For now, they would need to stick to the woods, which meant their pace would be stunted. But he was not willing to risk the roads with Rhiannon in his care. It was one thing if it were just him, and he could be assured of a clear path, but to put her safety in jeopardy for the ease of passage wasn’t worth it. English soldiers and scouts weren’t the only people who prowled the roads. Outlaws were always ready to rob and beat a man, leaving him to rot in the middle of the road.
Thankfully, the border was a straight shot with no mountain crossings, and they should be able to cross into Scotland by nightfall. It had only taken him a couple of days from Alistair’s holding to arrive in England and scout out the place, allowing his horse time to rest as well while he waited overnight. Though the pace was slower with Rhiannon, he didn’t anticipate it being more than a few hours longer of a journey.
And so, they slowed as they made their way through the forest until the trees started to thin, and they found themselves at the edge of a vast clearing.
Ian stilled his horse, examining the open field for any signs of people—men in particular. Whether they were trained knights or farmers, they weren’t likely to be too keen on seeing a Scottish warrior and an English lady. Though he wasn’t wearing his kilt, his demeanor and stance seemed to alert the uppity English that he didn’t belong. And while he found his fighting skills far superior to most men’s, he wasn’t exactly looking for a fight, nor did they have the time to draw attention to themselves and risk a delay.
“What do you hear?” Rhiannon asked, turning in the saddle to peer up at him.
“Nothing yet.”
“Then why don’t you go?”
“Doesna mean I willna hear anything.” Just the whistle of a slight breeze. The usual scampering of a squirrel. The flap of a bird’s wings. George’s huff of annoyance that they’d stopped.
“How long will you listen?”
“Hard to do it with ye talking, lass.”
“Oh.” She made an apologetic face and pinched her lips with her fingers, her eyes teasing.
Annoyed with their banter, it would seem, Goosie jumped down and started to stalk into the clearing, head down, tail up, as if the cat sensed something hidden.
The grass was a foot or more long, swaying in the breeze. There were a few matted-down trails, mostly from deer, but that didn’t mean other things didn’t use the created paths to hide their footsteps. Ian himself had done just that on his way to the castle to leave as little trace of himself as possible.
The cat must have sensed some prey, and given he’d not brought enough provisions to feed the animal, he let her have a few minutes to pounce. But other than a few field mice, there was nothing else here. At least not yet.
“Want to refresh yourself?” Ian asked, giving Rhiannon time to rest from the saddle and his horse a respite without their weight on his back.
Rhiannon nodded, and before he could dismount to help her, she lifted her leg over the horse’s neck and then slid down nimbly his side as if she’d done it a thousand times.
She walked toward the thick trunk of an oak tree covered in rooted vines and moss, and he watched until she disappeared, then dismounted to stretch and relieve himself.
There was a subtle thump and then prancing paws as Goosie returned, a mouse caught between her teeth and looking as proud as possible.
“Oh, Goosie, what have you got?” Rhiannon rounded the tree, her expression showing pride at her wee cat.
But her smile faltered at the same moment Ian’s did.
The sound had been subtle but enough that they’d both heard it. A crack, as though a boot had stepped on a dried-out stick, snapping it in half. Whoever it was realized their mistake, and the woods went silent. Even the breeze, once waving gently on the grasses in the field, slowed down to a stop. The world seemed to come quickly to a quiet end.
Ian stared at Rhiannon, all of his senses alive as he listened, trying to place the exact location of the crack. But whoever it was didn’t want to be heard or found out, remaining silent and hidden. Goosie moved to stand between George’s two front hooves as if seeking shelter.
“We know ye’re there,” Ian called out as he reached for his wrist, slowly sliding the small dagger from its hidden holder. He could throw it faster than he might be able to lunge with his sword and stop the advance of their stalker before they had a chance to get close enough to strike.
Rhiannon slowly started crouching, sinking as if her legs were melting into the earth. She’d stashed the dagger she’d stolen off her flattened guard in her boot and likely thought to help him. He shook his head at her, not wanting her to tempt whoever stalked them, but she rolled her eyes at him as if to say, “Don’t be a dolt,” and returned to standing, her dagger in her surprisingly steady hand.
A rustle sounded to Ian’s left, slight, nothing more than the faint whisper of a fabric on the trunk of a tree, but he was keen to it, having trained his whole life as a warrior.
What surprised him, however, was that Rhiannon also seemed to hear it, her gaze turning toward the same spot. Interesting. The sounds were subtle enough not to be picked up by someone not trained to hear. He’d have to ask her about that later.
“Come on out. We’ve no’ got all day,” Ian said, keeping his tone bored.
A second later, someone did present themselves from behind a tree, but it was not at all who Ian had expected.
A child.
“Please, sir, don’t hurt me.” The lad couldn’t be more than six or seven summers, staring up at them with watery blue eyes, his lower lip trembling. He held his hands up in the air in a show of surrender. The clothes on his back were torn and dirty. Like a wee urchin who lived off the fruits of the earth. “I’m lost.”
