Page 12 of Unforgotten
“Ye never had much time for her, did ye?” Gavin asked.
Ella lifted her chin, and their gazes fused for an instant. “No,” she admitted softly, “but many years had passed since then … and I’m not the lass I once was.”
A hot, gusting wind sprang up as the two travelers resumed their journey once more. Clouds now raced across a pale-blue sky, and all the while, the heat pressed down upon them like a heavy hand.
Gavin’s mare walked sedately along, just a few yards before the fat bay pony. She’d finally accepted that this journey would be at a slower pace. Her name was Saorsa—which meant ‘freedom’ in their tongue—and although she was nearing her tenth year, the horse was as lively as ever.
Gaze shifting around him as he rode, Gavin tried to think of ways to draw Ella into conversation. Despite their brief exchange at noon, Ella had not thawed toward him. Gavin had tried to get her to warm to him numerous times during the afternoon. But when she continued to answer him in short, terse sentences, he got the message and ceased speaking.
The past hung over them both like a heavy storm cloud; the air was charged, crackling with tension. And yet neither of them would address their history directly. Eventually, Gavin intended to bring up the subject with Ella. But so many years had gone by since their last meeting, he wanted to wait a few days first. When they reached Scorrybreac Castle, he would find a way to broach the subject.
Gavin didn’t imagine it would change anything. Yet, ever since Innis’s death, Ella had been on his mind.
She was lost to him now, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t try and make amends for the past. He felt that he wouldn’t be able to rest, or seek future happiness for himself in any way, unless he mended things between them.
The afternoon stretched on. The days seemed endless this time of year, but gradually, the shadows lengthened, and the afternoon light grew soft and golden.
They were traveling through a vale, its sides studded with rocky boulders, when Saorsa snorted, tossing her head.
The mare sidestepped, and Gavin frowned. Leaning forward, he stroked the horse’s neck. “What is it, lass?”
He had barely uttered the words, when dark shapes suddenly burst out from behind the boulders and rushed toward them.
Saorsa squealed, rearing up and nearly unseating Gavin in the process. Only years of experience on horseback prevented him from toppling onto the rocky ground.
Behind him, he heard Ella gasp. “Outlaws!”
There were a few of them—twelve that Gavin could see. His gaze swept over the ragged band advancing upon them. They were dirty, barefoot, and wild-eyed.
One man, a lanky fellow with long dark hair and blue eyes, took a step toward Gavin. He carried a hand-axe at his side. “What’s this?” he sneered. “A nun and her … escort?”
Gavin inhaled slowly, considering his next words. “I’m Clan-chief MacNichol,” he introduced himself casually, as if they weren’t surrounded by a group of men brandishing axes, dirks, and sickles. “And I’m escorting Sister Annella here back to Scorrybreac Castle to visit her ailing mother. We’re in a hurry, so I’d advise ye to let us pass.”
A grin stretched across the outlaw leader’s face. It made the leanness of his features even more noticeable. “Did ye hear that, lads? We’ve netted ourselves a clan-chief. He’s bound to carry bags of silver pennies with him.”
The man took a threatening step toward Gavin. Saorsa tossed her head and sidestepped once more, but Gavin held her steady. “I’m carrying little coin upon me,” Gavin replied, his tone low. “But even if I was, I wouldn’t be handing them over to ye.” He frowned then. “Stand aside and let us pass.”
The man’s grin faded, his face twisting. He then spat on the ground. “We’ll kill ye and take whatever ye are carrying,” he growled. “And then we’ll strip yer corpse of those fine clothes ye are wearing.”
“That’s a decent horse ye are riding too,” another man called out. “I could sell her at Dunan market and earn enough silver to feed my family for a full year.”
Gavin doubted that, but he wasn’t going to argue the detail.
Instead, he drew the claidheamh-mor that hung at his side. He never traveled without his sword. The sun glinted off the folded steel blade.
“I don’t want any trouble,” Gavin said after a moment, when he was sure they’d all had a good look at his sword. “But if ye don’t let us pass unmolested, blood is going to be spilled here.”
“Aye,” the ringleader growled. “Yers … and the nun’s.”
And with that, the rabble attacked.
They ran at Gavin and Ella like a pack of howling wolves. Gavin dug his knees in, driving Saorsa forward, blocking their path to Ella. He intercepted the first of them. His blade flashed, whistling through the humid air before it thudded into flesh.
In an instant, the howling turned to screams of fury and pain. And suddenly, Gavin was slashing his way through the fray, fighting for his life.
Panic surged through him—not for his own safety, but for Ella’s. Focused on fending off the outlaws, he couldn’t make sure none of them had reached his companion.
A man ran at him swinging a vicious-looking scythe. Urging Saorsa forward, Gavin ran his attacker through. He yanked his blade free and glanced over his shoulder then. Ella had been riding a few yards behind him. Apart from her initial gasp of shock, she hadn’t made a sound.
