He didn’t think she would reply to his statement and he was correct. She pointed a gloved hand down the road.
“The village of Lorbottle is north of here,” she said. “I can have the sheep brought to market there, as they have a rather large livestock grounds. It is popular with the border Scots.”
“That sounds reasonable.”
“Where shall I send the money?”
“That depends. How long do you think it will take to sell everything?”
“Within a day with the proper buyer. I would say at this time of year, we will find the proper buyer within a week. This is the middle of the season, and most sheep are not shorn until spring.”
“Then send the money to Harbottle Castle. I have other business to conduct in the region and will expect it there.”
“As you say, my lord.”
He watched her from the corner of his eye, wanting to say something more to her but not sure he should. He hardly knew the woman, yet he felt an inexplicable draw towards her. He recalled yesterday how he had thought her beautiful, but lacking in other fine qualities. After their conversation today, he wasn’t so sure that was true. She had great strength of character and a sharp sense of humor. But she was also too stubborn for her own good. The woman was a paradox.
They drew near the field where the sheep were kept, a vast foggy land with a hint of green where the grass lay. Toby reined her horse to a stop along the stone wall that fenced in the herd.
“They are out there, somewhere,” she indicated the field that disappeared into the mist. “In this weather, however, they will blend in with the fog and we will never find them.”
Shrouded in the clouds, they could hear bleating. It was one or two of the sheep at first, followed by several responses. Toby dismounted her horse, followed by Tate and the others. Deftly, she jumped on to the top of the rock wall and slid down the other side into the wet grass. She knew this field well and it seemed oddly quiet to her.
“We have three men that tend the herd,” she looked around. “I do not see them. I will go and call for them.”
Gathering her skirts as much as possible to keep them out of the wet, she walked out into the misty field. Tate and his men fanned out slightly, their eyes ever-watchful.
“Gordon?” she called out. “Emmit? Can you hear me?”
There was no answer. The sheep suddenly started bleating wildly. Concerned, Toby picked up the pace in the direction she thought the sound was coming from. Soon, she was running, unaware that Tate and his men were keeping pace behind her. The mist was denser the further she ran into the field. Something suddenly flew past her ear and she yelped, startled. As she tripped and fell to her knees, she bumped into a mass on the ground. A shepherd lay there with an arrow through his neck. Before a scream could bubble to the surface, a warm body fell atop her and she was buried underneath it, sandwiched between the wet earth and a pile of armor.
Tate had thrown himself on her when he realized arrows were flying. His arms were around her head lest an arrow come flying in that direction. Toby could hear the zinging sound of the projectiles sailing over them.
“Bandits!” she gasped.
Tate could not disagree. But their situation was precarious. They were in the mist, shielding their enemy from them,with nowhere to hide. Their survival now would depend on a combination of skill and luck. He called out to his men.
“Stephen?” he hissed. “Kenneth?”
They answered affirmative in rapid succession. “Where is John?” Tate asked.
“I am here,” the squire was several feet away, on the ground.
“Are you well?”
“Well enough,” the lad sounded frightened. “Where are the arrows coming from?”
Tate could not have guessed at the moment. They seemed to be coming from every direction. “Stay down,” he commanded. “Do not move until I can see something in this soup.”
Tate would have reconnoitered himself, but he couldn’t. He didn’t want to move and possibly draw their attention to himself and, consequently, to Toby. That last thing he wanted was for the arrows to come flying at her unprotected body. He shifted his weight slightly, more closely against her, and heard her grunt beneath him.
“Sorry,” he whispered, knowing he must be quashing her.
“’Tis all right,” she grunted. “But your knee.…”
He shifted again, removing his right knee from what was surely the back of her thigh. When he had come down on her, much of his weight had come down on the right side of her body. He hoped he hadn’t broken any bones.
“Better?” he muttered.
