Page 9 of The Daughters of Avalon
Wide eyed, and looking suddenly very contrite, the girl stepped in front of his horse, startling Malcom, but Merry Bells didn’t protest the hand in front of her nose.
“Wait!” she said. “Where will you go?”
“Home,” Malcom answered, and once again peered into the tree-tops, suspicious. Could it be she was waylaying him so her fellow brigands could come relieve him of his valuables? Whilst he kept little silver in his bags, his armor and horse were indispensable. As it was, he’d put far too much time into working with Merry Bells to start over again. The thought of losing her soured his belly. Not quite trusting the girl, he kept the grip on his reins, preparing to bolt, but, for some odd reason, despite his pique, there was something in the girl’s stark violet gaze that held him transfixed. Once more, he scanned the tree-tops, looking for compatriots.
Please, please don’t go.
That voice… it was the very same voice he’d heard moments ago, like a silky whisper carried by the wind…Was it her?But he never saw her lips move.
Who was she?Despite having pounced on him from the trees, he didn’t believe she could be a scout. Her hubris told him she was highborn. But even if she had perfected the haughty demeanor, she lacked the refinement he’d so often encountered in the women from Stephen’s court. In fact, there was something about the lass that reminded him quite a bit of his stepmother. Left to her own devices, Page FitzSimon had been a waif with a viper tongue. This girl, dressed in the manner of men, was equally as impudent as his stepmother had been, only with a wit twice as sharp. Yes, indeed, she was exactly like his stepmother, with that stinging pride she wore like a suit of armor, all the while she was frightened and alone. But that wasn’t all they had in common… there was something else… something about the tumult in her gaze… a sad, sad depth of despair that called to Malcom’s soul.
“Which way are you traveling?”
“North,” he said.
Her brows lifted. “Wonderful!” she said with false bravado. “It just so happens to be the way I am traveling as well.”
Malcom arched a brow. “What you mean to say is… north is the way you intended to travelafterstealing my horse?”
“Aye,” she said, with a bit of a blush, and Malcom meant to press her further. In fact, he wanted to ask her if she even knew which way was north because she appeared as lost as any soul had ever appeared. He opened his mouth to goad her—mostly because she deserved it—but then came a sudden chorus of barking hounds, and the girl stiffened, looking for the first time frightened out of her wits. Wild eyed, she peered up into the treetops from whence she’d come, and for an instant seemed to consider scrambling back up, but she met Malcom’s gaze. With eyes as wide as saucers and moisture brimming over thick, dark lashes, she begged, “Please.”
Confused, he asked, “Please what?”
“Please sir, we are going the same way…”
“Elspeth!” a man’s voice called, near enough to be understood. And then another shout. “Elspeth!” The hounds were closing in now, barking in a frenzied refrain.
Gone was any pretense at pride. “Please, please, help me!” she begged. “Please!”
Chapter
Four
It was the look of desperation in her eyes that convinced him. “Can you ride astride?” Malcom asked.
“As well as any man,” she answered. “Hurry!”
The hounds were close now. Malcom offered the girl his hand and she seized it without hesitation. He lifted her up into the saddle before him.
“Elspeth!”
Whoever was searching for the girl knew her well enough to use her given name. Malcom lingered only an instant, wondering what manner of quarrel he’d got himself into.
“Please,” she begged, urging him to leave before she had even a chance to place her legs astride the pommel. Responding to the fear in her voice, Malcom obeyed.
He snapped Merry Bells’ reins, but rather than demand the horse go in any particular direction, he let Merry Bells lead the way, hoping the mare’s instinct would serve them better than his own. “God have mercy. You chose a bloody fine day to flee!”
“Don’t worry,” she said, waving a hand as though she were dismissing the mist. “’Tis clear ahead.”
Bolting in a direction he would never have led her—into a thick cloud of fog—Merry Bells hurled over a low-lying bush, andeven before Malcom could think to ask how she could possibly know such a thing, they stepped outside the curtain of fog, under a bright spring sky. Stunned though he might be, he knew they hadn’t time to waste. The barking grew frenzied as he urged Merry Bells into a full canter.
“Thank you,” she said, and Malcom felt her shiver.
Feeling strangely protective over the lass, he slid an arm about her waist.
By damn, like his Da, he must be a bloody fool for a lady in distress because he knew beyond a shadow of doubt, as they flew over brush and bracken, that he wouldn’t give the girl up, no matter how many Welshmen’s arrows were trained at his back. They could riddle him with holes and he would take his last breath defending her. He wasn’t about to leave her to whatever fate those men intended to deliver. Leaving the barking and chorus of shouts in their wake, Merry Bells swallowed the ground that rose to greet them, and soon enough, the woodlands gave way to moorlands, the Welsh countryside vanished before England. All the prideful words that had been spoken between them were cast aside like dust in their wake.
The crossoverinto England occurred uneventfully—no signs of pursuit—and once returned to English soil, Malcom settled Merry Bells into an easy canter.
