Page 9 of Captured By the Highland Devil
Coming to his side, Galan shook his head. “I’d advise ye nae to ask her that question when she arrives.”
It was shortly after dawn. While the sun began to peak through the clouds, parts of the mountain beyond still lay in shadow. The storm had spent itself overnight and moved on, leaving the air fresh and crisp.
With how unpredictable the weather was in early spring, he was eager to get on the road. Ruben was not fond of getting dousedin a deluge. He’d had enough of that during his training and hunting days.
“God’s blood,” he swore. “Why won’t she hurry?”
As he made to head to the steps, the doors opened and Paige stepped onto the top step with her father beside her. Her petite, voluptuous figure was covered in a plain travelling gown and a thick wrap around her shoulders.
Her hair was pinned away from her face and braided in two thick ropes that dangled to her rounded backside. She lifted the finely woven shawl and wrapped it around her head. Footmen were coming out with her trunks and parcels and hefting them to the wagon waiting for them.
“T’is about time,” he muttered.
She looked around the courtyard, while he strode to MacPherson. “We should be getting’ on, MacPherson; I’ll be sendin’ the marriage license to the church as soon as I get to me home. The bishop will send ye yer copy at their discretion.”
When the laird did not reply, Paige quietly asked, “Faither?”
“Ye do so, McKinnon,” he said stiffly. The words sounded as if he’d scarped them from the bottom of his throat. “If ye daenae protect me daughter, I will call for yer head.”
Ruben’s expression was flat. “I daenae respond to threats, MacPherson.”
“T’is nae a threat,” her father said. “It’s a warnin’.”
Dismissing her father with a cutting glance, Ruben looked to Paige. “We must leave, now,” he said. “Our horse is waitin’.”
She stared at him. “Ourhorse?”
“Yes, lass,” he said, striding to where Goliath was impatiently pawing the ground.
Paige gazed at the horse with widened eyes. “This is yer horse?”
“Aye,” he said while crouching to check the girth. “What do ye expect a murderer to ride to war upon? A pony? A mule perhaps?” Getting to his feet, he fixed the saddle. “Could it be that I rode into war on a chariot? A horse with wings, perhaps?”
Her cheeks burned. “Ye can stop mockin’ me now.”
“We’re losin’ time,” he said. “I can lift ye onto the horse if ye’d like” he said.
“Surely ye have a carriage,” she said. “I can get one of me faither’s?—”
“Nay,” Ruben stopped her. “T’is either ye ride with me or ye walk fourteen miles through forestland and marshes. Now, should I lift ye or will ye walk the way?”
“I—” she paused.
His left brow ticked up. “Can ye ride? Ye seem like one of those dainty English lasses who rely on a carriage to take them everywhere.”
Her lips were tightened. “I’ve known how to ride a horse since I was seven.”
“Good enough, then ye’ll ride,” he patted the horse’s neck. “I will ask for a third and a last time. Do ye need me help to get into the saddle?”
“Ye daenae need to do so.” Paige said, turning to the impatient horse. “I am nae crippled.”
Ruben stiffened; a flare of heat ran up his chest. The offhanded words she had just said were like a double-edged sword to his gut.
Did she know about his father? Did she know about the cruel sickness that had taken him out of his prime long before he was due to leave? Was that a barbed taunt to get under his skin?
She did not look back at him before she put her foot in the stirrup and hauled herself onto the horse. Ruben waited until she was settled down then and climbed up behind her.
Turning the warhorse, he urged it into a brisk walk down the hill and on the flat urged into a trot. She sat side-saddle and he had his arms around her as they rode.
