“But can you trust the word of the English?” Fergus asked, swinging himself up onto the back of his horse and adjusting the powder horn he carried at his side.
“I could say the same about you Scottish rebels,” Amelia tersely replied.
“Easy now,” the Butcher warned in her ear, sounding almost amused. “You don’t want to get into a political debate with Fergus. He’llwipe the ground with you.”
Duncan wrapped his big hands around her waist, but Amelia slapped them away. “I know how to mount a horse,” she said. “You don’t have to toss me up like a child every time.”
He backed away in mock surrender.
As soon as he gave her enough space, she placed her foot in the stirrup and mounted. The Butcher slung his shield across his back, then swung up behind her.
“I thought proper English ladies only rode sidesaddle,” he said quietly, “because they like to keep their legs squeezed together, nice and tight.”
Why did he constantly feel inclined to say such vulgar things to her? And why did he always have to breathe every word into her ear as if it were an intimate secret between lovers?
“As you know,” she said, “my father was a colonel in the army. He might have enjoyed a son if he’d had one. Since he didn’t, I was fortunate enough to be awarded the opportunity to play ‘Dragoons’ when I was very young, much to my mother’s chagrin.”
“He taught you to ride like a soldier?”
“Among other things.”
“I’llkeep that in mind.”
He turned the horse in the opposite direction from which they had come, while Fergus and Gawyn made haste toward the east, choosing a different route to Glen Elchaig. She was not sorry to see them go, for she knew less of them than she did about the Butcher, who—to her great astonishment—had not yet harmed her, despite ample opportunity. The others she was not so sure of.
Then she looked up and saw Angus on his pale gray horse, watching them from the edge of a blunt outcropping.
He wore his tartan like a hood over his head, and the ends of his long golden hair rippled like weightless ribbons in the breeze.
“There’s your friend,” she said suspiciously.
“Aye.”
She watched Angus until he turned his horse in the other direction, disappearing over the ridge. She had the distinct impression he would not be far, however. For the duration of this journey, he would always be in the vicinity, watching from the mist, sending daggers of malice in her direction. She only hoped he was not waiting for the right moment to ride in and strangle the life out of her when the Butcher was not looking.
They rode in silence for a time, and she grew sleepy as the horse plodded along and rocked her back and forth in the saddle. Her headfellforward and she snapped it back up, shaking herself awake and fighting the urge to sleep, until the Butcher covered her forehead with his palm. It was surprisingly warm against her skin.
“Lay your head on my shoulder,” he said.
She wanted to resist but was almost dizzy from lack of sleep and decided it would be best to comply, for she could not be much good to herself in such a state of fatigue.
The next thing she knew, she was dreaming about aballroom,filledwith orchestral music and swirling candlelight as she danced across the floor. The room was rich with the scent of roses and perfume. She wore powder in her hair, but her lips were painted a garish shade of red, and she winced at the blisters on her feet, which burned like hot pokers inside her tight shoes as she danced one minuet after another.
Then suddenly she was flying through the sky like a bird, over the mountains and into the clouds. Was this death? Or heaven?
She jerked awake. Heart pounding, not knowing where she was, she sat forward and grabbed onto the strong, steady arms that kept her from toppling off the horse.
The gentle thud of hoofbeats on the path brought her back to reality. She took in the unfamiliar surroundings—the canopy of branches and leaves overhead and the bright sky beyond. They were in the forest now, trudging over the soft, mossy earth. A flock of warblers chirped noisily in the treetops. “How long was I asleep?”
“Over an hour,” the Butcher replied.
“An hour? Surely not.”
“Aye. You were moaning my name and saying, ‘Oh, yes,Duncan, yes, yes. Again, again…’ ”
Amelia frowned over her shoulder. “You lie. I would never say that, and I barely know your name. You’re just the Butcher to me.”
“But you learned my name this morning, remember?”
