but it weighs down a man and his mount and makes him far less agile in battle.”
Hunter grunted. He’d heard that argument from more than one Scot who preferred the traditional armaments to the armor popular in England and Europe. “This time, I’d say my plate was both blessing and potential curse. My thanks, for hiding me earlier and for getting me free.” Bracing his hand on a huge boulder, he stood. Pain stabbed through his left ankle, sending him back down.
“What is it?”
“My ankle.”
“Can you move it?”
Hunter warily rotated the foot, then nodded.
“Mayhap it is not broken, then.” She tugged off his boot.
Gritting his teeth against the pain, Hunter endured her poking and prodding.
“A bad twist, I’d say.”
“Bloody hell!” Hunter gazed angrily around at the stark, wild land. Then a new worry intruded. “The stallion?”
“I—I do not know. I think he slid on past us, but I have not heard a sound, from below.”
They both turned to look at the wall of trees and rocks that hid the rest of the descending slope, then at each other. The same thought was in both their faces. The horse was dead.
“I am sorry,” she whispered.
“So am I. My sire raised him from a colt.”
Tears glinted in her eyes. “I could go down and search.”
“Nay.” The tightness in Hunter’s chest expanded to fill his throat. “He must be dead. An injured horse is not quiet.”
“We cannot stay here.”
“I know.” Hunter glared balefully at his swollen ankle. If worse came to worst, he’d walk on it and damn the agony.
“It may not hold you.”
“It will,” he snapped. “But there is no sense blundering about in the dark. Mayhap a few hours’ rest will improve it.”
“Hmm.” Allisun doubted that but saw no reason to argue. A poultice might aid the healing, but the herbs she’d brought with her in case anyone was injured were lost with her horse. “I could walk up to the trailhead and—”
“Return with your kin.” His face and voice were as fierce as they’d been when he’d rescued heir.
“Nay, that is not what I meant.” But she knew he didn’t believe her. Why should he? Though they’d worked together to escape the stampede and the Bells, they were enemies.
“They will come looking for you?” he asked.
“Aye. Of a certainty they will.” Providing they were alive and free. Sweet Mary, what if they weren’t? What if—?
“Just as my men will search for me.”
“Providing the Bells did not get them all.”
He snorted. “My men are more than a match for that rabble.”
“That rabble is the most ruthless fighting force about.”
“My men will best them.”
Arrogant ass. Allisun glared at him. “The Bells may be more interested in cattle stealing than fighting.”
“Let’s hope so, for all our sakes. But it may be some time before my men find us.” He gazed up the mountain, then back at her. “We should get what rest we can.”
Allisun glared right back at him. “I have no intention of sitting here, waiting on a bunch of McKies.”
“Because of the feud.”
“Of course.”
“So, you are a Murray.”
“I never said—”
“Allisun Murray?”
She gasped. “How can you know that?”
“My uncle said that with your brother gone, you would lead your kinsmen in their raids. I thought him wrong to accuse a woman of such heathenish ways, but I was mistaken.”
“Aye, you were.” Allisun leaped up. “About so much.” She whirled to leave.
He grabbed her ankle, bringing her to the ground with a plop and a grunt of pain. “You are my prisoner, and so you’ll stay.”
“Nay.” She lashed out at him with her free foot. He captured that, too.
Holding both her ankles in one wide hand, he whipped off his belt with the other. “You are my prisoner.”
“I saved your life,” she exclaimed. “I could have left you here, unconscious, for the Bells to find.”
“And I could have let you fall to the stampede.” He hauled her closer, looped one end of the belt around her right wrist, the other around his left. “I would say we are even.”
Fury overcame her fear. “You McKies owe me for the deaths of my father and brothers.” She reached for her knife.
Before the blade cleared the scabbard, he seized her hand and held it fast. My name is Carmichael, not McKie.”
“Carmichael?” Her face turned whiter; her eyes widened.
“Hunter Carmichael,” he said with relish.
“You were there that day.”
“Aye,” he snapped. “I saw your father take my aunt.”
The color rushed back into her cheeks. “You saw, but you know nothing.” Her eyes narrowed. “This feud was your fault. Had you not raised a hue and cry—”
“Your lecherous sire would have gotten away with my aunt and no one would have known whom to blame for the heinous deed.”
She laughed, the sound choked, wild and bitter. “How little you know,” she whispered.
“I know what I saw.”
“Appearances can be deceiving.”
Not to a man who had always dealt in facts. “I was there.”
“So you were.” Her shoulders slumped. She bent her head and repeated the phrase softly, sadly. “And because you were, my family has been hounded—”
“With good reason.”
“So you say.”
Hunter stared at her; trying to pierce the veil of hair that hung before her delicate profile. “What are you saying?”
She
