Page 63 of A Constant Blaze

He didn’t sleepfor long. His eyes sprang open, and she could see remembrance flash through them before he smiled and kissed her. Her heart beat faster as she imagined, welcomed a third loving. But he broke the kiss with apparent reluctance and began to pull her clothing back around her under the blanket.

“Go back to your tent and sleep,” he murmured. “I’ll be back before you wake.”

“Where are you going?”

“To see what moves in the dark before dawn.”

“I could come with you,” she suggested.

“Don’t tempt me. I’m quieter—and more observant—alone.” Under her gaze, he struggled back into his clothes and drew her to her feet.

“You’re loving this, aren’t you?” she accused.

He grinned, suddenly, achingly, like the younger Malcolm, and kissed her hand. “I am now. Come.”

Hand in hand, they walked the few yards through the trees to the camp, where Tomas still sat by the fire, regarding them stolidly.

“All well?” Malcolm murmured.

“Apparently,” Tomas said.

Halla walked past him with dignity and back into the tent. She thought the other women were asleep. She hoped they were.

Chapter Sixteen

Malcolm’s whole bodysurged with energy, almost bursting with joy because he’d known Halla again. A new, mature, aware Halla, more beautiful, more passionate even than he remembered.

As he crept through the dark wood, he had to force himself to concentrate on his path and his surroundings, not on her. But he wondered if it would have been like this if he’d gone home when he should, with his sons and the men. She would have healed him then as now. But he’d been such a mess, he doubted he’d have made anything right for her.

Deliberately, he thrust aside such pointless thoughts and reined in the energy that urged him to run, crashing through the undergrowth like a one-man army. He followed the direction of the fading tracks he’d found at dusk last night. He was sure they would lead to the raiding party, though the distance was another matter, and they would be up and moving at dawn, especially if they were aware of the king’s soldiers searching for them.

In fact, despite the delicious memory of the night, he found it surprisingly easy to stay alert. All his senses seemed to have been honed and sharpened by Halla’s loving. He felt awake, alive, as if he’d walked through half his life half-asleep. He had every intention of solving this mess, whatever it was, and returning home to Ross with Halla, to his sons and daughter, and his grandson, and his people. And this time, he would be in truth the Earl of Ross, not a deprived and discontented would-be king. The young man who’d always wanted more had finally learned to value what he had.

The inexplicable sense of not being alone preceded the faint sounds of cracking twigs and brushing leaves, the almost silent movement of feet on the forest floor. No army—or at least not yet—but one man.

Malcolm stepped aside into deeper cover and waited, his sword drawn, his ears straining. Still one man.

He walked warily into Malcolm’s view, a dark young man, his sword already in his hand. From his grip and the way he moved, Malcolm surmised he knew how to use it. One of the king’s soldiers, he judged. He wore a helmet and breastplate, so he was prepared for an attack. Malcolm, however, didn’t want to fight if he could avoid it. He didn’t want the clash of steel to bring the rest of the king’s men down upon him. On the other hand, he was understandably doubtful of the effect of stepping into the soldier’s path and introducing himself, at least until he had the upper hand.

Malcolm tensed, slowly drawing his dagger. If the man would only make a further one-quarter turn, he could leap on him, his dagger to his throat. Then they could talk in a civilized manner.

Slowly, the stranger turned, searching between the trees, as if he, too, sensed another presence and was determined to find it before he moved on. Malcolm took one silent step forward and another. Two more and he could jump on his man, rendering his sword useless until he could disarm him.

On the next silent step, a twig snapped. From sheer instinct, Malcolm leapt back. Just as well, because his quarry moved with fantastic speed, spinning around and cutting a wide swathe with his sword that could have cut a man in two. As it was, Malcolm took the tip on his dagger to save himself a nasty gash and reached up to drag his own sword free. Silence was no longer an option.

“Who the devil are you?” the younger man demanded in French, cutting upward.

Malcolm met the blow on his own sword. “I was about to ask you the same question,” he said, battering the enemy blade back and advancing. “But you seem a trifle jumpy.”

“You mean you were skulking in the forest with a dagger and you don’t want to kill me?”

“You never gave me the chance to find out.”

The Norman soldier was quick and his dander was clearly up. And since they’d begun it, Malcolm had no real objection to a fight if he could avoid making it to the death. So, he kept pace and made it quick, watching for the tiniest opening. At the first hint of one, Malcolm seized it, thrusting inward against the Norman’s blade and twisting up with such unexpected force that the younger man grunted and his sword flew through the air.

Malcolm lashed out with his foot, swiping the soldier’s legs from under him, and his opponent landed in the mud, Malcolm’s sword point at his throat.

“Yield, for God’s sake. I have no wish to kill you.”

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