Page 11 of Highland Storm

The contents of her purse would buy her freedom and news. It was meant to reunite her with her brothers. Cursing softly in her native tongue, she clasped the arrow shaft, tugging with all her might, wiggling desperately.

The men flying down the mountain were likely not the Earl’s, she realized, but that didn’t suit her much either. She was no simpering English maid, but she was hardly prepared to deal with mean strangers. With a final, fierce tug, she wrested the arrow free, renting a bit of Elspeth’s cloak. The purse split as well, spilling the charm stones onto the snow. Her heart squeezed as they disappeared.

“Oh, nay!”

Hurrying to scoop up as many as she dared, she realized there were but seconds left to spare. Abandoning the ones that rolled beneath a bramble bush, she grabbed what she could and ran, hoping to come back later to retrieve the rest.

Behind her, she heard the clatter of hooves and to her dismay, she spied the rider close upon her heels—a black-haired, blue painted fiend galloping on a snow-white beast, churning up the ground beneath its hooves.

Lianae bolted across the courtyard, toward the well, uncertain what she meant to do, but at the instant, that well, seemed the far lesser of evils.

Chapter

Four

He was pursuing a woman.

It wasn’t until he nearly overtook the lass that Keane realized, and his shock must have been evident in his form. Beithir reared back as he reached out to sweep the girl into his arms. Dropping her cloak—and something else—she elbowed Keane in the temple, and hurled herself back out of his arms with a profusion of curses, narrowly missing the opening of the well. She landed on a snow laced, dirt expanse of courtyard, cursing as she rolled free of Beithir’s hooves. “Thoir ort!” she screamed. Begone! “Mac bhàdhair fhuileach!”

She spoke the old tongue—quite well, Keane surmised, as she blistered his ears. Stunned by the ferocity of her temper, he rubbed at his bruised temple as the woman glared up at him, scarce able to form words of his own, much less respond to her angry curses.

Down in the midst of the ruins the gloaming light appeared surreal, defying the darkness that waited beyond the citadel’s borders. Sprawled on the ground as she was, her golden red hair spilled behind her and her sapphire blue gown stood out sharply against a thin mantle of snow.

“Ye could ha’e killed yourself,” he admonished.

Not to mention, she might well have made him daft with the blow from her elbow. His ears were ringing even now, and not merely with her curses.

“Me?” she returned. “You! You might have killed me! Bloody damned Scots,” she said, and curled her lip like a she-wolf.

Seated atop his mare, Keane frowned at the girl, at a loss for words. Her dialect was distinct, but not entirely familiar, and yet, he clearly understood she had no love for the Scots.

Nor did he, in truth.

But that was neither here nor there.

Arriving belatedly on foot, Cameron made his way into the courtyard and Keane took one look at the girl’s dress—the way her breasts spilled from the lavish bodice—and had the sudden yen to wave him away. “I’m no Scot,” he reassured.

“Nay?” She tilted Keane a dubious glance. “Then why do ye wear the King’s livery? And ye must think I’m daft because I wear a dress?”

“Dress?” Keane argued. “Ach, lass, ye’re barely wearing aught at all. That’s a nightshift at best.”

Her brows twitched and her expression quickly turned from one of fear to one of disbelief. She lifted herself up on one elbow, snow clinging to her strawberry curls, her face flushed pink. “I’ll have ye know this gown is made of fine Flemish silk.”

Keane screwed his face. “Silk?”

“The f-finest,” she repeated, her teeth beginning to chatter now that she was without her cloak and sprawled in the wet snow.

“Aye, well that’ll keep ye warm on a cauld night,” Keane said acerbically. “What’s wrong with good Scot’s wool?”

Annoyance flickered behind her honey-colored eyes. “And ye’ll forgive me for not dressing to please ye.” Her tone took on airs now as she smoothed down her dress, pulling it down to cover her ankles. “I wasna expecting company, dinna ye see.”

Now it was Keane’s turn to tilt her a disbelieving look, for she’d appeared, quite to the contrary, to be expecting someone—unwanted though her guest might be.

“Are ye certain about that?”

“Ab-bout what?”

“Well, it seems to me that ye’re running from someone—mayhap your groom by the looks o’ ye. And ye must have angered him plenty to go stealing away without your shoes.” He lifted a brow as he nodded at her bare feet.