“Perhaps there’s a cave or a shieling.”
He shook his head, his hair brushing her cheek. “They’ll know to look in such places—even if we could find one in the dark.” She closed her eyes, hope fading after all.
John let her go and slid off the horse. He reached to help her down. He kept his hands on her waist, gently holding her steady. “I don’t know how long I was unconscious, Gillian. Are you . . . all right? Did they . . . ?” His breathing was ragged as he waited for her answer. His hands tightened on her waist, ready to catch her, perhaps, if she fell apart now. She put her hands on his forearms. “I came to no harm. I suppose there wasn’t enough time to, to—I think they were waiting for others to arrive, and when they did—” She tried to smile, felt it wobble. “They had a code of honor, you see, about who gets first choice of the, um, spoils. They hadn’t gotten around to dividing things up yet.”
He reached up to trace the bloody patterns Rabbie had drawn on her face. “Reminds me of a princess I knew once, a chief’s daughter,” he murmured. “She was brave, too . . .”
She gently touched the shadowy lump on his brow. “I think I fared better than you. Does it hurt?”
He didn’t reply. He lowered his head and kissed her gently, a brush of his lips against hers, a comfort, an assurance. “I’m fine, lass, really.”
“We should keep going.”
He shook his head. “It would be better to stay put, sweeting, and wait for dawn. It will be easier to decide which way to go when there’s light to see the way.”
“Will they follow us?”
“It will be hard to track us in the dark. They’ll probably wait for dawn as well, or count themselves lucky and flee if they’re smart. They have what they wanted. Do you still have the dirk?”
She drew it from her sleeve. “It was Keir’s.”
He took it from her silently. “You’ve been through a lot, Gillian. You need to rest a while.”
She suddenly felt more tired than she’d ever been. She nodded and let him take charge.
* * *
John looked at the empty wood around them. They had one dirk, no food, and not even a cloak or a plaid between them. He knew Gillian was clenching her teeth to keep them from chattering—from shock as much as cold. She’d been brave, but now it was over she needed rest, warmth, and food.
“We can’t risk a fire,” he said regretfully.
He heard her gown rustle as she straightened her spine. “I know. I’ll be fine. It’s just—this gown is not meant for a night in the wood.”
“It’s the one you wore at the masquerade.”
“Yes. You remember?”
He reached up to touch her face, gently, remembering the bruises, the blood. “I remember. I’ll build a shelter, get you out of the wind at least.”
“I’ll see to the garron.”
He cut boughs and bracken, just the way he would have done in the wilds of Hudson Bay. He leaned them against a tree, fashioned a lean-to.
“I found a burn, let the horse drink, then tied it among the trees,” she said when she returned. She’d washed the blood from her face and hands. She stood looking at the makeshift shelter.
“Your chamber awaits,” he said, sweeping a bow. “Go inside and sleep for a few hours.”
He meant for her go in alone, but she held out her hand. “Come with me.”
He knew he shouldn’t. He should keep watch. It was his duty. But she was afraid now, perhaps, fragile. More than a guard she needed comfort, kindness, strength—and warmth.
He took her hand, bent low, and followed her inside. “For a little while, until you fall asleep,” he said.
There was only room to sit or lie down. The boughs made a fragrant, springy bed, the needles of the fir surprisingly soft if one was careful. He’d slept on worse, harder beds that didn’t have the benefit of Gillian MacLeod to share them with. Still, for her sake, he wished they had a plaid to cover it.
But she was no wilting flower. He opened his arms, and she sighed, and lay beside him, rolling against him, facing away. The soft weight of her body warmed his own. She wriggled, trying to get comfortable, brushing against him, pressing closer. The soft, sweet scent of her skin rose around him. His arousal was instant, and he gritted his teeth, tried to delicately shift away, but she followed. He willed his hopeful body to see this as duty and chivalry only, but she was soft in his arms, and even in the dark—especially in the dark—he knew she was beautiful and desirable. He hoped she was innocent enough that she would mistake his arousal for a wayward branch. But she turned, her hands seeking in the darkness. “Whatisthat?” she asked, and he swallowed hard, wondering if she wassoinnocent he’d have to explain it.
But her hand reached inside his shirt instead and closed on the leather pouch, the medicine bag, and she began to pull it out.
