Page 40 of Laird of Flint
Then his heart wrenched as a horrible thought knifed through his soul.
What if the lady hadn’t made it this far?
What if she’d already met with an unspeakable accident?
What if the beast had misstepped as he had?
What if it had tumbled headlong into the crevasse, dragging its mistress down to her death?
The bitter taste of terror filled his mouth. It was too awful to contemplate.
Instead, he shook off the fear and donned the scowl he wore into battle.
By God, he was Sir Hew du Lac. A Rivenloch warrior. Fear only fed his resolve.
Steeling his nerves, he blew out a determined breath, pushed away from the wall, and swung his axe up over his shoulder.
Unfortunately, the weapon never made it to his shoulder.
Instead, the blade caught on something—a root or a rock—beside him. The halted momentum made him stagger and lose his footing. He fell to one knee. As he tried to lever up with the other leg, the earth gave way beneath his boot, launching a hailstorm of rocks into the crevasse.
He slammed his left hand forward, grasping for purchase. But his palm scraped across the ground as his weight began to pull him over the crumbling edge.
Grimacing, he scrabbled at the slick growth for a handhold and found none.
His last prayer as the earth opened its dark maw to devour him was that the lady had not met a similar fate.
Chapter 8
Carenza heard the rockslide behind her. She gasped and froze.
Something or someone was on the path. Orhadbeen on the path. That much rock sliding down the hill could mean they’d fallen into the ravine.
But who or what was it? A wolf? A lost lamb? That meddlesome knight of Rivenloch?
She immediately regretted calling him that. After all, he’d protected her from a beating at the Boyles’ hands. He’d kept her secret, not once revealing to them that she was a lass. And he’d sworn on his knighthood he wouldn’t turn her in to the laird.
Still, it would be terribly convenient for her if he…disappeared. She entertained the idea for the space of a heartbeat.
But despite her desperation—desperation that had driven her to nefarious behavior like sneaking out at midnight and thieving cattle—at heart she was still Lady Carenza. Her father’s pride and joy. Her clan’s inspiring figurehead. The laird’s daughter, who brought love, light, and kindness to everyone she met.
She didn’t have a ruthless bone in her body. And she had no appetite for violence, whether it was against coos, spiders, or even rampaging Vikings.
She sighed in surrender. If she didn’t turn back, she’d never forgive herself.
Silently cursing her soft heart, she found a wide part of the trail where she could turn Hamish around. Slowly and carefully, assuring his hooves found solid ground, she began leading him back down the mountain.
As she descended, she began to hope the Rivenloch warrior hadn’t fallen into the chasm, despite the inconvenience of his presence. She couldn’t say why exactly. After all, she didn’t even know the man.
But there was something she’d glimpsed in his eyes that told her there was more to him than just his Viking’s body and a warrior’s lust for battle. Something honest. Something direct. Something pure, intense, and worth investigating.
No one had ever looked at her like that before. Men either leered at her in open admiration or shyly shunned her gaze. But the warrior had regarded her with respect, with honor, with…
“Argh…”
Carenza hurried in the dark toward the sound of gasps and groans. It was indeed the Viking. And her eyes widened when she saw his predicament.
“Och!” she cried.
