Page 81 of Rebellion's Fire

Adam MacHeth’s vital face with its unfocused, unworldly eyes swam into her mind. She couldn’t bear him to die, couldn’t bear him to win. Involuntarily, she clutched one arm across her stomach as if she could keep in the pain. But she’d no more control over that than she had over who would live and who would die today.

She should be with her own people. She couldn’t imagine what this battle would mean for them. If William won, even if he killed the sons of Malcolm MacHeth, would he not face a thousand insurrections inspired by their mother, Malcolm’s wife? William had never met the Lady of Ross. He couldn’t know her strength, her sheer implacability…

If the MacHeths won… Either way, she needed to give her people whatever protection she could. Whether they were natives or Normans, she had to care for them. Somehow. And yet the battle noise held her still, eyes closed, until it began to die away.

Christian opened her eyes. Into the growing silence came another roar, single-voiced but blood curdling with fury and determination, almost inhuman. Christian’s spine tingled with primeval fear. Then that noise stopped, too, and the incongruous sounds of cheering echoed through the hills.

The battle was over and won. God knew by whom. Or who was left alive. Shivering uncontrollably, she urged the horse on after Gaston, whose frequent glances in the direction of the battleground told her where he would rather be. Perhaps where sheshouldbe. But she could do no good to anyone in the vicinity of victorious soldiers. Ranulf had made sure she understood that from an early age. Men still in blood lust were too dangerous to go near.

She hadn’t gone far before the sound of horses’ hooves penetrated her daze of anxiety. Because of the surrounding hills, she had difficulty gauging their direction, but she was glad of the covering forest just ahead.

“Hurry, lady,” Gaston said grimly. “There is more than one horse, and I’ve no idea if they’re ours or theirs.”

“They must be ours. Henry knows which direction we took.” All the same, she’d no intention of stopping until she was sure.

When they came to the thick cluster of trees, they paused. Soft hooves in the distance, probably skirting the wood. Another set, closer, but not yet close enough to worry her. And then, closer yet, a rustling… Were those hooves? Human feet? On the soft forest floor, it was hard to tell.

Gaston put his finger to his lips and gestured with his hand for her to stay put. Then he drew his sword slowly and carefully to be as silent as possible and urged his horse quietly in the direction of the rustling.

Christian waited, soothing her restive mount, counting the seconds. A clash of steel broke the silence, followed by a smothered cry.

More death…? Her stomach twisting, Christian urged her horse forward two paces and peered through the tree branches. A glimpse of gray and rust resolved slowly into a familiar gray horse and, surely, the battle-stained figure of Adam MacHeth.

Her heart thundered in her ears. She had to press her fingers to her throat to suppress the feelings trying to jump out through the hammering pulse there. Adam lived.

Adam lived!

What did it mean? Was he hunting William? Escaping the battle?

She couldn’t wait to find out. And there was no time now for stealth. She ducked her head to avoid the low branches, yanked the reins to the right, and kicked her horse into an instant gallop.

The animal bolted through the trees, swerving right and left to avoid obstacles Christian didn’t even see. She let out a sob of relief when they broke free of the wood and saw no one. They bolted on through some flat land. But the beat of hooves wasn’t far behind her. Adam or one of the others was pursuing. She felt at her girdle for the stone she’d picked up earlier. It was her only weapon, and she couldn’t waste it.

She glanced over her shoulder, caught a glimpse of gray horse, and kicked the pony harder. Impossible to outride him, but she wouldn’t make him suspicious by giving up too early. There was nothing she could do to prevent his catching her.

In the end, he catapulted beyond her and wheeled his horse around in a flurry of hooves and whinnies to block her path. She yanked on the reins to turn the little horse, but Adam simply leaned forward and seized the bridle.

Breathing hard, she lifted her gaze from his bloody hand over his muddied and bloodstained clothes to his equally bloody face. There was no way of telling whose blood it was, or what mixture. The recent violence stood out in his eyes like a vicious storm.

Life is a circle. This is where I came in.

He said, “William de Lanson is dead. I killed him.”

It wasn’t a boast. Or a confession. Just a simple statement of fact that tumbled hopes she had refused to harbor into the bloody mud of reality. She couldn’t help it. She swept her hand from inside the cloak and hurled the stone at Adam MacHeth.

His head jerked, whether from the blow or an attempt to avoid it, she couldn’t tell. She dug her heels into the horse, hauling at the reins, but the animal only snorted and stayed where it was. It had to. Adam still held it. Blood oozed from a cut in his forehead, trickling down his cheek amid all the rest. Some of the rest was probably William’s.

“Give me the reins,” he said steadily.

She stared at him wordlessly until he simply took the reins from her stiff fingers and led the horse forward.

Through rigid lips, she said, “Where are we going?”

“Home,” said Adam MacHeth.

Chapter Twenty

She refused toask, maintained a stony silence for the whole journey, even when Findlaech and most of the men she remembered from her original abduction caught up with them. She saw Henry and several other wounded men in their train, including Gaston. They must have found him in the wood. Some kind of parole must have been exchanged, for although some were on leading reins—probably because the rider was too injured to control the horse—the prisoners were not tied.

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