She could see no weapon in his other hand as she felt her eyes grow wider and wider. She lost only a touch of the fear she felt when she saw that and it still hung on enough to keep her heart pounding so hard she was amazed he could not hear it. The man may not be holding a weapon, but that did not mean he had none or would be reluctant to use it on a woman. He would not be condemned if he struck her down since she had just tried to steal his horse. That was, after all, a hanging crime.
Then a deep voice asked, “Why are ye trying to steal my horse?”
Chapter Two
Sir Gybbon Murray heard the sharp, quick sound of a branch break and quickly finished his business. As he stepped around the tree he had just relieved himself against, he frowned at the shadowy figure struggling to free itself from a branch. He decided he was due a problem as most of his journey had been trouble free. When the figure finally straightened up, he recognized it firmly as a woman as she yanked pieces of the branch out of her hair.
Then she looked around and he pressed himself up against a tree so that he would not be visible. He cursed softly as she next hurried over to his horse, Jester. He had thought that by riding into the wood lining the road he had avoided the thieves who so often roamed the night. This woman obviously intended to take his horse. He looked around very carefully assuming she had to have some male compatriots, but could see nothing.
He smiled as he looked back at her. He did not have to rush over. Jester would take care of her, he thought, and had to smother a chuckle as he watched her saddle the animal and take the reins from the tree he had looped them around. He crossed his arms over his chest and waited as she attached her bag to the saddle and then mounted Jester in a particularly graceless way.
It did not take long for Jester to do what he did best. She was only just settling the reins in her hands when his horse moved. It took barely a moment, and little effort, for Jester to hurl her out of the saddle to the ground. Gybbon winced when she hit the ground hard. She sprawled face down and groaned softly, reaching for her side.
“Why are ye trying to steal my horse?” he asked.
He reached out and grabbed her wrist as she fumbled with her side, afraid she was about to get a weapon. Not finding the blade he expected, he looked down at her as she turned onto her back. She was pale but he did not know if that was just caused by the weak light from the fire he had built, or fear, or even pain. A long thick braid of hair had flipped up over her head and it was definitely pale in color. She did not open her eyes and he then wondered if she was unconscious or just in a swoon. He was ready to give her a light slap on the face to try and rouse her when she opened her eyes, brushing her braid off her face.
Gybbon wished the light from the fire was stronger so he could see her eyes clearly. He always felt more confident of his judgments when he could see someone’s eyes. As she stared at him, her eyes grew wider and wider until he suspected they would soon sting. He just could not guess if it was because of fear or surprise.
Mora stared at the man crouched by her side. She could see no weapon in his hand and she lost a touch of the fear gripping her so tightly. It still hung in strong enough to keep her heart pounding so hard she thought he must be able to hear it. The man may not be holding a weapon but that did not mean he had none. He must also be incensed at what she had tried to do and knew he would not be condemned if he struck her down because of it. It was a hanging crime.
“I wasnae stealing him. I was just borrowing him for a wee while.” She was not surprised when he gave her a look of annoyance as she knew it was a weak, senseless statement.
“I see. Just how was I expected to get him back when ye were done with him? Ye gave me no name nor a place to collect him at. Nay even a time when I could have him back. How is that nay stealing?” He frowned, cocked his head to the side, and looked toward his horse. “What is that sound?”
“I dinnae hear anything.” She lied because she could hear Freya growling.
Still holding her, he stood up and walked toward Jester, dragging the woman with him. “It is coming from your bag.” He reached toward it. “And now the bag is moving. Open it.”
“Nay. They are just my belongings. Some clothes and such as that. Oh, and a few things I saved from the manor.”
“Clothes that growl? Open it.”
She sighed. His voice was hard and she sensed he was truly beginning to feel annoyed. In her experience, annoyed men struck out. Her father never had, but she had seen too many others who did. It seemed it did not take much for a woman to annoy a mon, either. She just hoped this man did not hate cats as much as her cousins did.
Carefully unlatching her bag, she took a deep, steadying breath. She could do nothing but hope she had not saved her pet once only to have another man kill her. The moment she opened the bag, Freya leapt out, landing on her shoulder and curling her tail around Mora’s neck. The small, gray cat stared at the man.
“A cat? Ye have been toting around a cat?” He took the bag from her.
“I had to. The men I am fleeing almost killed her because she scratched one of them.”
“Who would want to kill a kitten? The scratch couldnae have been a bad one.”
Trying not to think on the long, bleeding gouges on Robert’s face, several of them dangerously close to his eyes, she answered, “She isnae a kitten. She is two years old, probably as big as she ever will be.”
“Ah. A runt.” Still holding her by the wrist, he pulled her toward the campfire. “Sit.”
“I should continue on my way,” she protested, and reached for her bag.
He allowed her to grab it, then pulled her closer to the fire. “’Tis dark and nay a good time to travel. And where would ye go? I dinnae think there is another horse along the road for ye to steal. What is your name?”
“Mora Ogilvy.” She had opened her mouth to protest the word “steal” and then sighed, knowing there was no point in it.
“Sit.” He almost smiled at the way she narrowed her eyes as she stared at him, but she then sat down by the fire, setting her bag close by her side. The woman did not like to be ordered around.
Gybbon sat across from her and studied her. She was small, almost as near to being called a runt as her cat. Her hair was blond, but the firelight glinted off some red strands as well. From what little he could see of her figure, she was temptingly curved in all the right places. Since it was difficult to see her figure as well as he would like in the firelight, he turned his study to her face.
Her eyes were wide and what appeared to be a dark blue, the light from the fire occasionally highlighting that color. Even though her mouth was turned down in a frown, he could see enough of its shape to guess she had invitingly full lips. Her cheekbones were high, and just under the right one was a large, dark bruise.
