style="font-size:15px;"> “Hang on to me!”
Ire flashed on his sweat-streaked face. His grip tightened. His steps, however shaky, kept pace with hers. “I will.”
He would, but for how long? With the way he was trembling, the pallor of his face, and his sluggish movements, the only question left was when his legs would finally give out.
She scanned their surroundings void of the fall of rain. The fragile morning sunlight spilled over the treetops, dawn’s warmth meager against the cool mist clinging to the air. But with the Scot’s fevered body leaning against her, she was hardly cold.
They needed to find somewhere to rest and, if possible, build a fire to dry their clothes. Frustration brewed within her. With the woods soon to be swarming with Fulke’s men in search of them, they couldn’t take the risk.
The land angled upward.
Seathan halted, his breathing rough.
“We need to keep moving,” she said.
“I…” He closed his eyes, then slowly opened them. Piercing green eyes glazed with pain stared at her.
Beneath his intense stare, she caught her breath. Within the dungeon she’d believed his eyes black, but she was wrong. Exposed by the sun, they reminded her of emeralds beneath a storm-filled sky.
Where had that foolish thought come from? As if it mattered. Linet tried to push him forward.
He didn’t budge.
If he stopped now, there was no way she could carry him. God forbid if he passed out. “I said keep moving!”
Teeth clenched, he started forward.
Step by laborious step, they ascended the hill, each movement taking a visible toll on the earl.
Please let him reach the top of the knoll. Linet rolled her eyes at the absurdity of her thought. Here she was silently pleading they’d make it several more paces when days of arduous travel lay ahead, their path cluttered with mountains that made this rise of land look like a poor-told jest.
A journey that in Lord Grey’s condition, he would never finish.
After the earl’s surly demeanor and distrust, ’twould serve him right if she left him slumped against a rock. And why shouldn’t she leave him behind? She owed the rebel nothing. If anything, it was he who owed her thanks for saving his life.
Not that she expected his gratitude.
Linet took in the vast roll of hills ahead of them, terrain that would erode to steep angles of rock and cliff. Could she make it to the Highlands alone? Unlikely, not on foot. Why hadn’t she thought to have arranged for horses awaiting them? Then again, the chance to slip two steeds out of Breac Castle’s gates without Fulke’s knowledge was a near impossibility.
The forest before her posed a daunting challenge, with thick stands of elm, ash, pine, and shrub, wild animals, and rivers to navigate.
Although the English had subdued the Scots and dismissed the possibility of war as but fleeting rumbles of unrest, bands of English troops as well as outraged Scots traveled these lands. To come upon either could result in disaster.
Sweat streamed down the rebel’s wan face as he labored with each step.
Guilt rolled through her. Her brother was responsible for Seathan’s suffering.
Seathan?
Look at her, one kiss and here she was thinking of him in familiar terms. What next? Would her mind turn to other, more intimate thoughts? She sobered. No, Lord Grey was the last man she would seek out for permanence, or believe capable of giving his love. Warriors like him were drawn by power, by the challenge of battle.
She wanted neither.
One day she would find love, but it would not be from a Scottish rebel intent on war.
Seathan stumbled. “Bedamned,” he grunted as he righted himself. Lines of strain dug across his brow as he pushed forward.
“You are keeping a good pace,” she lied. She stole a glance behind them. Soon Fulke would order his men to search beyond the castle walls. With the earl’s pace but a crawl, Fulke’s knights would find them before midday.
The sun peeked above the trees when they finally topped the hill.
She glanced at Seathan. Haggard lines furrowed his face, his breaths hard, ragged gasps. However much they must keep moving, he needed to rest. She started to halt.
He scowled at her, broke free. “Go.”
“Are you addled? Without my help, you are as good as dead.”
A smile as cold as it was determined touched his mouth. “Dead? I grew up here. Unlike you, this forest is my home.”
“And if I leave you here,” she said, “your grave.”
“Better th-than rotting in Tearlach’s cell, or hanging from the bastard’s rope.”
“In that we agree. However determined—or pigheaded—you are, you would not make it a league before you fell on your arse.” She jammed her hands upon her hips. “Which would serve you right.”
Green eyes narrowed. “Be gone. I—I need not a weak English lass slowing me down.”
Anger ignited inside her. “Weak English lass? I could have left you in the dungeon to die, or abandoned you anytime since.”
“Tell me,” he said through gritted teeth, “wh-why does my freedom mean so much to you?”
She firmed her lips.
“No answer? I thought not.” Seathan waved his hand in dismissal. “You have served your purpose. Leave.”
Outrage exploded through her like hot oil poured on fire. “Purpose? You are an arrogant, ungrateful malt-worm. Stay here then and die. I assure you, I will lose not a whit of sleep!”
Linet turned on her heel and headed north. Let the braggart rot in his self-pride. Let him try to make the journey on his own. Yes, he’d make it—about ten paces before he fell on his stubborn, pride-filled face and passed out.
Then Fulke’s men would find him.
And kill him.
She glanced back.
Seathan hadn’t moved.
The irritating Scot stood atop the knoll with unwavering defiance. Oh, he was trying to look fierce, as if even in his weakened state, single-handed he could take on a contingent of King Edward’s men.
She stilled. Sweet Mary, his fierceness was but deception, proven by his swaying and ashen hue. And she understood.
An intelligent man, he’d realized that at their pathetic pace, it was only a matter of time before Fulke’s guards would catch up to them and put her in danger. He’d pushed her away—to
