Page 25 of The Forest Bride

“I will not hurt you. Be still,” he whispered. “There are guards up there. Hush if you value your life.”

She stopped. He rolled, then sat up and pulled her against his chest in the iron band of his arms. She whimpered in protest or in pain.

“Let me go,” she gasped again.

“Listen to me,” he said, low and fierce at her ear. “They will kill you if they find you. I will not.Hush.”

Voices sounded above, very close. She went still and lay against him, his cheek resting on the mass of her tangled hair, red as flames amid the green shadows that hid them. Under his arm, he could feel her heart pounding.

Several moments passed. Finally, there was silence all around. When he was sure the men were gone, he loosened his grip. “Sorry,” he grumbled.

She bit his finger. He winced and swore, pulled her tightly against him again. She weighed little for all her strength, and she fought, twisting, pulling, scratching.

“Wildcat,” he said. “If I let you go, you are surely dead, but not by my hand.”

She went limp again. He wondered if he had squeezed the breath out of her. He released his hold a little more, but she twisted quick, so he tightened again.

“Quiet. And do not bite me.” When she nodded, he relaxed his fingers cupping her jaw. He did not relax his steely embrace.

“Beast,” she said, then bent her knee and kicked back, hitting him hard on the thigh—too high for comfort. He rolled to press her to earth, his weight on her back.

“Margaret Keith, you have gone feral, I swear,” he breathed.

She froze. Then a sob tore free. “You! Hateful beast!”

“So you remember me. Sit up, wildcat.” He lifted her upright to lean against him in a cavern of ferns and juniper, bordered by thorny bushes that he tried to avoid, but a prickly frond slapped her cheek.

“Ow,” she said. “Thorns. Oww.”

“Sorry. Wicked stuff, gorse.” He shifted, pulling her to him, one arm braced over her chest, fingers tight on her arm. “We need to stay clear of the thorns, but we cannot move from here. I am sorry if you are hurt.”

“Not the gorse. My shoulder. My knee. Let me up,” she gasped. “Why do you hide with me? You would hand me over to them if they came by.”

“I will not. They would kill you without hesitation. I, at least, would ask questions before I throttled you.” He winced as another thorn scraped his hand.

Scuttling with her toward the softer haven of the ferns, he settled behind her, trapping her in his arms and folding a leg over her knee. “Sit still. Tilt your head. Let me see if I can getthese.” He scraped a thorn from her cheek, brushed the blood away with his thumb, then pulled a few prickly bits tangled in her hair.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

“Now,” he murmured, “tell me what the devil is going on.”

“Did I kill him?” she asked softly.

“Sir John? He will be fine.”

“Good. The arrow shaft must have been warped.”

He grunted. “It was not. I saw it. Perfectly straight. It should have gone into the target—or into Menteith, where you sent it.”

“I aimed at the target. Are you justiciar in the north?”

“Aye,” he grunted.

“So you can arrest someone? Imprison them?”

“I may do so now if you do not tell me what this is about.”

“You could arrest Menteith?”