She glanced up at him and was surprised to find he was not looking at her. He always looked at her, usually straight in the eye, when he spoke. Her eyes widening, she realized something important about her captor’s character. He usually looked her in the eye because he spoke the truth, or the truth as he saw it. Sir Hacon Gillard was an honest man. The reason he stared off into the night now, his face slightly averted, was because he did not believe what he was saying any more than she did. It was a fact about his nature that might prove helpful. She hastily swallowed the words she was about to say, words that would have revealed her thoughts. Instead, she chose to argue with him.
“Aye, there will be no war if Edward or his son doesnae have another king he wishes to place on the throne of Scotland. Or, if the Scots who have become disinherited by the Bruce no longer feel like fighting for their lands. Or if the Bruce doesnae make any new enemies. There are many more ifs, but I willnae trouble ye with them.”
“Ye have a poor view of the world, lass.” He rested his cheek on the top of her head.
“Not of the world, just of men with swords in their hands and an eye for glory and fortune.”
“Now, wee Jennet . . .”
“Nay, dinnae waste your words. The ideas I hold have been set hard. I was born on a battlefield.”
“During what battle?”
“I dinnae ken. My mother, father, and his wounded friend crouched in a muddy ditch as mother labored to bring me into the world. Father’s chosen side had lost, and the victors were roaming the land for miles about, cutting down all who tried to flee.”
“But your parents escaped?”
“Aye, my father has a true skill for staying alive. Although”—she sighed—“I dinnae think he slipped away from Perth. The Bruce considered every Scot there the worst of traitors for holding with the English. I cannae see how my father could have talked his way out of that situation. He was clearly wellborn, clearly a Scot, and clearly fighting for the English. I wanted to stay to be certain of his fate, but I couldnae.” She sat up and looked at him. “Were ye at . . .”
“Nay, I wasnae at Perth.” He heartily prayed that God would help him spit out that lie convincingly. “I left the army just before that. Word had come that my mother was ill. With my men, I returned to Dubheilrig. Fortunately, her condition was not as serious as was thought.” When she could not fully hide a huge yawn, he smiled faintly. “Time for ye to get some rest.”
The speed with which he spread a blanket over a soft, moss-covered patch of ground, then got her and Murdoc bedded down, surprised her. He tucked a second blanket over them with more haste than gentleness. It was almost as if he wanted to flee her presence. She told herself not to be such a fool. Until now, the man had been as hard to shake as any burr.
Nor only had he set her down in the midst of his men but, she realized, they were all set slightly apart from the main force. Several yards beyond she could see the first of the many small campfires of Douglas’s large force. When she caught herself on the point of asking Hacon when he would join her, she quickly closed her eyes. Not only did she cringe to think what he would reply, but she dreaded what he might read behind the words. The very last thing she wanted him to know was that she was becoming pleasantly accustomed to him being by her side all night. When she heard him walk away, she breathed a soft sigh of relief. If luck was with her for once, she would be sound asleep and blissfully impervious to temptation by the time he rejoined her.
Hacon made his way to where Dugald and Ranald still sat by a low campfire. Sitting down, he took a long drink from his wineskin. For a while he remained silent, trying to sort out his thoughts about Jennet.
Dugald, his voice low, cautiously broke the silence. “Ye and the lass looked friendly.”
“Appearances can be deceiving, cousin,” Hacon murmured.
“Aye? She didnae look angry at you. Not this time.”
“She is angry with all of us.”
Ranald frowned. “What do ye mean, uncle?”
“The lass has breathed the stench of war since the moment she was born.” He briefly related some of what Jennet had told him. “She sees every mon who wields a sword as no more than a murderer.”
“Nay,” Ranald protested. “She must see the rightness of this cause—to rid Scotland of the English. Do ye think she is on the side of Edward and England then?”
“Jennet is on neither side.”
“As a true Scot, shemustbe on the Bruce’s side.”
“There is many atrueScot who isnae, laddie. In truth, the lass has cause to loathe the Bruce and all who support him. ’Twas the Douglas’s men who raped and killed her mother. Aye, and may have killed her father. Howbeit, the side the lass wishes to be on is that of peace.” Hacon picked up his sword and laid it across his lap, staring at it. “She sees this, and those who carry one, as the curse of mankind. I dinnae think I can convince her that there can be differences in the men who wield such weapons.”
“Her father wields one. She herself said he fights for whoever pays the most.”
“Ah, but that is her father, her blood kin.” Hacon shrugged. “A father can do a great many wrongs e’er a child will turn from him. ’Tis a strong bond of love that doesnae break easily.”
“Aye,” agreed Dugald, watching Hacon closely. “But ye dinnae look for love. Ye just seek a passing warmth.”
“So ye keep reminding me. I wonder why.”
“Weel, I cannae be sure ye would be wise to look for more.”
“And why not?” Hacon knew he already wanted more than lust from Jennet, a lot more, but he kept that to himself.
