Page 6 of The Daughters of Avalon
Take an example from Rose; steal his horse
Yes, of course!
The voice in her head was Rhiannon’s and Elspeth smiled, grateful not to be alone—at least, not yet. Fortunately for her—unfortunately for the man—she’d never met a beast who didn’t adore her. That man’s horse should be little different. She concentrated, bidding the animal nearer, recognizing the instant she connected with the beast, because the beautiful mare shimmied inside her skin, like a cat with pleasure over the stroke of a hand. And then, naturally, she sought Elspeth’s gaze. “That’s it, sweet girl,” Elspeth whispered. “Come closer…”
She wiggled a finger at the mare.
Chapter
Three
“Who’s there?”
Malcom clutched Merry Bells’ reins, ready to mount, but hesitated. The last thing he wished was for the horse to break a leg in this foul weather. Not only would it pain him to put the girl down, but it was a long, long walk back to Aldergh. But neither was he in any mood to spend a minute longer than was necessary in this ill-begotten territory.
“Who’s there?” he asked again, acknowledging the absurdity of his question. If, indeed, he had arrows trained on his head, he was unlikely to know it until he became a pin pillow.
“Come closer.”
Soft and whispery, the voice slid through him, like a summer breeze shimmying through birch leaves… but it was strange. It sounded far away, and yet still close, like the memory of a whisper breathed at his ear. Was somebody speaking to him?
Searching the woodlands, like Merry, he scrutinized the environs, peering this way and that, but still he spied no one. But rather than press closer to him, as was her usual response todanger, Merry Bells shifted away, twitching her black ears and lifting her head to peer into a canopy of green.
“What is it, lass?” Malcom asked, following her gaze—and caught sight of a figure swooping down from the trees, a boy, intent on landing in his saddle.
With every nerve in his body prepared for battle, Malcom reacted swiftly, taking the youth by the scruff of the tunic as he landed astride his saddle, then jerking him down, and launching himself into the saddle after him. It was a fluid maneuver, perhaps one to be expected from a man with expertise in mounting on the run, but betimes Malcom underestimated his own strength.
The boy landed face up in the bracken, and then he lay there, stunned, peering up at Malcom with dazed violet eyes. Malcom furrowed his brow.
“Ye dinna believe ye’d get awa’ wi’ such a thing, di’ ye?”
The would-be thief—a skinny, lanky boy—placed a hand to the back of his head, wincing, as he said without remorse, “Nay, but it was worth a try.” And then he sat up and groaned, loudly as he freed a ratty knot at the back of his head, and, in the process, released a rich cascade of red-gold curls. The sight of those tresses startled Malcom, so he forgot his ire, and even his question.
It wasn’t a boy.
“What in damnation are you doing here, lass?”
The girl’s voice was curt. “Must I remind you, sir, that you put me down in the weeds.” And then she rose, brushing bits of leaves and twigs from her clothes.
Blinking in disbelief, Malcom watched her with a growing sense of wonder as she peered up at him with almond shaped eyes, completely unafraid, and perhaps even daring him to defy her.
He wondered if she could be Welsh—a scout perhaps? He wouldn’t put it past those bastards to employ women in such a fashion. But her clothes were not those of a Welsh dissenter, which was to say, they were not battle-weary rags. As much as his own kinsmen had once been, these people were greatly oppressed. But rather, she was dressed in a courtly fashion, with well-stitched leather breaches and a tunic that bore the standard of the Holy Church—a red cross extending across the entirety of her tunic, with four small, identical crosses beneath each arm of the crucifix. He scratched the back of his head. Fortunately for his sense of modesty, the tunic was overlarge, covering her long, lean legs, else he would have found himself stupid and tongue-tied as well. So then, she must have come from Llanthony. Or perhaps from Abbey Dore and lost her way.
“You may shut your gob now,” the girl said. “The look doesn’t suit you.”
Malcom snapped his mouth shut. He didn’t bother askingwhat look; he suspected he already knew. He was, indeed, gobsmacked by the sight of her.
“Impious little thief,” he said.
“Aye, well…” She cast him a mean glance under long dark lashes. “Better I should be an impious little thief than a minion of the Usurper.”
And she shied away, giving herself space between them, as though she suddenly feared Malcom might get the gumption to seize her. He found that fact inordinately amusing—particularly so, considering the fact that it was she who’d assaulted him. He would have been perfectly content to walk on by.
She narrowed those shrewd violet eyes. “In any case, what I am doing here is no concern of yours,” she said baldly. “The question seems to me: what is a reaving Scot doing in the south of Wales?” Malcom lifted his brows, though he scarce had time to process what she’d said, before she added, “Do your kinsmennot have enough to quibble over scrapping after each other’s bones?”
Bloody impudent wench.
Despite that fact, Malcom couldn’t help himself. For the first time in a long damn time, he burst into laughter.
