The muscles in the sides of his jaw flexed. “Indeed, I do, lass. I’ll slow down. Or if ye prefer, I can carry ye. We’ve only another half mile until we reach my horse. Do ye think ye can make it?”
Not horses. Just horse. She didn’t want to question him on that, fearing that he meant for them to ride together atop one horse all the way back to Scotland. Such close proximity made her skin tingle and her face grow flush. She was already having a tough time breathing; she didn’t need to add panic to the mix.
“I can walk,” she said, forcing herself forward. One foot in front of the other, that’s all it would take. One, two, one-two. “Or run.” If she had to, she supposed. Run as if Adam were on her tail—that seemed like good motivation.
“Good.” Ian took her at her word and started to run, which put her into a full-out sprint, her skirts tangling in her legs, making it even more of a challenge.
The last time she’d forced her legs to move in such quick succession, she might have been eight or nine years old. That was well over a decade ago. Her muscles were not pleased with the exertion, painful even as sweat trickled down her spine, and she knew she’d be sore later, but there was no other choice. Even if she stopped, by the grip Sinclair had on her, he’d end up dragging her through the woods. She couldn’t have him toss her over his shoulder and carry her to his horse through the forest as if she were nothing more than a bag of grain or a sack of wool.
She was a woman. A strong one at that. Give her a dagger, and she’d spear any foe’s heart. Give her another week or two, and she’d be able to run the distance without suffering too much.
But as the seconds ticked slowly into minutes, which felt infinite, her aching feet and sore calf and thigh muscles begged for her to stop running beside him. To give in and let him toss her up on the hard round of his shoulder. To pass out and let her brother’s men take her. She wheezed her breaths, sweat not just trickling down her spine but washing down her face as though a waterfall had suddenly sprouted near the top of her head. Every breath felt as if her lungs were going to explode. My God…she might die.
This was torture. And he must know it. How could her rescuer not hear the labored breathing that surely sounded as if she were about to keel over? If she’d heard someone huffing like that, she’d think they were close to death for certain.
When she was about to give up and collapse, the trees parted to the loveliest sight. A horse munching on grass, who glanced up from his green feast to see them, looking almost bored and as if he might say, “Took you long enough.”
There was evidence of a camp having been made in the area, but Sinclair had made an effort to clean it up from the looks of things.
“Thank the heavens.” Rhiannon’s feet ceased movement, and she yanked her hand from Ian’s to rest it against her knee, her other hand balancing on the opposite leg, bent over as she attempted to catch her breath and not collapse face first on the ground.
“Are ye all right?” Ian’s voice was so full of concern it startled her.
Rhiannon managed enough energy to glance up and see his expression, which pretty much stated he thought she was addled.
Rhiannon sucked in a lung full of air and wheezed out, “Aye. Perfectly.” At least she would be as soon as she had a moment to rest. Too bad there wasn’t time for a quick nap. The grass looked soft and comforting.
Sinclair stared at her a moment longer as if trying to assess whether or not she was lying and then shrugged as he did, in fact, pick her up. Large, strong, capable hands wrapped around her waist. Rhiannon didn’t even argue—what for? She didn’t have the energy to pick herself up yet. Her legs were about to give out, and she didn’t think she could walk another step even if he held a dagger to her throat. So, this one time, she would allow it and let him take the weight of her body off of herself and into his efficient hands.
Ian tossed her unceremoniously onto the horse, and she welcomed the coolness of the saddle against her heated muscles. Though the coolness lasted only half a second before it was replaced by the heat of Ian’s body in the saddle in front of her.
“Hold on,” he ordered, and she didn’t argue, wrapping her arms around his waist.
As soon as she did, she regretted touching him intimately. Her hands settled on the muscular ridges of his abdomen, surprised by how hard he was beneath her palm, a marked difference from her own body. The heat of his skin practically singed her even though he wore a shirt of thin linen.
She’d never touched a man like this. Never sat with her legs pressed against a man’s body. Her shins were on the backs of his calves. Her thighs were around his hips. Her breasts were crushed to his back.
Ian let out a slow whistle that she expected to be a signal to his horse, but instead, there was a rustling in the bushes, and a black ball of fur darted toward them.
“Goosie,” she breathed, relieved her cat had followed them.
Goosie let out a little meow and then jumped into Ian’s lap, content to sit on top of the horse, comfortable with Ian in a way that made Rhiannon smile.
The fact that her cat was trained to jump into a saddle on a rider’s lap was her doing, as she’d often taken her cat for rides before her brother had come to Appleby Castle and taken her back to their family holding at Dacre.
From a distance, a great howl caused the hair on the back of Rhiannon’s neck to rise. A bellow shuddered the air, and Rhiannon expected to see a demon rush through the forest.
“Your wee guard has woken,” Ian said with a derisive chuckle. “His bellow will alert the others, and they’ll see him running and send reinforcements. Time for us to go.”
Rhiannon held tighter to Sinclair’s abdomen with one hand, her other giving Goosie a little pat. Then Sinclair took off at a gallop, and she held on tight for dear life. Her cat curled up on Ian’s lap as if runs like this made her nap. And at the speed they were going, Rhiannon laid her head against Ian’s back, prepared to nap as well. Better than worrying about the guard and her brother’s men following them. The ground flew by at such speed that she was bound to get dizzy if she kept looking too hard. So, she closed her eyes, refusing to let herself get sick from motion.
It was bad enough that Ian thought her weak and unable to run. If she lost her breakfast on his back, he’d likely make her run beside the charging horse. That would be a nightmare.
They sailed over the grounds, and though her eyes were closed, she kept her ears keen to any sounds of an approaching army. There was nothing but the steady rhythm of Ian’s horse galloping through the forest and the beating of her heart, the rhythm of his breathing against her ears, and was that the faintest beat of his heart too? While hers pounded against her ribs, his was a sturdy rhythm, as if the run, the gallop, the being chased by armed men were nothing but a typical day for him. Nothing to worry over at all.
That was rather intriguing. She wasn’t sure if she was irritated by the ease with which he seemed to move, to live, or if she was terrified that he didn’t seem to care about an approaching army of men. He was only one man, and it didn’t seem daunting to him at all that he’d be surrounded by at least a dozen guards.
She wanted to ask, but her words would be lost in the wind that funneled through her hair, and besides, at the speed they were going, she didn’t want to distract him with silly questions. One wrong move on his part, and it would mean their death.
