“Ach, none of that!” The man she had bumped grabbed her wrist and wrenched her hand away from her face. “Look me in the eye, lass,” he demanded, and shook her hard when she did not respond. “I’ll nae go into battle with yer ill luck on me. Pray for me or be damned!”
“She’ll no’ be wanting to please ye, if ye frighten the wits out of her,” Colin offered with a smile. He paused in the process of lifting Revelin from his saddle, his gaze lighting significantly upon the hand squeezing Meghan’s wrist, and her captor reluctantly released her.
When Colin spoke again, he raised his voice for the benefit of the circle of men. “Ye’re no’ so superstitious as to harm the lassie? Let her be. She’s no account to curse ye…yet.”
Meghan did not object as he reached out, gripped her chin, and, jerking it upward, turned the right side of her face toward the men. “There now. Where would ye be finding a bonnier cheek? Smooth and pale as cream!” He playfully tapped her cheek. “Smile for the laddies.”
Meghan swallowed the knot of fear that constricted her throat but she could not unlock the fear-tensed muscles of her face.
“Ah well, ’twould seem ye’ve given her a fright, laddies. I’d best be keeping me distance till she’s no’ so afraid.”
He turned away from the group as easily as he had joined it and the clansmen melted away after a moment, their wary looks and mutterings disappearing with them.
Meghan stepped to the Scotsman’s side. “Thank ye,” she whispered nervously.
Colin looked down as he lifted Revelin’s limp body from the saddle. “’Twas no’ so great a thing. Ye’re a braw lassie or ye would no’ of slipped yer skean under me mail when I held a sword more than half yer length. Ye’ve a trick there, with that mark. Use it to yer gain.”
Meghan looked at him in astonishment as he winked at her. There was no fear in him when he gazed at her. The knowledge warmed her, and unconsciously she smiled at him before turning her attention to Revelin. She reached out and gently brushed a lock of hair from his forehead after Colin had heaved him over his shoulder.
Colin frowned at the gesture, his thick reddish brows drawing together. “Stay where ye stand, lass. I’ll come back for ye.”
The order aroused fresh fears, and Meghan grabbed his sleeve. “Where do ye take him?”
Colin’s eyes widened innocently. “Him?”
She pointed at Revelin. “His name is Butler.”
“Butler, it is?” the Scotsman murmured. “’Tis a name not unknown to us. Now I’d thank ye to stand a bit, lass, else I’ll show ye the way of it that ye won’t like.” He turned on his heel and disappeared into the milling throng.
Ualter, who had stood patiently beside Revelin’s mount, started after the man carrying his master. Then he halted and looked back at Meghan. His tail drooped and his head dipped in apology before he turned and trotted away.
Meghan slumped against her mount, but the horse objected and side-stepped, exposing her to the bustle of men and women. As before, they paused, some startled, some anxious, all curious.
Meghan looked down, concentrating her gaze on her toes. But, after a few minutes, curiosity got the better of her and she shyly raised her head to look about.
The woodland near the lough teemed with people, more than she had ever seen in one place at one time. They were
camped in the open. In the light cast by dozens of fires she saw that peasant men, women, and children, as well as warriors and their families, filled the camp. Of course, she remembered suddenly, it was nearing time for coshering. As was traditional in the spring and summer, whole communities were preparing to move from their homes in the valleys to take advantage of the new grasses growing in higher elevations. Meghan glanced at them and then quickly away, aware that staring would draw their attention.
In spite of her fear, hunger lured her toward the center of the encampment, from which the aromas of beef and pork arose. As soon as she passed the first set of tents, she spotted one of the communal cooking fires. Tied by three corners to stakes driven into the ground, a cured cowhide suspended over a fire served as a vessel for boiling meat.
They will eat well,
she thought in fleeting envy. Butter and barley bread had been the staples of her life before this, and she had had little of that in recent days.
When two soldiers passed several feet away she paused. Their voices were low and serious, and when they turned to gaze at her, her heart skipped a beat and she hurried anxiously away. What had become of Revelin and Colin? There were no familiar faces among the press of people, only the droning of voices, the ripple of occasional laughter, and the distant swirling of a lone bagpipe.
“Lass!”
Meghan spun about to face Colin MacDonald. “I’ve known nary a lass that could keep her word.”
“I was hungry,” she answered softly.
Instead of answering, the Scotsman motioned her to follow him and she did. When he turned away from the camp and the night quickly closed around them, Meghan fingered the hilt of her dagger, grateful that he had returned it to her. If he meant her harm, he would again feel its sting.
When they were beyond the reach of the campfires he stopped
and turned to her. In the dim light she saw that his expression was thoughtful, even frowning, but the darkness cloaked the look in his eyes. He gestured toward a fork in the roots of a huge tree. “Ye’ll sleep here.” He unwrapped the woolen mantle from his shoulders and offered it to her. “’Tis better than nothing, and there’s nae fire for ye.”
Meghan took the heavy mantle from him. She had no fear of the night or the dark woods, but Revelin’s disappearance worried her. “Where is Butler?”
“And are ye a whore for the Englishman?” he asked testily.
The word was unfamiliar to Meghan and she shrugged. “He saved me life.”
He studied her for a moment before answering. “He’s safe enough. Only I’ve me doubts ye’d care to join him.” Before she realized what he meant to do, he reached out, lifted her off the ground, and brought her tight against his chest as his mouth swooped down on hers.
Meghan felt no fear, only a momentary shock. His lips were warm and hard within the scratchy nest of his beard, lingering on hers a long moment before he raised his head and set her back on the ground. “Well now, I ken ye’re no’ so surprised by that as me. Mayhap ye’re a fairy right enough!”
He turned and started away, then paused and shook a finger at her. “I’ve nae cause to chain ye, have I?”
Meghan shook her head.
When he was gone, she huddled in his mantle, taking what comfort she could from his warmth still trapped in its folds. She knew that before morning she would be more grateful for the mantle than she was now. She did not mind the solitude. She had been too much with people these last days. She was well rid of them…all except Revelin.
The intruder who came crashing through the underbrush gave her no time to flee. She had no more than sat up with a half-cry when he was upon her, all damp paws and tongue.
“Ualter!” she exclaimed in relief as she flung her arms about his neck. “Where’s yer master?”
She leaned around the dog’s bulk, but there was no one following the animal. For a moment she considered ordering the dog to find Revelin and following him, but she quickly rejected the idea. Colin had left her unbound. Betraying his trust did not bother her; if he was foolish enough to accept her word that was his weakness. But—and the exception killed her desire for adventure—her power to influence the Scotsman was a tenuous thing. If she was caught escaping, she would be shown no mercy, and no power she possessed would save her…or Revelin.
She put a hand to her lips, lightly tracing their outline. The Scotsman’s kiss was not as pleasant as Revelin’s, but it was not unpleasant. She smiled.
She huddled deeper in the rough wool mantle and pulled the fox-fur hood up over her bedraggled curls. When Ualter settled down, his stomach covering her bare feet, she sighed and closed her eyes.
*
“Revelin? Rev, man! Wake up!”
Revelin awoke slowly, his senses sluggish. He lay on his side, his face half-buried in the cold mire of a bog. He coughed and lifted his head to clear it of the mud, only to choke as the rope about his neck tightened. He was bound hand and foot, his wrists and ankles chained together behind his back and attached to the rope that collared his throat. “God’s Grace!” he whispered, realizing that any violent move would strangle him.
“Feeling better, then, I see.” Robin’s ever-amused voice rose from the darkness beside him. “John and I were just speculating about what you’ve done to join us after so pleasant a journey.”
Revelin turned his head carefully toward Robin. The dawn sky provided faint illumination. He passed his tongue over his fever-chapped lips. “How long have we been here?”
John, on Revelin’s right, snorted. “Long enough to decide that your whore can do nothing more for you. God’s teeth! If
you weren’t here with me now I’d be gnawing my chains for a chance to slit your throat. I’ll not soon forget, Butler, that you did naught for your companions!”
“’Tis Hell!” Sir Richard cried, his voice echoing up from the bottom of his lungs. “We’re cast into the river Styx to drown in the foulness of our sins!” The cry of despair ended in a sob.
“Don’t mind the parson,” Robin whispered as Sir Richard began to mutter a prayer. “He’s been like that since the attack.”
Revelin frowned, piecing together the last hours. “I was struck from behind,” he said slowly. “How long ago?”
“Last evening,” Robin answered.
Revelin remembered now the saffron tunics wavering like flames in the torchlight. Only the O’Neills would dare to flaunt the outlawed color of their clan. “Why didn’t they kill us?”
John’s bark of laughter was bitter. “Do you complain? But, of course, ’tis a traitor’s part to act the innocent. Did you bargain with them, Butler? Did you promise them ransom for us? Or did you promise them the girl? ’Twas easy enough to see at least one Celtic dog panted after her.”
Revelin cursed and tried to rise, but the rope cut short his breath and he fell back gasping.
“Gently, Rev,” Robin chided. “In this instance I agree with John. It takes no scholar to realize that she’s the reason we live.”
John chuckled. “I don’t doubt but that she’s now in the company of Turlough…or that ugly red-haired brute with the scarred nose.”
“God rot you, you devil!” Revelin whispered viciously. A sick feeling rose in his throat as a dizzying weakness spiraled through him, but he gritted his teeth, willing himself to remain conscious.
John chuckled again, feeling better than he had since their ordeal began. “You bleed too easily, Butler. The girl’s one of them; he’ll use her well. If she’s a clever bitch, she’ll trade her charms for your miserable life. ’Tis my hope she pleases
him, since our lives have been spared along with your traitorous carcass…for the moment.”
Revelin continued to struggle against the chains that bound him until he felt a warm trickle flow over his hands and realized he had torn open the wound on his sword arm. He closed his eyes, trembling in impotent fury. Meghan was an innocent. To think of her, afraid…abused…raped!
“’Tis useless,” Robin offered softly. “You can’t free yourself. We’ve each tried. I only hope they remember us before the wolves smell us.”
John guffawed. “Are you afraid of becoming a bellyful for vermin, courtier?”
“I’d as lief not be,” Robin answered lightly. “Lord! What was that?”
The four men fell silent as the cry rose again, echoing through the marshland woods. It came a third time, a long sustained cry of terror-edged pain, and then it ceased abruptly.
“They’re murdering some poor bastard,” John muttered, loosing a string of curses behind the thought.
Sir Richard’s strident voice rose once more in prayer. “Lord in Heaven! Be to Thy humble servant in extremity as a drink of water in the parched desert! Hear Thy sinner’s plea and let this anguish pass Thy servant by!”
“Shut up, you fool!” John growled.
“Easy, Reade,” Robin cautioned. “Your bombastic voice carries, and who knows but it won’t cause them to look here for other sport.”
Revelin lowered his head onto the slick grass, his throat aching too much for speech. The soul in agony had been a male, of that he was certain. But it did not ease his fears for Meghan; they writhed like snakes in his gut. Men who came home in victory had only two things on their minds: whiskey and women. She was so young—
He swallowed hard, forcing his mind away from the horrible thoughts crowding it.
Sweat ran down his face, cutting clean paths on his mud-caked cheeks. There was nothing he could do until the men came for him. At least he spoke their language and would be able to demand an interview with their chieftain. If the O’Neill had heard of their captivity they might yet live to tell of their adventures. As Shane’s successor as the earl of Tyrone, Turlough O’Neill was known to show favor to the English. If he sent for Meghan, then he might learn that a member of the captured party bore the influential Butler name. If Meghan kept her head, if she realized the importance… If, if, if!
Revelin shook his head. Such a small word, and so much hung in the balance against it. Why should Meghan remember his name? If she had been frightened or, worse, raped by an overeager warrior…