Page 28 of The Scottish Bride

Swaying, she gazed down at him. Light spread across the sky, glossed the snow, kissed her gray gown and her long blond plait. Liam beckoned. “Come down.”

“I cannot.” She looked up, then down. “I will fall.”

“I will catch you.” He opened his gloved hands.

“You will summon the guards.”

“You are safe. I give you my word.” Even hushed, his voice sounded too loud.

She swayed. “Who are you?”

“Jump.” He beckoned. “Do not fear.”

“If I was fearful, I would not be on this rope.”

“True.” He widened his arms. “Jump!”

She let go.

Liam sank to his knees as the girl filled his arms, her weight less burden than the force of her fall. Swathed in skirts, she was trim and light. Gasping, she clung to him, head on his shoulder. Bracing a hand on the ground, he rose to his feet holding her.

“There,” he said, as relieved as she must be. “There.”

She pushed away, found her feet, stepped back. “Thank you, sir. I am fine.” Turning to pick up her scattered things, she stumbled and fell to a knee.

Liam grabbed her arm. “Go easy.”

“I must hurry.” She glanced up at the castle walls. “They will come after me.”

“No one has seen you, I think. Come with me.” He gestured down the slope toward the forest.

She stepped back. “Who are you? Why are you here?”

He knew her. But then he realized that she did not recognize the harper, seeing a knight in chain mail, a stranger, a threat. But there was no time to explain. Silently he picked up her things—two bags, a cloak, a narrow boot.

Draping the cloak over her shivering shoulders, he braced her arm while she hopped to pull and lace the boot. Then he tossed the bags on his shoulder—one had real weight to it—and led her down the slope.

“Careful, the hill is icy.” He took her arm, balancing her baggage on one shoulder. Roc, pacing and eager, ran toward them and went straight to the girl rather than Liam.

Astonished, he watched his dog nudge her as if greeting a friend. If he rose on his hind legs, he might knock her over. Liam steadied her.

“Roc, down! Good lad.” He reached out to pat the dog as she did, their hands meeting, his gloved, hers pink and raw from climbing in the cold. “I apologize,” Liam said. “He would pull you over just to show he is glad to meet you.”

“He is friendly,” she said. Roc licked her hand and woofed in delight. “Perhaps he smells my dog on me and my clothing. He is very like my dog,” she added, reaching out to pat him.

“He is not usually this friendly with a stranger, so it may be that he has the scent of your hound. You must tell me about yours,” he added. The mention of a dog inside Dalrinnie caught his keen attention. “Down, Roc. This way, my lady.”

“My lady? Do you know me?”

He was glad for the shadow of his coif and hood. “Would a serving maid slide out a window on silken sheets? Or wear a fine embroidered gown? Good Lord,” he said, shouldering her bags. “What is in this thing? Rocks? No, not you, Roc,” he added as the dog woofed. “I am talking to Lady Tamsin.”

She stopped short. “You do know me. But I do not know you.”

“This is Dalrinnie, is it not? And you, its lady? You are in a hurry and in some sort of trouble, I would guess. We had best not linger where we might be seen. Questions later. This way.” He led her deeper into the woodland.

“Why should I go with you?”

“Shall I drop your things here?” He stopped.