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Truthfully, she would never have run in the first place if she’d known what a dense, terrifying place the forest was. In the songs and tales, they were places of romance and adventure.
She decided she’d lost all appetite for adventure.
She tried to march off again, but her ankle gave out immediately. She stumbled and would have fallen if his arms hadn’t been there, catching her, lifting her back to her feet.
“Your ankle?” he surmised grimly.
“Is perfectly fine.”
“Is it? For it looks as if you wrenched it, to be honest, running like a ban sidhe through the woods.”
“Oh yes, by all means let us be honest,” she snapped, ignoring the way the rich, indecipherable Irish words sounded so perfectly fitting for a moonlit night in a ghostly forest.
They looked at each other, then down at her ankle. She either walked on it, which would take a very long time, or he carried her. Which would kill her.
Judging by the look in his eye, he was realizing this as well, and was equally unhappy. Perhaps because he feared she might stab him. Which she might. If only she had a blade. She would have to see about getting her hands on one.
He tilted his head back as if offering a prayer. Mayhap something about women and never being so foolish as to hostage one again.
She decided if her life served that one purpose, it would suffice.
He sighed and, without a word of warning, bent and scooped her into his arms.
She screamed.
“Hush,” he ordered and started walking.
She beat on him with her fists.
He stopped short. “I can set you down now, Cassia, and you can stumble over the ruts, or you can quiet your self and let me do this thing for you. Which I very much do not want to do.”
She lifted her chin. “I would rather stumble through a briar patch than—”
“Think of your gown,” he interrupted ominously.
She stilled. This gown had cost four pounds. More than her clothing allowance for the past five years. It had been purchased specifically for the tournament.
She and the blackguard glared at each other, their faces very close, seeing as she was being cradled in his arms. One powerful arm was behind her back, the other hooked under her knees. Places no man’s arms—or any other part of a man—had ever touched.
She turned her face away and pointed. “Very well. Go then. Walk.”
He strode, shifting her in his arms, which made her roll about. “Stop ordering me about, lass, or I’ll drop you on your arse right here.” Then he gave a low, piercing whistle.
She clutched at him. “Who are you calling to?”
“Fury.”
“Is that one of your bandit companions?” she whispered.
His eyes met hers. “What makes you think I have bandit companions?”
“You seem the sort,” she confided. “Are we going to your…lair?“
“Lair?”
“Do you not have a lair?”
“I do not have a lair.” He paused. “I have a cave.”
