Page 3 of To Serve a Laird
Claire turned around to try to salvage her precious volumes, but found that the hand holding her arm had tightened its grasp, and she could not move despite her valiant struggling.
“These ones are,” the man replied in his deep, rich voice. “They have been ground into the floor, and you cannot save them.”
Seeing the truth of his words, Claire looked over at her father again. He was grinning at her wickedly, as if glorying in her loss, and as she stared at him, Claire sighed and her shoulders slumped in defeat.
She had known that her circumstances would be wretched, but she had not contemplated anything as bad as this. She nodded in resignation then turned and allowed herself to be led away, realising that there was nothing she could do to save herself.
Outside, the rain had lessened somewhat, although a strong breeze drove it into their faces, and Claire pulled up the hood of her cloak, knowing that she was going to be drenched. The stranger led her to a massive black stallion that was tied to a post outside. Despite his fearsome appearance, the horse was docile as a lamb when the man approached it and stroked its nose, then talked to it softly for a few moments.
The horse whickered as if in answer, tossed his head and mussed the man’s hair with his chin, whereupon the stranger laughed and patted his neck, then produced an apple from his pocket and gave it to the animal. The stallion seized it from his hand and crunched it to oblivion in seconds.
Claire was astonished; it seemed that the big, fearsome man had a tender heart after all. He clearly loved his horse, and the feeling was mutual. However, when he turned back to her, it was obvious that the gentleness did not extend to humans.
He was looking at her with a deep frown, then he untied the stallion from its hitching post and came towards Claire with his hands extended and a deeply purposeful look on his face.
With a little squeal, Claire backed away, terrified, but found herself colliding with the wall of the tavern. She was trapped, and the big stranger once more grasped her arm and led her towards the stallion.
“He looks fierce,” he said, “but he is very gentle unless you startle him.”
Then, before she knew it, Claire found herself being hoisted onto the stallion, held by the stranger’s big hands, which completely encircled her tiny waist. She gave a little startled squeal, grabbing his shoulders, and then she was on the saddle.
Riding had always scared her, and she had not sat on a horse since she was twelve years old. That was when she had fallen from the pony on which she was seated when the little horse wassuddenly startled by a rabbit and had reared up and thrown her onto the ground.
Now it seemed she had no choice but to stay where she was and wait for whatever was coming next. Presently the stranger mounted the horse, sitting behind her in the saddle with his chest pressed to her back.
His arms went around her so that he could hold the reins in front of her, and for the moment Claire felt secure and unafraid—a strange feeling in her situation. She was safe on the horse at least, although she had no idea what would happen to her after that.
She looked down at the hands that were keeping them steady. They were big and strong, with prominent knuckles and the white marks of scars here and there, and she could see that the grooves on his fingertips were dirty. They certainly did not look like the hands of a man who sat in a chair and played cards or drank all day, like the smooth-skinned white ones of her father.
Yet, he spoke like a man of refinement, and his clothes were of much better quality than those of the people who lived in the village. Was he a nobleman? A rich merchant? No, with hands like those he had to be a working man of some description.
What a mass of contradictions he was! She had to find out more about him, and decided to start with simple, innocent questions.
“What is your horse’s name?” she asked.
“Sable,” he answered. His voice was heavy and toneless, and he did not elaborate, merely leaving the word hanging in the air.
Claire was silent for a moment, then she said, “What a lovely name.”
She had expected a “thank you” or some other kind of acknowledgement, but got none. There was nothing but a heavy silence as she tried to think of something else to ask him.
Finally, she asked, “Where are we going?”
“Home.”
Again the word was a flat monosyllable, and Claire had to force down her irritation.
“Where is home?” she asked evenly.
He sighed, but made no answer. Claire tried one last time. “My name is Claire Tewsbury,” she said as calmly as she could. “Can you tell me yours?”
“Iain Ross,” he replied.
She turned her head to look him in the eye, but he avoided her gaze and urged Sable into a trot.
Claire dropped her hands to the saddle pommel and held on to it tightly. They were not moving fast, but the up-and-down motion was deeply unsettling to her. To distract herself, she looked around her, and was surprised to notice that the rain had stopped.
She had been so wrapped up in her problems that she had hardly noticed the weather. Now a weak sun had come out, illuminating the wild scenery around her. It was the end of August, and autumn was just around the corner. In Rose’s letters, she had mentioned the heather that covered the hillsides, but Claire had never imagined anything so beautiful.
