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“Hilla?”
I shake my head again. This time, he will not be refused. His fingers grab my chin and guide my head to turn toward him.
But Aiken’s eyes do not judge. There is no censure there for the thoughts running through my head, ones I wish would flee and never return. Instead, only understanding.
“I wish the bastard dead too,” he says.
15
Aiken
“Do not move.”
I’ve traveled this way twice before, and it seemed a good place to stop. Though the running water nearby could attract others, the site is far off the main road.
But now someone is coming.
I point to the thicket we just crossed, a finger to my lips.
She hears nothing, but Hilla is not trained for this. Turning my head toward the wind to confirm my suspicions, I slowly unsheathe my sword. They are closer than I would like. At least two or three men.
Though I can tell Hilla is scared, I can do nothing to reassure her. The element of surprise is the only advantage we have. I make my way to the thickest tree trunk and position myself so as not to be seen. Sure enough, moments later, the sounds of approaching horses are evident even to Hilla, who watches me, still holding Sorel’s reins. She likes the lady, thankfully.
As do I.
Peeling my eyes from Hilla and Sorel, one of the many gifts Baldric gave to me, I wait as the riders approach. Three men. Separating them is my only chance.
When the first man passes, I do nothing. Thankfully, the third one is further behind, so when I move from my position to get between him and the others, I do not give his companions a chance to come to my target’s rescue. Before he or his mount are alerted to my presence, I reach up and grab his leg, yanking him off his horse, though he manages to stumble to his feet.
My sword is at his throat before he can raise an alarm.
The moment his companions realize what has happened, they spin toward us.
“Weapons,” I shout.
I tighten my grip, twisting my captive’s arm in a way that fells him to the ground. Craning to look over my shoulder, I’m quick to shift my focus to the other men. If you give a person the chance to think, they will. I cannot afford the reivers the opportunity to do so.
“Now.”
Both men, stupidly, draw and drop their swords.
“Dismount,” I order, my sword still at the man’s throat, his head pulled back due to my fistful of his hair. As they do, I pray my hunch is correct.
Their hobblers and padded gambesons mark them border reivers. But they could still pose a threat to Hilla if they’d been ordered to find her.
“Who are you?”
The man at the lead answers, eyeing me warily.
“Naught but reivers. We travel to Sindridge.”
Ahh. Wine smugglers.
“You are from Edingham, then?”
The man whose hair I currently grip nods.
Looking for evidence of their claim, something that would not make them a threat to Hilla, I find it in their speech. Their dress. But one mystery remains.
