Page 68 of Bride of Mist
Eventually, the excitement of battling outlaws and sparring with the lass faded. More pressing matters needed to be addressed. Kirkoswald. The mac Girics. And the Rivenloch army, marching inexorably toward his clan castle.
The sooner he unearthed the truth, the sooner Feiyan could call off the hounds of war. And that critical mission made it easier to speak about the unspeakable—the horrific carnage he’d witnessed.
“About Kirkoswald,” he said as the trail widened through a glade of young elms, “I’ve racked my brain. But I can’t fathom how killin’ an entire village could have benefited anyone.”
“What about someone from Kirkoswald?” she asked. “Could one of them have done it? Is it possible there was some indiscretion among the villagers? An unfaithful wife? An angry cuckold? An inconvenient conception?”
That was impossible to know. “Who can say what happens ’tween the linens in the dark?” Then he frowned. “But to slaughter the whole village…”
“’Twould require a great deal of rage,” she agreed.
They both sighed. It seemed they were circling around and around and getting nowhere. And as they emerged onto a small glen in the middle of the woods, Dougal saw the sun was already heading toward the west. By his reckoning, they should be more than half the distance to The Stag’s Head. He didn’t want to miss the inn.
“We should find the main road,” he said.
Traveling in plain sight was risky. If a Rivenloch warrior happened to spot the laird’s niece ambling alongside the savage who’d ravaged the tournament at Creagor, he’d likely swing his sword first and ask Dougal his name as he lay dying.
Chapter 18
The mac Darragh horse, it turned out, didn’t like bearing its two young riders any more than the two riders liked riding him—as Adam called it—in bare-backed, ballock-crushing discomfort.
But at least the beast cooperated as the cousins put him through his paces along the main westward road. He was a beautiful creature. It was hard to imagine he belonged to such an ugly master.
“We should keep him,” Gellir decided.
“Aye,” Adam said over his shoulder. Then he reconsidered. “Unless you think wecantrade him for my sister.”
“’Twill not come to that,” Gellir assured Adam. “You’ll see. She may be home already. ’Twould be just like Feiyan to turn up the moment the Rivenloch warriors are riding out the gates to search for her.”
“Aye,” Adam said uncertainly. “Maybe.”
“Meanwhile, we’ll have a fine adventure, you and me. Go to Darragh. Take a peek at the sea in the west. Then ride home with this prize of a horse.”
“Sure.”
Gellir didn’t want to add that he didn’t know what he’d find once they arrived. Feiyan hanging from a gibbet? A clan mourning the assassination of their most vicious Darragh warrior? Maybe both.
Whatever awaited them, they had to get there with all haste. Not only was time of the essence, but dark would be falling soon. Gellir didn’t want to be caught without food and lodging in strange country.
“The road’s straight here,” he said. “Let’s see how fast this beast can go, aye?”
Gellir gave the horse a nudge of his heels and nearly took a tumble when the animal shot into a full gallop, scattering pebbles and earth in his wake.
The dust was still settling behind him as he reined the horse to a walk at the curve of the road, a hundred yards later. If he’d hesitated a moment longer, he might have seen a pair of woodland travelers emerging upon the main road where he’d first spurred the horse to full speed.
But he was looking forward—toward the setting sun, to a room and supper, to finding Feiyan and putting his cousin’s fears to rest.
“Someone’s in a hurry,” Dougal remarked as they emerged upon the main road.
He couldn’t see the rider who’d just galloped around the bend in a cloud of dust. But he could hear the thundering hoofbeats of a horse being ridden fast and hard.
He didn’t say what was on his mind—that he’d ride that fast and hard if he were a Rivenloch warrior seeking a valuable lass like Feiyan. He only hoped her clansmen didn’t intend to take up lodgings at The Stag’s Head. He had no desire to be murdered at a roadside inn.
If Feiyan thought the rider might be her clansman, she gave no indication. She wasn’t much interested in the traffic along the road. She was still trying diligently to uncover who was responsible for the atrocity.
“You said there were no survivors from Kirkoswald,” she said.
“Aye.”
