Page 42 of A Constant Blaze

Following her instincts, and what she imagined was a patch of slightly paler darkness in the distance, she moved stealthily on. Her straining ears no longer picked up human footsteps or heavier rustling. She’d lost them.

Or so she thought until she paused, leaning against an old oak tree, realizing she’d been right also about the edge of the woodland. From nowhere, something pricked the back of her neck and someone whispered, “Don’t move a muscle or you’re dead.”

Blood surged through her veins in a sickening lurch. Somehow, she suppressed the natural start of fear and merely obeyed, standing very still. It wouldn’t take much movement, though, to reach the dagger at her belt.

Every nerve was aware of the movement behind her as the man drew closer without the blade at her neck ever wavering. Close enough to have left his chest unprotected, close enough to strike with her elbow and run.

Unless he pushed his sword into her neck first, which seemed more likely. He was tall, from the faint breath tickling the top of her hair before he bent and searched her. Inevitably, while she stood rigid, his hand found the folds and rolls of Muiredach’s too-large clothing and then, more seriously, the belt at her waist and the dagger, which he removed. His hand lingered at her waist, searching.

She itched to slap it before he discovered her sex. But if that didn’t lead to him stabbing her, it would, surely, fuel his suspicion that she had something to hide. His hand withdrew slowly. His wrist just brushed against her breast as he straightened, but she thought—she hoped—that she might just have maintained that secret.

For a long moment, he didn’t move. Although his body didn’t quite touch her, its warmth seeped into her skin. He smelled distinctively male and yet clean. No common soldier or peasant. A captain, perhaps, or even—God help her—the Lord of Kingowan himself.

After what seemed like an eternity, the sword point withdrew and she heard the sound of it being sheathed.

Sheer relief caught at her breath. She took one step away from him, then another and another, and knew that she might yet survive this intact.

“Don’t you want your dagger back?”

She closed her eyes, for, of course, she did, for any number of reasons, chief of which seemed to be that it was Malcolm’s. And yet every instinct told her to run.

She compromised by halting and nodding. She couldn’t make up her mind if it would be better to turn and receive it or wait for him to bring it. But then, why should he? Drawing a deep, almost shuddering breath, she turned to face him.

Chapter Eleven

As soon ashe’d touched her, Malcolm had known she was no boy. The too-large, rolled-up clothes could have been cast-offs from a wealthier man, but no boy had an inward curving waist like that, let alone a soft plump breast. Or troubled to stuff too-long hair inside clothing. And no peasant ever smelled of that subtle blend of rose petals and heather.

The knowledge hit him like a battering ram. For several seconds, he couldn’t move, because, after twenty-two years, he again inhaled the scent of his wife. He stood so close, he could feel her tension, her trembling, the very fear she would never give in to. He could take her in his arms right now. If only he hadn’t been holding a sword to her neck.

Carefully, he lowered the weapon and sheathed it. And held on to the dagger he’d taken from her as she began to walk away. His eyes devoured her shape in the darkness, while his fingers stroked her dagger, its hilt and its sheath intricately carved. He knew it, too, because it was his. Her brother had given it to him. And he was letting her walk away.

“Don’t you want your dagger back?”

She halted, nodding. Some hair had come loose from the neck of her tunic. Self-consciously, she shoved it back in as she turned to face him, her hand held out. It became a game, to see if he could make her speak, make her trust in a stranger.

He closed the distance between them once more. Even in the dark, he could tell she watched him warily, poised for flight. So, he halted a pace away and held out the dagger, hilt first.

Although she didn’t snatch it, he could tell she wanted to. Instead, she closed her fingers around the hilt and drew it slowly from his fingers. She inclined her head by way of thanks, still avoiding speech. He was debating what question to ask her, to force her to answer before she again walked away, when he became aware of faint movement in the darkness beyond her.

Her nearness had dulled his instincts. He leapt forward, knocking her to one side even as he drew his sword once more and clashed with another on its vicious plunge downward. Malcolm wrenched the other sword upward, then twisted and crashed the hilt of his own sword into the side of the assailant’s head.

He fell like a stone. Malcolm turned, his sword before him as he searched every direction. As he should have done in the first place.

“You seem to have annoyed a few people,” he observed, finally re-sheathing his sword. In case his assailant came to quicker than he should, he kicked the man’s sword a few feet away and crouched down to feel his clothing and see what he could of him in the dark. A soldier, judging by his array of weapons. One of the Lord of Kingowan’s, presumably.

“But you are not one of them.”

Malcolm smiled because she’d finally spoken to him. The soldier attacking her had done him a favor, allowing him to win a part, at least, of her trust.

“Certainly not,” he agreed. “What did you do?”

There was a pause until he glanced up at her. Then she said, “My companion insulted them.”

“And left you to their wrath? I would like to meet this companion.” He rose to his feet, gazing down at her.

“It is not what you imagine,” she said in a rush.

What he imagined was that Halla and her harpist had already botched Mairead’s rescue. But perhaps she was right. Certainly, he didn’t fully understand.

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