Carenza heard the rockslide behind her.She gasped and froze.
Something or someone was on the path.Orhadbeen on the path.That much rock sliding down the hill could mean they’d fallen into the ravine.
But who or what was it?A wolf?A lost lamb?That meddlesome knight of Rivenloch?
She immediately regretted calling him that.After all, he’d protected her from a beating at the Boyles’ hands.He’d kept her secret, not once revealing to them that she was a lass.And he’d sworn on his knighthood he wouldn’t turn her in to the laird.
Still, it would be terribly convenient for her if he…disappeared.She entertained the idea for the space of a heartbeat.
But despite her desperation—desperation that had driven her to nefarious behavior like sneaking out at midnight and thieving cattle—at heart she was still Lady Carenza.Her father’s pride and joy.Her clan’s inspiring figurehead.The laird’s daughter, who brought love, light, and kindness to everyone she met.
She didn’t have a ruthless bone in her body.And she had no appetite for violence, whether it was against coos, spiders, or even rampaging Vikings.
She sighed in surrender.If she didn’t turn back, she’d never forgive herself.
Silently cursing her soft heart, she found a wide part of the trail where she could turn Hamish around.Slowly and carefully, assuring his hooves found solid ground, she began leading him back down the mountain.
As she descended, she began to hope the Rivenloch warrior hadn’t fallen into the chasm, despite the inconvenience of his presence.She couldn’t say why exactly.After all, she didn’t even know the man.
But there was something she’d glimpsed in his eyes that told her there was more to him than just his Viking’s body and a warrior’s lust for battle.Something honest.Something direct.Something pure, intense, and worth investigating.
No one had ever looked at her like that before.Men either leered at her in open admiration or shyly shunned her gaze.But the warrior had regarded her with respect, with honor, with…
“Argh…”
Carenza hurried in the dark toward the sound of gasps and groans.It was indeed the Viking.And her eyes widened when she saw his predicament.
“Och!”she cried.
He hadn’t fallen into the ravine.Not yet.But he was hanging by one arm, gripping his axe, which was caught on the narrow lip of a boulder.Every muscle strained as he fought to keep from twisting and dislodging the blade.
She crept cautiously forward, kneeling beside him.
Once, long ago, she’d saved a lamb from falling into a well.She’d managed to grab one of its forelegs and hauled it up over the stone wall.
“Here,” she said, extending her arm.“Take my hand.”
He shook his head.“I’ll only…pull you down…with me.”
He was probably right.The warrior was no lamb.He was as big as an ox.
An ox!
“Hamish,” she decided.“Hamish can pull ye up.”
“The coo?”
“Aye.”
“Do you have…a rope?”he gasped.
She grimaced.He’d used her rope to tie up the Boyles.
“Hold on,” she said, wondering if he could.He’d already held on a long while.
She shrugged out of her plaid.Then she began tearing off the rags of her disguise, knotting them together.
His axe blade made a forbidding scrape as it slipped, grinding against the boulder.
