“She is born of poor folk with no lands or coin.”
“So was my mother.”
“Ah, but your mother wasnae the bairn of two thieving clans. Jennet is bred of an Armstrong and a Graeme—two lots of reivers’ blood in her veins.”
“She has been with us for near to a fortnight and not stolen one wee thing. Aye, and ye have heard her speak out against our taking of plunder. Ye cannae think her a thief.”
Dugald shrugged. “I but say what others will.”
“They willnae say it more than once,” Hacon said in a cold, flat voice.
“And what of her father?”
“What of the mon?”
“She says she believes he died at Perth. Ye were there.”
“She doesnae ken it.”
“Not now, mayhaps, but she is sure to ask ye where ye were that bloody day.”
“She already has. I lied.” The shock on Dugald’s and Ranald’s faces was oddly comforting. “I looked her in the eye and said I had been called to my sick mother’s side. I just couldnae tell her I had been there and been witness to that murder.”
“But, uncle”—Ranald ran a hand through his hair—“I cannae see how that lie can hold. Too many ken that yewerethere. Ye cannae stop every mouth. Besides, I dinnae understand why ye told the lie at all.”
Shaking his head, Dugald muttered, “’Tis hard to seduce a lass if she thinks the blood of her own father stains your sword.” He looked at Hacon. “Weel, I see that your feelings have already passed that of an itch in your groin.”
“And ye would object to that would ye?” Hacon saw no reason to deny what was probably all too obvious to others.
“Nay, what I was just saying was what I felt certain others will say. In birth and fortune ye could do better. For myself, I like the lass, though she does have a sharp and too free tongue. Ye might try to curb that.”
“I think I could do better trying to hold back the tide.” Hacon smiled and Ranald chuckled.
“Aye, ’tis true,” Dugald continued, “but ye might try all the same. Such free speaking can lead to trouble. There is as little trust as mercy to be depended on these days. The Bruce is always looking for traitors, and there are plenty about. The Bruce hasnae set his backside on a quiet throne, and years of fighting to hold it have made the mon verra suspicious. Aye, and ye have an enemy or two who would like to see ye fall. They could try to turn her words into a dagger with which to cut ye down.”
“Why would they heed what a lass says?” asked Ranald.
Hacon had to bite back a smile at the youth’s scornful attitude. “A lass can work a strong influence o’er a mon. Then there are those who cannae believe a lass can speak her own mind, they think that her words must be an echo of her mon’s.” He looked at Dugald. “I will try to soften her words. At best I shall work to keep them private, unheard save by me. Aye, ’twould be safer to get her to be quiet, but I willnae force her to it. I enjoy hearing how she thinks.”
“Just be sure ye are theonlyone who hears it,” Dugald muttered.
When Hacon finally sought his bed, he realized he had not eased any of his concerns, only added to them. Gently curling his arm about Jennet’s small waist, he smiled faintly when she murmured in her sleep and cuddled up against him. It was a sweet torture. Her softly curved backside was pressed to his groin, causing him to immediately tighten with arousal. He liked the way she snuggled up close, innocently inviting him in her sleep, and he ached to make love to her. It would be a while yet, however, before she allowed him to satisfy his growing hunger for her. If nothing else, he needed to find them a private place.
As he nuzzled her sweet-smelling hair, then rested his cheek against it, he decided to set aside his concerns. It did little good to prey upon them, would not bring the answers he needed any faster. What he would set his mind on, solely, was keeping Jennet safe and savoring the passion she struggled so hard to hide. He promised himself that by the time they returned to Scotland she would be his.
Chapter 6
The body beneath her needle suddenly went limp. Jennet glanced at the man’s face. He had fainted at last. She had begun to fear he never would. Returning her attention to the dagger wound in his side, she finished stitching it closed and bandaged it, then sat back on her heels, studying her work and deciding it was the cleanest spot on the man’s body.
As she went to wash up, two more men arrived. One man’s jupon was bloodied and he nearly carried a barely conscious youth who still bled freely from the wounds at his waist and leg. They made their way through the clutter of the camp straight toward her. She had become the leech for the whole army it seemed. No one had asked it of her, it had just happened. For nearly five weeks she had been forced to see the gory results of the raid deep into English territory. They had marched south through Richmond and burned Northallerton. Now Boroughbridge was being set alight. She was tired of cleaning the blood off men, tired of mending torn flesh.
While doing what she could for the two newest arrivals, she glanced toward a group of women who were captives like herself. There were only five now, but she knew there would soon be more, for women were considered acceptable plunder by both sides. The poor souls did not have as kind a captor as she did. Fearful and bruised, they huddled together beneath some alder trees. Jennet could use their help but did not know how to gain it. None of them would hold any love for a Scot or wish to keep one alive. Nevertheless, she knew she had to try.
“I could use some help,” she called out to them.
“Help?” the short, bosomy brunette nearly screeched. “Why should we wish to help these beasts live? I have been trying to understand whyyouwork so hard. ’Tis said you are a captive too.”
“Aye, I was taken at Berwick.” She began to bathe the wound of the more seriously injured man. “I am more fortunate than you. My captor doesnae beat or rape me.”
