She spit in his face, then bared her teeth, showing them even and white as pearls. “Either kill me or let me go. I have no time for dullard Scots.”
Thorburn swiped the spittle away, then eased up on the pressure of his knee on her chest but didn’t remove it completely. She might be a woman, but she had already proven herself an adversary to be taken seriously. “More of ye were spotted than these few here in this wood. Where are the rest?” Another troubling thought occurred. “And are all of them lasses?”
A stony glare was her only response.
Even though he figured it futile, he nudged the tip of his dagger up under her chin. Such a long slender, soft-looking throat she had. A tender place made for a man’s kisses, not the blade of a weapon. “What is yer name, my vicious wee minx?”
She worked her jaws as though about to spit again, so he clapped a hand over her mouth. “Every time ye spit, I shall order yer rations cut until yer mouth goes so dry yer tongue shrivels, ye ken?”
Her eyes narrowed into slits of simmering hatred.
Still holding her mouth so she couldn’t bite or spit, Thorburn frowned down at this tempting dilemma under his knee. By all rights, he should kill her. It had never been his nature to take prisoners. They only wasted precious resources. Guards. Food. Time. And one such as her would be an irksome distraction among his men until they either took her with them when they returned to Argyll or sent her back to King Magnus in Norway to punish for breaking the Treaty of Perth.
But he couldn’t bring himself to kill her. Not a woman. She might fight like a man, but she was still a lass.
Frustration and something akin to embarrassment at his own soft-heartedness filled him. Commander to scores of warriors. Known as ruthless, unrelenting, and cold. Not once had he ever hurt a woman or child. It wasn’t in him, nor in his brothers. He also never allowed it among the ranks of his men. They had nailed the last man who disobeyed this standing order to a post on the tiny Isle of Muck and left him there. He did not tolerate disobedience among hisGallóglaigh,and they knew it. In that matter, his heart was hard as stone.
“Forgive me, m’lord,” Tasgall called out. “I didna mean to lag. Feckers snared me in a pit deep enough for a pair of boars.”
The beauty twitched beneath him. One of her pale brows arched higher, and amusement sparkled in her eyes. The knave’s announcement pleased her.
“Wily as well as wicked, are ye? Well done then.” Thorburn eased away his hand and knee but flipped the lass and twisted her wrists behind her back. “Bindings,” he ordered, holding out his hand without pulling his gaze from the intricate braids tied in place around the lass’s head. No wonder she hadn’t worn a padded coif beneath her helm. The thickness of that lustrous hair protected her better than any quilting.
“A woman,” Tasgall said in a hushed tone as he came to a stumbling stop.
“Aye.” Thorburn frowned up at the gangly lad who rarely suffered from such ineptness. “Bindings?” he repeated with a snap of his fingers.
“Forgive me.” The boy hurried to offer the length of braided leather he’d pulled from the sack slung over his shoulder. “Do ye mean to keep her, then? As prisoner?”
Thorburn knew exactly what Tasgall was thinking and couldn’t care less. However, theGallóglaighknaves gossiped and twisted the details of the warriors they served into such grand lies that a kernel of truth couldn’t be found. They each wished to outdo the other. Tasgall and Hendry’s mutterings held extra weight because they served him. This situation demanded careful handling.
“I will keep her ’til I see fit to do otherwise,” he said as he rose to his feet and forced the lovely, armored lady to hers. He tipped his head toward the trees. “Fetch my shield. Then ye’ll be holding this one’s lead.”
“Aye, m’lord.” The lad loped away.
“And ye will nay give him any trouble, or there’ll be no food or water for ye, ye ken?” He caught one of her fallen braids between his fingers. Silky and pale as fresh cream poured from a pitcher. He had never seen hair so white on a woman. When she failed to acknowledge she had heard what he said, he tugged on the braid. “No trouble from ye, understand?”
The gossamer-haired fury spun and caught the side of his knee with the back of her heel.
Excruciating pain doubled him, but he latched hold of her and shoved her back to the ground. As he held her fast, he ran a hand down to his throbbing knee. A warm wetness met his touch, blood already soaked his trews. He grabbed hold of her foot and lifted it. The wily cat had spikes fitted to the back of her boots.
“Replace those boots with shackles,” he ordered, grunting as he struggled to stand and plant a foot on her back to keep her still.
“I dinna tote shackles, m’lord.” Tasgall dropped to his knees and frantically rooted through his leather sack. “Forgive me, but ye never take prisoners.” His muffled apology came from deep within the bag. The lad had nearly crawled fully inside it. He emerged with a length of rope in one hand and a replacement chain for Thorburn’s heavy mace. “I can fashion one with these.”
“Then do it.”
The lady twisted, glared up at him, then spit again. The vixen had deadly aim and amazing range.
He swiped the back of his hand across his forehead. “And gag her!”
Gagged. Barefoot. Shackled and bound to the knobby end of a spear pole manned by Tasgall, their enraged prisoner led the march back through the woods.
“Keep tight hold of that stick, boy. Dinna underestimate her.” Thorburn limped along behind them, wondering what kind of poison the wicked temptress had used to coat her boot spikes. The puncture she had dealt him hurt worse than the time he had caught a mace in the knee. That wound had crippled him for weeks, but at least he had never lost the feeling in his toes. His foot had gone so numb, he struggled to walk without stumbling.
Maybe old Marta could get it out of her. A healer from one of the villages on Mull, Marta was of Norse descent, too. But one who had no issue paying allegiance to a Scottish king rather than one from Norway.
Tasgall looked proud to oversee their captive. Poor lad. Slight of body and cunning as could be, the smaller-than-normal boy would never make a warrior. But he was courageous, attentive, and good with both bow and spear. For that, he kept his position as weaponry knave to the commander. And now as guard to their lovely yet infuriating wee hellcat.
