want her to treat him with the deference she’d show the King of their Pictish people. For all she knew, he was a woodsman, doing a pretty lass a kindness. There was no Grimoire, Wyrd Sisters, Berserkers, or impending war. For just a moment, there in the mist, they were a man and a woman, making their way through the fragrant, loamy autumn forest.
“Do yer people hie from these woods?” he asked. “Do they live close by?”
“My people are all dead,” she murmured, without much inflection. “I’ve been alone for many years.”
It unsettled him how curious she made him. He wanted to press her, but knew the telling of her story would be painful. How did she come to be alone in these woods with nothing but a threadbare shift? Did her people die in the Lowland wars? Or by the hands of the English? Perhaps illness took them. Or plague. What family did she belong to?
Who had put the wounds and wariness behind her lovely, amethyst eyes?
“There.” She pointed. “Just past that copse of trees.”
Malcolm spotted the structure—if one could call it that—and frowned. Due to her dress, he hadn’t expected much, but the rotting, dilapidated dwelling leaning against a few ancient trees was uninhabitable.
The roof, for lack of a better word, had rotted through and fallen in on one side. The door was a bunch of green branches lashed together and propped against the entry.
