“There is nothing here but a bit of flat ground between the hills,” Robbie said.
Calder unchained the wooden gate of the wagon, lowered it, then waved them forward. “Horses are spent. We willna get to the keep till tomorrow.” He glanced around, then made a face. “Or mayhap the day after that. ’Tis a full load they pull.”
“Spend the night,” she repeated, panic rising again. “Here?”
“Aye, mistress,” Chieftain MacDonald said, joining Calder at the back of the wagon. “Here.” He held out a hand to help her down. “Where did ye shelter last night?”
“That is none of yer business.”
“Mi!” Robbie fixed her with an incredulous stare.
She shot back a narrow-eyed glare. “Dinna go there, Robbie. Ye are not too old for a smack on the bum.”
He arched a brow and grinned, knowing she wouldn’t follow through with the threat.
“Yerself and Master Robbie can make yer pallets under the wagon,” the chief said, his hand still extended. “Out of the weather some, that way.”
With Calder’s help, Robbie hopped out of the wagon. “Can I help with anything?”
Calder grinned and clapped him on the shoulder. “Aye, lad. Gather what ye can for a fire.”
The youngling offered her a wink and scampered away.
“Traitor,” she said louder than she intended.
“Children and dogs always sense good folk, mistress.” Chieftain MacDonald leaned against the wagon, his hand still extended. “Are ye going to have me stand here verra much longer? I must see to my horse.”
She shooed him away. “See to yer horse, then. I dinna need yer help.” After gathering her blanket out of the way, she took a running jump and stuck the landing on the ground right beside him. She couldn’t resist a victorious tip of her head.
The infuriating man dared to laugh. Not a smirk. Not an amused snort. But a loud, rumbling laugh that sounded as if it rose from the depths of his belly. “Well done, Mistress Abernathy. Well done, indeed.” With a wave of his hand, he directed her attention to a particularly large thicket. “If ye need some privacy, I give ye my word. My men and I will stay here beside the wagon.” He offered a smug grin. “And, of course, Master Robbie shall stay here with us.”
She needed to pee in the worst way and was also cold, tired, and hungry. A lethal combination for anyone who dared to speak with her. This man needed to realize she wasn’t stupid. “Holding him hostage, so I willna run?”
“Wise as ye are beautiful, I see.” He granted her a charming bow that made her itch to smack him. He sauntered away. “On wi’ ye now,” he tossed back without looking. “Soon as we get a fire built in this dreich weather, we will share a dram and an oatcake or two whilst we warm ourselves.” Then he turned and winked while walking backward. “Ye can tell me yer story, then. I love a good story around the fire.”
“My story is my own, ye ken!” She stormed off to the thicket, clenching her teeth as his laughter followed her.
Gran and Mother would say she had angered the goddess to end up in such a predicament. Her Christian friends would tell her to trust God’s will, that everything happened for a reason. All she knew for certain was she needed answers, but had to be careful about getting them. One revealing word or question could cost her life and endanger Robbie. She needed to choose her words carefully, no matter how much he goaded her. The less she told Chieftain MacDonald, the better.
She emerged from her privacy bushes to discover Calder and the one called Bhric showing Robbie how to start a fire. The rain had finally ceased, but with everything soaked, she couldn’t imagine how they would accomplish it. The lad hopped up with excitement when Bhric’s handful of dry tinder started smoking from the spark he struck.
“Look, Mi! I did it!” He waved her over. “Come see!”
“Well done.” She patted him on the back.
“How is it the lad doesna know how to start a fire?” Teague asked. Her irritating captor studied her, his charismatic smile failing to hide the suspicion glinting in his eyes.
She returned his flask and changed the subject. “Here is yer whisky. Thank ye for sharing it, Chieftain MacDonald.”
“Ye are quite welcome.” After a slight tip of his head, he added, “And please, call me Teague.”
He fit the name, or it fit him, she decided. It was the embodiment of dark, daring deliciousness.
Or so she assumed. She swatted away the ridiculous assessment, treating it like an annoying midge. A nervous shudder stole across her. She rubbed her arms to stoke her courage. Weakness was not an option.
“Would ye like another blanket, mistress?” Teague eased a step closer. “At least till the fire gets good and started?”
“No.” It appeared the man missed nothing. Either that or he believed being thoughtful would wear down her defenses. “But thank ye,” she hurried to add.
