Page 46

“ Stumblin’ around like newborn fawns, goin’ in circles.” Hector tutted. “Aye, very disappointin’, indeed.”

The lass sprang away from the rotten log she was perched on, hurrying to put herself between him and the boy.

Her brother, if what Hector had overheard was correct, which made them the siblings of that wretch and one-time friend, Johnson Blake.

A man Hector wished he had been permitted to deal with himself.

But Duncan had seen to that, denying him the chance.

“We want nay trouble, M’Laird,” the lass said, her voice barely trembling. Another disappointment.

He raised a dubious eyebrow. “If that was true, ye wouldnae have trespassed. Ye should’ve been grateful that I let ye live at all—kept to yerselves, kept yerselves out of me sight.”

The sister was a vision of loveliness, which made it an even greater pity that he would have to punish her.

He could not remember meeting her before, certain that he would have recalled a lass as uncommonly beautiful as her. Perhaps it had been deliberate, Johnson hiding his pretty sister away from the castle, knowing full well what soldiers and nobles could be like.

A sensible course of action, nay doubt.

Or, maybe what Johnson had done to Hector’s sister had made him take greater care of his own.

The boy was almost identical to Johnson, but the lass… she had sweeping waves of strawberry-blonde hair that gleamed in the shafts of sunlight that pierced the forest canopy, adorned by leaves and stray shards of twig as if the woods had wanted to give her a crown. A wild reward for her beauty.

Her eyes were the color of the bluebells that would grow in that very woodland later in spring.

Her face was heart-shaped, her nose almost feline, her cheeks rosy with the exertion of running.

She was tall for a woman, but that seemed to run in the family—Johnson had been a giant, and the younger brother was following suit.

Hector noticed the scratches on her slender arms, the rise and fall of a small but perfectly formed bosom that was streaked with dirt, and a faint red line across her neck where a thorn must have cut her.

His gaze lingered for a moment before roving lower; her dress rendered her shapeless, though he had seen her lithe, willowy curves in his study when her belt had not been tied around his gates.

“If ye would let me explain instead of leapin’ in with threats,” the lass said, flustered, her brother huddled behind her though he was a head taller. “We truly were nae tryin’ to cause trouble.”

Hector was surprised by her defiance, the upward tilt of her chin. “If ye were innocent, ye wouldnae have run.”

“Ye told us to,” she countered. “If nothin’ else, surely that’s a sign that we’re obedient to ye, M’Laird?”

He wasn’t in the mood to kill anybody, least of all a youngling and a lass. In truth, he had been in the mood to spend a quiet few hours with a glass of whiskey and a mountain of ledgers. But someone needed to teach these two some manners, lest they follow even more in their brother’s footsteps.

Hector rested his hand on the hilt of his sword. “Ye cannae be trusted. Come to me and face yer punishment.”

“I’m responsible for me braither,” the lass said.

Hector tried to remember her name. Johnson had talked about his siblings occasionally, but the memory wouldn’t come.

“I willnae let ye harm him.”

Hector shrugged. “Make it difficult or easy for yerselves—it makes nay difference to me. But ye’ve just learned that the difficult path is useless.”

“Ye’re nae hurtin’ him. He’s a boy, M’Laird. Aye, he looks like a man, but he’s nae—he’s a bairn. If ye’re the kind of laird who’d mark a boy for nothin’, then… perhaps ye’re nae much of a laird at all!” she shot back, igniting the anger that he had swallowed down on his walk to catch them.

He would tolerate certain things, but derision toward his leadership wasn’t one of them.

“Ye should learn when to be silent,” he snarled, pouncing.

His long, muscular legs covered the distance as if it were no more than a step, unhindered by the snaring roots and spongy undergrowth. He had wandered these woods since he was a boy, aware of every corner, every challenge.

A stride away from the tree where the two siblings stood, wide-eyed, he lunged straight past the lass and grabbed the boy with ease. One strong hand gripped a fistful of the lad’s shirt, tightening his collar until he flailed and choked as Hector pulled him away from his sister.

“I’ll make it a clean cut,” Hector said, his other hand poised to draw his sword.

Yer fear is what’s important.

The cut itself would be tiny, no more than a nick across the boy’s cheek. A reminder not to step out of line again.

Before Hector could draw his sword an inch out of its sheath, a body slammed into his back, powerful thighs wrapping around his waist, wiry arms snaking around his throat. The lass had jumped on him like a monkey, and she wasn’t holding anything back.

She tried to strangle him with one arm, but his neck was too thick. She tried to kick at him, but her legs were at the wrong angle. She tried to punch and scratch and claw and smack, which would leave a mark but didn’t hurt at all.

He could have held onto the boy through every second of her attack if she hadn’t used that moment, utterly desperate, to sink her teeth into his shoulder.

She bit him like a feral beast, and though the pain of it barely registered, the surprise of it caused his grip to loosen on the boy’s shirt.

Just enough for him to slip free of his shirt entirely.

“Run, Lyall!” the lass barked. “Run home and dinnae look back!”

She covered Hector’s eyes with frantic hands and bit down on his shoulder a second time.

But Hector didn’t need to see, able to hear the retreating, stumbling footfalls of the boy running for his life.

Leaving his sister behind to fight his battle—a child, indeed, who had not yet understood that it was a man’s duty to stand and fight, especially in the defense of a woman, a sister.

If I were anyone else, ye’d regret that choice more than ye’re about to, lad.

Feeling the squeeze of the lass’s thighs, half-amused by her untamed spirit, half-annoyed that he would need to pay the healer a visit for the bite marks on his shoulder, he grabbed the wild creature by the wrists and prized her hands from his eyes.

Twisting his body sharply, her thighs standing no chance against the movement, he turned to face her.

With no effort whatsoever, he folded her arms across her chest, holding her at a slight distance.

Her legs were still clenched around his waist, seemingly to balance herself, rather than to put up any further fight.

“Caught ye,” he whispered, his gaze flitting to her full lips, looking for blood. If she had drawn any of his, he wouldn’t take the insult lightly.

The lass strained her neck to look past him, over his shoulder, her wide eyes fixed on the retreating figure who crashed through the trees in the near distance. A lumbering, staggering boy who was far out of his depth.

“Ye ken I could catch him in minutes, aye?” Hector asked, his gaze falling on the ragged scratch that marred her pale, swan-like neck. It would need ointment, or it would scar.

His fingertips itched to touch the mark, to hide it from the otherwise flawless elegance of her neck.

Katherine? Was that her name?

He considered calling it, to see her reaction. But he was not certain enough that he was right.

Restrained as she was, the lass looked back at him, shaking her head slowly.

Her bluebell eyes gleamed with desperation, imploring.

“Please, M’Laird. He really is just a boy.

He didnae ken any better, and that fault lies with me.

” Her throat bobbed. “Take me in his stead. Punish me. I’ll do anythin’ ye ask of me, so long as ye let him go and dinnae pursue him. ”

Hector raised an eyebrow. “Anythin’, lass?”

She blinked as if realizing her mistake. Her thighs relaxed, and she slid to the ground, his hands still holding her arms across her chest.

“Ye should be more careful with yer words, lass.”