Touching him only led to more thoughts of touching him, which led to heated stares and almost kisses. As it was, he’d seen her practically naked, and she hadn’t even cared. She’d wanted him to look. If that didn’t spell trouble, she didn’t know what did.
Rhiannon snapped her fingers, and Goosie jumped up onto her lap. She stared at Ian, his jaw tense, and she ignored the urge to reach for him and attempt to calm him.
“Shall we, my laird?” she asked.
Ian smirked. “Indeed, my lady, we shall.”
He flicked his horse’s reins, and they headed out into the darkness. She might not have been able to run well, but riding was a different story.
8
The sun had yet to rise as they headed out of the inn’s stable, eyes and ears keen for any sense of movement in the shadows of the village. Every tree became a potential swordsman, and every roaming dog a scout.
Ian had taken out half a dozen men at the tavern. Mostly, Scots who seemed down on their luck and had taken the bribe from Rhiannon’s betrothed or brother. He’d offered every man an out, but they were blind to his proposition when they had a bounty they desperately wanted to cash in on.
Though none had given the name of the men who sent them to attack, it wasn’t hard to guess it was Adam and his would-be brother-in-law because all of them, before their eyes rolled in the back of their heads, cursed the Sassenachs who’d promised them a big reward. And really, he couldn’t blame them for seeking a higher fortune than he had to give. Poor bastards had risked their lives without realizing how much they were getting into trying to fight Ian. Though he’d warned them, what reason did they have to believe Ian when he said he was one of Scotland’s greatest warriors?
And then there was Rhiannon.
Ian’s gaze roved over to where she rode beside him. The lass rode astride, her back straight, hands on the reins. Goosie was tucked into an empty saddlebag, her head poking out for a second before ducking back into her hiding place. The saddlebag for the cat had been the wee stable hand’s idea, and Ian was pretty impressed as he’d not thought of it himself. Goosie seemed content to curl up inside.
Just as she handled knives well, Rhiannon appeared to be an expert rider. At least at this slow pace as they sneaked free of the village. The truth would be revealed when they were out on the road. Rather than exiting through the main gate or the rear of the village, they left by way of the side, where most of the folk brought in their animals during storms. It was a small gate, rarely used, and not one, he guessed, the enemy would observe. He hoped the English would assume they would go out the front or the rear.
As they exited, he looked around, trying to make out every shadow and lump. When it was clear they were safe, he beckoned Rhiannon to follow. They would head out to the road by way of the fields, skirting around any ambush and then going on their way north.
The fields were wet from rain, and this required them to go slow. Their horses’ hooves sank deep into the mud, making sucking sounds with each step as they pulled their hooves out of the muck.
They took it slow, and he remained cautious. At least they had the nighttime darkness as somewhat of a protection, but even in the moonlight, if he gazed across this field, he’d be able to glimpse any lurkers, and the English could also spot them.
Breath held, words silent on their lips, they slowly made their way across the expansive fields until the road was in sight. Still, he bid them pause, looking up and down the road, trying to remember exactly every bend in the road, every massive rock or tree, so he wouldn’t mistake a band of men for what his brain recalled was an outcropping of fir trees.
At last, he felt they could move on, and he nudged his horse’s flank and nodded to Rhiannon. The road was drier and more compact than the fields, and they were able to pick up the pace. Rhiannon kept pace beside him, her body moving elegantly with the horse in a way that made him wish it were lighter so he could observe the beauty of her movements. Blast it all, but getting two horses was supposed to help him with his desire. However, it only seemed to make him want her more. Now he could see her, watch her, and she was a feast for his eyes, sending a million inappropriate thoughts running rampant in his mind.
Ian shook his head, trying to force himself back to reality. They were on the run from the enemy. Rhiannon had thrown a knife through a man’s foot. If they didn’t get clear of said enemy, she was going to end up tossed over a Sassenach’s lap and hauled back to England, where she’d be forever a prisoner of some brute.
There was no way he was going to let that happen. Aye, it was true. He couldn’t have her for himself, wouldn’t let himself have her—he’d sworn off commitment, and wanted adventure—but that didn’t mean he didn’t wish her all the happiness in the world. And a life that didn’t involve being suffocated by rotten men.
Just because the road ahead of them was clear didn’t mean they wouldn’t run into any English as they went. And he needed to keep his wits about him, else they would find themselves in the center of an ambush he should have seen forthcoming.
The enemy had to be lying in wait somewhere as they waited to find out what had happened with the men they’d paid. They needed to hurry to avoid them altogether—or at least put enough distance between them before their attackers realized they’d skirted around them.
Ian picked up the pace, urging his horse into a gallop. They needed to get a few miles away before he’d feel comfortable slowing down.
Again, Rhiannon kept pace.
He sped up.
So did she.
Ian grinned into the darkness. Mayhap they should make this escape into a little bit of a game. At the very least, this would help the time pass. And at the most, he’d enjoy the hell out of a little challenge.
He sped up again. She followed suit.
“Are you wanting a race?” Beside him, she flashed a grin that promised she’d give him the contest of his life.
“How fast can ye go?” He wiggled his brows in an open dare.
“Any pace you set, Laird Ian Sinclair.”
