“Sweet lord, dinnae say so. That one would take it.”
Only faintly aware of what Dugald was saying, Hacon fixed his gaze upon Jennet. He had searched so long and so unstintingly he dared not believe he had found her. The threat of painful disappointment kept him rooted to the spot, contradictory emotions knotting his insides. He ached to run to her, ached to scold her for entering the land of the enemy once again, and yet he feared that touching her would cause her to disappear like some chimera in a dream. So he stood and waited, hoping she would act.
She looked so good to him it hurt. Months of need for her swelled up within him. Her thick hair was tousled, and he wanted to comb away those tangles with his fingers. She was still slim but did not look as if life without him had treated her harshly. It was enough that she was alive. Hacon tensed, braced for the moment when she would finally see him.
As she and Niall walked down the main street of the village, Jennet sought out Hacon. When she finally saw him she dared not believe her eyes. But there was no denying the sight of him. She knew no other amongst Douglas’s men who had such fair hair. So too did she easily recognize that tall form before she was close enough to see his face.
In her mind she rapidly envisioned the many ways she wished their reunion to unfold. Dignity played a large part in each swiftly changing scene, dignity and regal calm. She cast both aside with little hesitation. Thrusting Murdoc into Niall’s arms and ignoring his muttered oaths, she tossed aside her sack, lifted her skirts, and ran to her lover. He smiled and held his arms wide. She readily hurled herself into them.
His mouth was instantly on hers. The kiss he gave her was fierce, almost too fierce, but she heartily welcomed it. It was proof that he was alive. Though he finally raised his head, he did not ease his grip on her. Jennet kept her arms wrapped tightly around his neck, for her feet were several inches off the ground. Her cheek was pressed against his shoulder. He smelled of horses, smoke, and sweat. They were not scents she usually enjoyed, but this time she savored them.
“I cannae believe ye are alive!”
“Verra alive.” He slowly loosened his grip on her until her feet were back on the ground and she could lean back a little to look up at him. “Ye are not an easy lass to find.”
“If I had kenned ye had arisen from the dead to look for me, I would have left a clearer trail.” She gave a shaky laugh and touched his beard-roughened cheek.
He took her hand in his, kissed her palm, and kept hold of it. “Your father should cease dragging ye off into the enemy’s lands. Am I to meet the mon at last?”
Some of her relief and joy at Hacon’s return faded a little. “I dinnae ken where he is.” She felt Hacon’s grip on her hands tighten slightly and knew he shared her sudden fear—that with his return, he could have brought death for her father.
“Pssst, Harold. Nay, do not turn. Just listen and try to answer without being seen.”
Artair breathed a sigh of relief when the burly Harold quickly hid his surprise. It had not been easy to crawl up behind the captives who were being held at the edge of the village. The thick, gnarled growth of hawthorn and blackberry bushes offered a place to hide, but they were neither comfortable nor quiet. He was now too close to the well-armed Scots. There was a chance he would not be harmed, but at least until he knew Jennet’s fate, he preferred not to take the gamble.
“Have you seen Jennet?” he asked his dice-playing friend when the guards moved away to share the contents of a wineskin.
“Aye. I see her right now. She is in the arms of a big, fair-haired Scot. If you dare a peek around me, you will see her too.”
Cautiously, Artair edged forward until he could peek through the sheltering brambles more clearly. “By the saints, the man is alive! ’Twas said he had been slain in Ireland.”
“Well, ’twas said you were a Frenchman,” Harold countered.
“Ah, ye are no longer fooled.” Artair immediately discarded the thick French accent he had been using.
“Nay. That great Scotsman has been asking after you and Jennet. ’Twas clear he sought no Frenchman. ’Twas also clear he sought no enemy. So, why do you hide?”
“He may not see me as an enemy, but he isnae the only one there nor the most powerful. I am a Scotsman in England. That will brand me a traitor in most eyes.”
“Ah, aye. Well, there are not many in this village as forgiving as I, my friend. They too now know you have lied, and many guess you are as much a Scot as your daughter. They will not welcome you back after this. Not soon at least. So, how do you intend to get back with your Jennet?”
“I will meet up with her in Scotland.”
“She will think you are dead.”
“Aye, and I am sorry to cause her grief, but better that than the trouble I would bring her if I appeared now. ’Twould grieve her more if she couldnae save me from a traitor’s fate. That braw knight can care for her.”
“Shall I try to get word to them?”
“Nay, my friend. ’Twould put ye at too great a risk. Watch your own hide,” he advised as he began to edge away.
“And watch yours, as if I need to tell you that,” Harold said in a soft mutter. “God be with you, you rogue.”
“And you.”
After one last look toward Jennet, Artair began his retreat. It was time for him to make his way back to Scotland. He hated leaving Jennet uncertain of his fate but promised himself he would make amends when they met again at Dubheilrig.
Chapter 17
