For years now, she had watched her friends do just that. Turn so foolish with what Darlei could only term infatuation as to throw themselves away on some man who was no finer than he ought to be. Who sweated, and drank, and spat, and farted, and felt he could tell his woman what to do.
There was no man for Darlei, not like that, not in all the world—possibly not even the prince to whom she believed she was entitled. She would be cursed if she would lose her freedom to a Gael.
Thunder rolled again, much closer. The first drops of rain fell. At almost the same moment, she thought she heard a cry behind her.
Nay.Discovery could not come so soon.
On a rush of panic, she moved faster up the slope ahead of her, wending a way through the trees. She must cover some distance.
Before they came after her.
There was quite possibly not a finer tracker in all Caledonia than Father. Even in the dark. Even in the wet. Her heart strained within her chest. She must get away.
She must.
They came to a ridge of rock that dissected the trees, and she hesitated. The rocky spine stretched far in either direction. She could gain time by riding along it. Dangerous in the dark.
With very little hesitation, she mounted. Once upon her pony’s back, she became one with the animal, their muscles and spirits aligned.
“Away,” she told him softly, her ears reaching for sounds of pursuit.
The storm broke over them suddenly and with fury, a gift from the gods or something far less friendly. She felt Bradh’s hooves slip on the wetted stone and clicked her tongue at him.
They needed to move from this exposed ridge back under cover of the trees.
Lightning struck close behind them and the pony took fright at the hideous noise and blinding light. He took off into the forest.
Darlei should have known then that her escape was doomed. For some reason, the gods had turned their favor against her. She could not possibly hear any sounds of pursuit, with the storm crashing all around.
Neither did she or the pony see the stream bank ahead. It bisected the wood, the trees all leading down, and Bradh fell into it without warning.
The horse stumbled. Darlei fell off, something she almost never did, and landed hard in rushing water. Flailing, she struggled up, her thoughts all for her pony and not herself.
“Bradh. Bradh!”
Her reaching hands landed on his wet coat. He, like her, was down in the water, flailing.
With a groan, she fumbled for his lead, her hands moving over his mane. He came up and she led him out of the stream.
Or tried to. The bank was too steep, the water rushing. The dark between flashes of lightning was too intense. She could see nothing.
Not till they scrambled up the bank at last did she realize the truth.
Bradh could take barely a step. Her pony was lame.
Chapter Four
For reasons unknownto Darlei, the gods had doomed her escape. Brought this storm down upon her head. Put the steep stream bank in their path. Rendered her pony lame.
This, despite the fact that the same gods—those of blessed Caledonia—had favored her so often in the past. Favored her boldness and her daring. Smiled upon her exploits.
Not this night.
She stood there with the wild weather crashing all around her, Bradh’s lead in her hand, and equally wild emotions pouring through her. Frustration and anger. Protest and denial.
Why would the gods want her to leave the home she loved and travel to the west? Almost as far west as a woman could go and yet be in Scotland. Why would they want her to wed with a stranger, a Gael at that?
It made no sense, and her heart rebelled. What was she to do now? Caught here with a lamed pony.
