As if conjured up by her thoughts, Balreaves’s cold, familiar voice said, “So, your sharp-tongued little whore still lives.”
Jennet grasped Hacon’s arms to halt his grab for his sword. She gazed up at Balreaves. He looked calm, unwearied, almost untouched by the battle. Jennet began to think he did as little fighting as he could. He wore the odd, faint, and chilling smile she had begun to recognize as peculiarly his. Even in the shadows she could see the coldness of his eyes. She wondered why God continued to let the man live.
“Aye, I still exist,” she replied. “’Tis so verra kind of you to inquire after my health.”
“And in the future ye would be wise to do so with a more courteous tongue,” snapped Hacon.
“Do ye threaten me, Sir Gillard?” Balreaves demanded, smiling faintly. “Or mayhaps ye hurl out a challenge?”
“Would ye meet it if I did?”
“Nay, I think not. Why should I bloody my hands when there are so many about who can do the deed for me?” He stared down at Jennet. “Have we met before? I sense something familiar about you.”
“Do you?” Jennet was surprised she could speak so calmly while her heart raced with fear. “Ye have confused me with another, I think, for we have ne’er met.”
“I am not usually wrong,” he muttered.
Hacon made a soft, scornful noise. “There are many who would argue that.”
“Are there?” Balreaves turned his cold smile upon Hacon again.
“I doubt there are many men who would consider murder right.”
“More than you might think. But murder? Do ye accuse me of trying to murder you, Gillard?” When Hacon said nothing, Balreaves shrugged. “Mayhaps what ye see as murder is naught but a rightful vengeance.”
“Ye have no claim to a rightful vengeance.”
“Nay? There are many who would argue with that. The insults the Gillards have dealt me would have another mon screaming for your blood.”
“Then scream for mine,” Hacon snarled, and raised himself up on one elbow. “Face me squarely and let us have done with this.”
“When the Bruce himself has asked that we Scots cease to fight each other and turn our swords only upon the English? Nay, I think not. I am a mon of great patience. I can wait. Yewillpay for those insults ye heaped upon me.” He frowned at Jennet again. “I am certain we have met before, but the memory remains elusive. ’Twill come to me,” he murmured, then started to walk away.
Heartily praying that the memory would not come, Jennet watched the man disappear into the shadows. The hint that he might recall that short exchange in the cottage nine years ago left her terrified.
Even if it did not complicate the already deadly tension between Hacon and Balreaves, it would still cause trouble. Balreaves would not want his actions of that day to be widely known. In her time of traveling with the Bruce’s army Jennet had come to see that not every man indulged in brutality. Even those who saw rape as rightful plunder due the victors, would frown upon the murder of an unarmed woman. Her mother had also been a lady, wellborn if not rich, and the unspoken law was that such women were sacrosanct. Balreaves was not one to want any blackening of his name. If he recalled that day, recalled her, he would want her silenced. That would put Hacon in the precarious position of trying to protect her even as he watched out for himself. She would have to try harder to keep out of Balreaves’s sight. Perhaps, if the man did not often see her, he would fail to remember.
“What did he mean?” demanded Hacon, abruptly breaking into her thoughts.
She turned to frown at him. “What did he mean about what?”
“About recognizing you. He said he sensed something familiar about you. Do ye ken that man from some other time?”
“Nay, I have ne’er met the mon before.” She told herself that it was not a full lie, for she had not met Balreaves, merely exchanged a look with the man.
“Then why does he frighten you so?” He placed his hand upon her chest. “Your heart races like a cornered deer’s.”
“He would frighten anyone. The mon’s eyes are cold, so verra cold. Only hatred and cruelty enliven their depths.”
Enfolding her in his arms, Hacon murmured, “Aye, if there was ever any good in the mon, it has been eaten away. I think he is one of those who glories in bloodletting, eager to cut down the innocent as weel as the soldiers. He hides it weel though.”
“Why should he hide it? Would it matter if all knew his ways?”
“Aye, it would. Not all those in power are as cruel as the Douglas.” He stroked her hair as he stared off into the dark. “I dinnae like his interest in you. Best ye stay clear of the mon.”
“Ye need not tell me to do that. He isnae one I wish to meet with often.”
“Good. Now lass, why did ye stop me from taking up my sword? Do ye like to hear his slurs and insults?”
