Taming the Barbarian (7 page)

“Did I na tell ye to take me own steed instead?” he asked, and strode toward her. In a moment he was upon his knees beside her. “The mare was overwrought,” he said, and reached for her.

She slapped his hand away and leapt to her feet. Pain ripped through her like a cannonball. She covered the agony with a snarl. “It was not
Fille’s
fault. Something spooked her.”

“Nay. ‘Twas na her fault, ye foolish twit. Did na one ever teach ye how to handle such a fine steed? I vow, if one of me squires mistreated such an animal so, I would make him polish me saddle each day for a—”

“It was you!” she gasped, and stumbled back a painful step.

He lowered his dark brows. A formidable man with a dark temper. “What in bloody hell do ye speak of?”

“You spooked my horse. You charged out of the woods like a…” She flipped her hand about. Even that hurt. “A demented warthog. What were you trying to do? Kill me? Do you want the land so much that you would resort to murder?” She took a truncated step forward, though he was still glaring. “Is that your plan, Hiltsglen?” she asked, her chin raised and her heart pounding. “Or did you simply hope to frighten me? For if that’s the case, you’ll soon find that I don’t frighten easily. Indeed,” she said and poked him in the chest with her crop. It had broken in half and dangled like a withered root. “I don’t—”

“Listen, lassie,” he snarled, and suddenly he grabbed the quirt, yanking her up against his body It felt as unyielding as a boulder against her breasts. Planting a hand on his chest, she pushed herself backward, but he only advanced.

“I but came to make certain you did not break yer foolish neck, though I’ll admit I’m tempted to wring it meself just about now. Ye’ve scared the poor mare senseless.”

The world seemed to be slowing its pace. The first rush of anger was drifting away, and she found she was shaking. Still, it would hardly be wise to admit such a thing, so she narrowed her eyes. “Where’s your mount?” she asked, her words slow and steady finally.

“What are you babbling on about now?”

“Your gelding,” she said. “Where is he?”

“Ye needn’t worry about what I’ve done with me own beast,” he said. “Just be assured I would not treat him so thoughtlessly as—”

“You were furlongs behind at the very start,” she interrupted. “You could not possibly have caught up on the road.”

“As I told ye, lass, ye should not judge a thing on its looks alone.”

“You cut through the woods,” she reasoned.

He stared at her for a few seconds, then shifted his eyes away. “And what if I did?”

“The woods are thick and treacherous. Even
Fille
could not traverse them at such a pace.”

He shrugged his gargantuan shoulders. “So ye are not so fine a judge of horseflesh as ye think yerself to be. Indeed—”

“You left him,” she said, incredulous but certain. “You turned him loose and cut through the underbrush afoot.” And he’d caught her. Good Lord, what kind of man could run down a blooded steed?

His brows lowered even more, a feat that seemed impossible, but she barely noticed.

“Who are you?” she asked.

He shifted slightly, his booted feet stirring centuries of undisturbed leaves. “Do ye disremember, lass? We’ve already met. I be Sir Killian of Hiltsglen and ye the greedy—”

“And why do you speak like that?”

He narrowed his eyes. The scar that bisected his eyebrow and nose had turned pale against his swarthy features.

“There is naught wrong with me speech,” he assured her.

“
Naught
wrong?” she countered. “You talk like a suit of old armor.”

“Men of the Highlands…” He paused and canted his head at her. His hair had come loose during his pursuit of her and hung nearly to the incredible width of his shoulders. “
True
men do not leave a maid to ride alone into danger.”

She stared at him, her mind racing like a child’s top. “So I was right,” she murmured, awe melding with a quiver of fear. “You caught up to me on foot.”

He didn’t answer.

“Because…” she said, and found that she could not, despite everything, control the tiny smile that lifted her lips. “Your gelding is no match for my mare.”

Still, he only stared.

“Admit it,” she said, and laughed out loud. “I was right.”

“Aye,” he said, and, turning away, marched over to
Fille
, who watched them with flickering ears. “Yer a wily one, ye are,” he said, and, gently stroking the mare’s neck, led her away.

“And don’t you forget it. I know… Wait a moment. What are you doing?” she called and stepped forward, but pain shot through her knee and she winced. “Where are you going with my horse?”

“Think on it,” he said, not deigning to do so much as glance over his shoulder. “A bright lass like ye is certain to sort it out,” he said, and, striding onto the road, disappeared from sight.

T
he mare snorted and danced sideways, swinging her haunches across the rutted road like a bonny dancer. Tucking her elegant head, she rolled dark eyes at Killian and champed the copper mouthpiece as if she scolded him.

“Well then,” Killian rumbled, anger still roiling deep in his chest. “She should have been more careful with herself… and with ye. A spirited lass such as yerself should be coddled.”

The mare shook her head, rattling the bit and prancing.

” ‘Tisn’t me own fault she took a fall,” Killian told her. “I warned her to be cautious. She has a firm seat and a soft hand, that I grant. But she’s too stubborn by half. Stubborn and prideful.”

The steed lifted her perfect forelimbs higher and flagged her kohl black tail.

“Na unlike yerself,” he admitted, and straightened her heavy forelock with his free hand.

She flicked back her dark-tipped ears and bobbed her head. He scowled.

“And meself also, I suspect, but that does na mean she should risk ye on this road.”

The mare glanced away, rolling her eyes toward the north. Briarburn was there, just around the bend, the ancient house crafted of chiseled stone, the stables just as old and equally venerable. It was a bonny spot, set against a backdrop of old forest and sweeping green fields.

Killian had seen it before. That he knew, though he could not remember when. The ragged memories seemed as old as time itself.

It was peacefully pastoral now, but had it always been so? He could not remember, for it seemed almost as if he had viewed this place with different eyes. Was it then, that he had changed so greatly, or the estate itself?

He could not say, and turned his mind irritably aside, lest his head begin to pound with questions. The answers would come if he let them. He would learn all he could of the willful lady he had left afoot. He would find the truth and learn why he was here in this time and place. And once that was accomplished, he would do what he must, as was his wont.

” ‘Tis na so verra far,” he said, turning back toward the mare. “A furlong or two. Na more. Ye could run it in a matter of seconds. Yer mistress is well up to the task of walking it.”

The dark eyes turned back with accusatory arrogance.

“She’s na so delicate as she looks, I’ll tell ye that,” he said, and though he hated his own defensive tone, he continued on. “Maids.” He shook his head. “They play on yer heart while they plan yer demise.”

The mare snorted.

“Aye, very well then, I admit, ‘twas mayhap a mistake for me to leave her afoot. Chivalry demands better.” He drew a deep breath. Confusion rolled through him. Everything seemed wrong. But he dare not voice his uncertainty aloud. Confidence was everything. Weakness meant death. ‘Twas as simple as that in his world. But was this his world? Since awakening alone beside the road some days ago, nothing was clear. Some things he remembered, but cast over it all was a fog of uncertainty. “Chivalry…” he mused, his mind churning as the mare danced onto Briarburn’s sweeping drive, her hooves a staccato beat against the hard-packed clay. “It seems all but dead,” he said, but at that moment a man burst from the house and hobbled rapidly down the path toward them, a furry, skewbald hound in his wake.

“My lady,” he yelled when barely halfway to Killian. “Where is my lady?”

Killian deepened his scowl. It was bad enough confessing his sins to the mare. He did not care to share the news with this strangely dressed stranger. Though a few carefully phrased questions addressed to the miller’s son had assured Killian the lady had no remaining relatives, he found it difficult to believe that this fellow was a servant, for his garments were of rare quality.

“Who might ye be?” he asked, striding toward the breathless gentleman.

“I am Lady Glendowne’s butler,” he said. The cur peeked uneasily from behind his legs. “Please, tell me where she is.”

Now that it came to it, Killian felt some embarrassment for his actions, but he was not one to polish the truth.

“I left her down the road a wee bit,” he rumbled guiltily

The man stopped. His face paled. “She is not—”

Killian scowled. She must pay her servants well indeed for this kind of concern, for God knew she was far too imperious to gain it by other means. “She is well enough,” he assured the other, “but ye’d best take a dray to fetch her home.”

The manservant opened his mouth for a moment as if to inquire further, then closed his jaw with a snap and hobbled back toward the house.

By the time Killian reached the stable, a cob had already been hitched to a conveyance, the likes of which he had never seen. He watched in bemusement as the stout gray lurched into motion, with its driver bent furiously over the lines.

True, Killian thought, he had only been in London on rare occasions, but during his time there he had not noticed that the English were so very different from his kinsmen, or even from his French liege. The image of his master’s face smote his mind like the edge of a dull sword, burning on contact.

There was no name to accompany the dark, impervious visage, only uncertainty and swirling emotions, but it seemed almost that his lord had sent him here, to this very place, and yet, not to this place at all.

He shook his head, trying to sort fact from impossibility. It seemed almost as if… But he did not let himself finish the thought. Instead, he strode into the stable and set his musings firmly aside.

There, the scents of hay and horses greeted him like age-old friends. Killian drew the fragrances slowly into his lungs just as a squire stepped out of a roomy stall.

“
Fille
!” he said, and rushed to the mare before stabbing Killian with his gaze. “Who are you?” he demanded, and snatched up the reins. “What are you doing with my lady’s mount?”

Killian watched the boy run a quick hand down the mare’s graceful limbs before straightening with brusque irritation. His skin was fair, his eyes brown, and his hair as red as sunset. He was not unlike Killian’s own countrymen, but for the fact that by the ripe age of ten-and-five, most of Killian’s companions had already been to battle, had earned their scars, or been long since buried. ‘Twas doubtful the same could be said of the boy.

“I asked you a question, sir,” the brash lad demanded. Killian watched him, fascinated by the boy’s demeanor. Perhaps he was not a servant as he had first believed.

“How are ye called, lad?” Killian asked.

The boy shuffled his feet and narrowed his eyes slightly. ‘Twas most probably true that he had not plied a sword on the field of battle, but he was wary now and belligerent. The expression reminded Killian of the baffling lady. Perhaps the information he had so carefully garnered regarding Briarburn’s mistress was incorrect. Mayhap she yet had kinsman. Mayhap this lad was a cherished nephew or a coddled cousin. Or perhaps she was older than she appeared and had birthed the lad herself. If the English could erect the kind of awe-inspiring structures he had witnessed in the past few days, it was impossible to guess what other miracles they could have achieved. “Might ye be her bairn?”

The boy’s brows nearly met when he scowled. The bay gave him an impatient nudge with her muzzle. “If you’ve hurt either the lady or the mare, you shall surely come to regret it.”

“Ye’ve her infuriating attitude,” Killian said. “Did ye share her womb?”

The boy blinked, then reddened dramatically. The shocking color reminded Killian of the wild poppies of the French countryside, though, if truth be told, he could not quite remember when he had seen them.

“How dare you!” gasped the lad. “How dare you speak of her ladyship as if she were…” He paused, looking winded.

Killian watched, more confused than irritated. More fascinated than confused. “So ye are not her progeny?”

“Her…” The blush seemed to deepen if such was possible. “Do you mean to ask if I am her son?”

” ‘Tis what I said,” Killian told him, then realizing the misunderstanding, almost laughed out loud. The boy had not been thinking of such an innocent relationship. Indeed, he was considering something far more lascivious, and not for the first time if Killian guessed rightly. “What else might I have meant?” he asked, and gave the lad a stern-faced stare from beneath lowered brows. It was the same expression that had quelled a score of battle-scarred soldiers near the low-lying marshes of Aigues-Mortes.

The lad turned jerkily away, throwing up the mare’s near iron and fiddling with the girth. “I see you know little of my lady,” he said.

“Aye,” agreed Killian, “thus me question.”

“She is not yet five-and-twenty, hardly old enough to wed, much less to bear… to have…

to…” He turned to glare over his shoulder. ” ‘Tis not a suitable subject.”

Killian shrugged, watching the lad’s progress. His hands were quick on the leathers but gentle when he touched the burnished mare. “In me own country a maid might have borne a half dozen bairns before reaching such a ripened age.”

The boy gaped, his face still flushed. “Where the devil are you from?”

Where indeed? Killian wondered and watched the lad draw the tack from the mare’s back. The saddle was small and light, crafted of dark, finegrained leather, but it was the blanket that fascinated him most. ‘Twas not made of rough woven fibers as his own stallions had worn, but of a soft, snowy white fabric that cushioned the mare’s glossy back like a loving hand.