Hair the color of honey tumbled in a silken mass around her, and her full mouth was curved into a smile as her lithe, shapely body pressed against his. A sword’s wrath, who was she? He would have remembered bedding such an enchantress.
More importantly, how had either of them ended up here?
He fought past the pain in his shoulder as he searched his blurred thoughts to remember. Like a merciless assault, images knifed through his mind. An oath sworn to Douglas, as his friend lay dying, that he’d deliver the writ to King Philip. Being pursued by the Duke of Renard’s men. An arrow shot into his shoulder and his narrow escape.
Then blackness.
The writ!
Like a madman, Colyne grabbed his undershirt, thankful when his fingers bumped the concealed document. Careful to keep quiet, he withdrew the bound leather and removed the rolled parchment.
Robert Bruce, Earl of Carrick, Guardian of the Realm of Scotland’s seal remained intact.
Grief burned his throat at thoughts of Douglas. He hadna evenhad time to bury his friend.A sword’s wrath, his life wouldna be given in vain.The writ to King Philip of France would be delivered!
The woman at his side released a long sigh.
He shot her a hard look. Had she seen the writ? If so, she’d left it untouched. Where had the lass come from?
Her simple garb attested to her life as a beggar. Or mayhap a servant. From her healthy glow, he’d choose the latter. Had she stumbled across him while out gathering herbs for her lord and saved his life? If so, he would thank her. But before he allowed her to leave, he would discover whether she had seen the Guardian of Scotland’s document.
After concealing the writ, Colyne nudged the lass.
Her nose twitched in a delicate flare and she continued to sleep.
“Lass,” he muttered, mistrust roughening his words.
“Qu’est-ce que tu fais?” she murmured.
Stunned, he narrowed his gaze. What was a Frenchwoman doing in the dense forests of the Highlands? Disquiet edged through him. The French king’s bastard daughter had been abducted by the English duke’s knights and hidden in the Highlands. This was the very reason he carried the writ to King Philip, to explain the Scots were nae behind this treachery.
Could this be Lady Marie Serouge?
Again, he assessed the dozing lass in her mundane garb. He scoffed. Aye, as if the English duke would allow his captive, dressed in little better than rags, to be roaming the hills without an escort. A wash of dizziness swept him, and Colyne struggled to clear his mind. Wherever the Duke of Renard held the king’s bastard daughter, she was well guarded.
As if a fairy summoned, the woman’s brow wrinkled in a delicate arch as she lifted her lids. Eyes the color of moss leveled on him and cleared. Surprise, then fear widened them.
The lass shoved to her knees and started to scramble back, but Colyne caught her wrist. “I am nae going to harm you.”
“Release me,” she gasped.
“You tended me?” he asked, his voice rough with impatience.
Shrewd eyes studied him as if deliberating the wisdom of a reply.
“Fine, then. First, promise nae to run.” His shoulder ached from his meager exertion, and he inhaled a deep breath to remain alert as her image began to blur. Slowly, his vision cleared. Bedamned, withlegs as long as a king’s prized filly if she fled, Colyne doubted he’d be able to pursue her, much less remain conscious. Before he passed out, he needed to discover whether she posed any kind of threat to his mission.
She angled her jaw. “I could have left you alone and injured.”
Which spoke well for her character. Or indicated her presence here was planned. “But you did nae.”
“Non.” Her gaze flicked to his fingers curled around her wrist. “Now release me.”
“I will have your word that you will nae run.”
After a long moment, she nodded. “You have my word.”
Colyne let her go and braced his hand on the ground. “Why did you care for me?”
