it wasn’t ready to die. Not yet. It pawed the ground, staggered, snorted—and began to race toward her.
She screamed and ran, looking desperately for a clear trail—and a tree she could climb.
Was it the pounding of the creature’s hooves she heard, or the rapid thunder of her own heart? If she could just keep ahead of it long enough, it would have to die, given that it was losing so much blood. It seemed as if she ran for eons, and still she could hear it coming behind her.
Then she stumbled on a tree root and went flying into the brush. Despite being certain she was dead, she rolled, desperately trying to jump to her feet and run again.
The boar was almost upon her.
Then she heard a new thundering drawing near and heard the whistle of an arrow cutting through the air.
The boar wasn’t ten feet from her when the arrow caught the creature cleanly in the throat. It seemed to back up a step, then wavered and fell dead.
She inhaled deeply, hunched down on the forest floor, shaking like a leaf. She blinked, and was barely aware when strong arms came around her, lifting her to her feet. She had never thought of herself as a coward, yet her knees gave way. She barely registered that it was Laird Rowan who had come for her, who had so unerringly killed the boar with a fraction of a second to spare, and who now lifted her cleanly to her feet, holding her close, soothing her as gently as he might a child. “You’re all right. It’s over.”
She clung to him, her arms around his neck, and as she leaned against the powerful bastion of his chest, she was all too aware that she was continuing to tremble.
“She should not have shot as she did,” he muttered.
“She” was the queen, Gwenyth knew. He was criticizing the queen.
She felt her indignation grow and gained strength from that. Her trembling ceased, and she realized Laird Rowan was shaking, as well, and she almost kept silent, but in the end she had to speak. She stiffened in his arms and said, “The queen is an excellent shot. Laird James should not have raced after her. He no doubt distracted her.”
“He was concerned for her life,” Rowan retorted instantly. “Apparently he should also have been concerned with yours.”
“Set me down, please, this instant,” she demanded, offended that he so clearly saw her as a useless fool.
He did as she demanded, and she wavered, then fell against him again. She really was a fool, she thought. She had not realized that her limbs had remained as weak as jelly.
He steadied her, not allowing her to fall. She fought desperately for strength and finally found it. “Thank you,” she enunciated, stepping back on her own at last. Of course, she must have made a sadly ridiculous picture, she thought, her riding hat gone, every pin lost from her hair, wild strands of it flying everywhere and filled with leaves and twigs. There was dirt on her face; she could feel it. Her riding costume was completely askew.
Embarrassed by her appearance, she knew she was defensive, and she even knew she had been wrong to take offense, when he had so clearly saved her life. As he stared at her, she felt the blood rush to her cheeks, and she wanted desperately to open her mouth and speak, yet something—pride? shame?—kept her from it.
She saw disappointment seep into his eyes as she remained silent, and that made it all the worse. Why did she care so much what he thought of her?
She managed to whisper words at last. “It wasn’t the queen’s fault,” she said, but she knew those words were not enough. He’d saved her life. She needed to thank him.
It didn’t help that he just kept staring at her.
At last she dredged up some dignity, as well as her manners. “Thank you,” she said primly and quietly. “You saved my life.”
He bowed low to her courteously, as if her words had not come shamefully late. “Perhaps you’ll learn to ride with greater authority now that you are home,” he said, and turned away, heading for his mount.
Naturally his horse had obediently awaited him.
She followed him, moving with swift and certain strides. “I ride quite well,” she informed him.
“Oh?”
She flushed again. “My horse shied and fell,” she told him.
“I see.”
She could see that he didn’t believe her. “She reared straight up, and then went over,” she elaborated.
“Of course.”
“You are impossible!” she exclaimed.
“I’m so sorry. Why is that?”
“You are not listening to me.”
“Of course I am.”
“You do not believe a word I say.”
“Did I say any such thing?” he demanded.
She tried very hard not to grit her teeth as she gathered up her torn riding skirt so she would not trip. “Again, I thank you for saving my life,” she said, and started down the path.
Unaware that he had followed her, she was startled when he grasped her arm. She spun around and stared up at him, her breath catching, her heart beating too quickly. Like him or not, he was imposingly tall and strong. He was also aggravating beyond redemption. But there was nothing repulsive about his touch.
“Where are you going?”
Where indeed?
“To find the queen.”
“On foot?”
She exhaled. “My horse, as you may have noticed, is nowhere to be seen.”
“Come.” When she continued to stand stiffly, he smiled at last and said, “You don’t need to be afraid of me.”
“I’m not.”
“Perhaps not, but you’re wary.”
“You haven’t learned to love the queen. Maybe you will now,” she informed him.
“I serve Queen Mary with all that is in me.”
“But it’s Scotland you love,” she informed him.
His smile deepened. “If it’s Scotland I love, she is the persona of Scotland, is she not? Now come along. Join me in the saddle, so we can find the others.”
“You’re horrible, and I don’t think I can sit a horse with you.”
He laughed out loud then. “I agree with you, and you attack me.”
“You are not at all agreeing with me.”
He reached out and touched her forehead, brushing a strand of leaf litter from her forehead. It was an oddly tender gesture. Suddenly
