Ifthey were to believe. And how could he not? How could he ignore the nameless worry clawing at the back of his throat like a living creature?
A slight pressure with his heels and his horse sprang forward, taking the downward slope as quickly as possible.
It seemed an eternity cutting down the distance between them and their destination, but at last they made their way through the close-growing trees, to the opening at the very heart of the copse.
There, in the center of a stone ring, on a strangely green clump of vegetation, lay a crumpled body.
“By Freya,” Malcolm hissed, sliding down from his mount and hitting the ground at a run. He remembered this place from his dream now, reality sharpening the hazy dream vision into clear focus.
She lay curled on the ground, wet hair the color of an autumn field splayed across her face.
It was only as he reached her side and knelt next to her that the enormity of her being here struck him. He’d dreamed it. He’d ridden all this way to find her. And yet, somehow, he’d half expected to find the ring of stones empty.
Expected or hoped?
With a shaking hand, he gently swept the hair from her face and ran one finger down her cheek.
By the Gods, she was lovely!
“She lives?” Patrick stood beside him, his eyes scanning the forest.
Aware of his brother’s attention, Malcolm willed his hands to steady as he slipped his fingers to the side of her throat.
The beat beneath his touch was strong and regular.
“She does.”
“Then best we keep her that way by getting her out of here and back to Castle MacGahan. She’s trouble enough without our adding more to it.”
Acknowledging the wisdom of Patrick’s words with only a nod of his head, he bent again over the woman. He thrust his arms under her shoulders and knees and rose to his feet, lifting her, cradling her close to his chest.
Her eyelids twitched and one corner of her softly pink lips lifted as if in amusement.
By the gods!
He would admit that his brother’s worry for their safety was all too real. Someone had to be responsible for this woman being here. Someone who could yet lurk under cover of the forest. But Patrick was wrong about the woman herself. The beauty in his arms was anything but trouble. She couldn’t be.
He breathed in the scent of her, light and fragrant, like a warm day in spring. Her skin, soft and flawless, brought to mind the petals of a newly unfurled flower.
That was her exactly. A delicate flower.
He turned his head to say as much as Patrick tracked round the circle, when a flash of movement caught his eye. The “delicate flower’s” fist smashed into his jaw before he could draw his next breath.
“What the hell?” she demanded, her eyes sparkling with her emotion even as her fists flailed at his head and shoulders. “Get your hands off me. Right now! Put me down!”
While he would not harm her, he harbored no illusions as to her intent. The woman packed the punch of a blacksmith.
“Calm yerself, my lady,” he cautioned as he allowed her feet to touch the ground without releasing his hold around her shoulders.
“Calm myself, my ass! Let. Me. Go.” She shoved her weight against him, swinging her fist again as she tried to turn.
Prepared this time, her blow was easily deflected.
“As you will it, my lady.” He lifted his hands into the air to signal his capitulation to her demands even as he stepped back.
Silence reigned in the circle as they waited, her gaze swinging wildly from him to Patrick and back again, her arms held in front of her as if in preparation for attack. Bright red splotches bloomed on her cheeks just before she blinked her eyes several times in an exaggerated manner, lifting her eyebrows as if it were the only way to force her eyelids to open.
“Whoa,” she muttered, bringing one hand to her forehead. “Where am I? Who are . . . ?”
