The man abruptly stood up and stretched, then scratched his bottom. She rolled her eyes. Her brothers always did the same, stretch and scratch. Then she pressed her lips together to hide the sigh begging to be let out.
She missed her brothers, Niall and David. Although she and her parents had written to them several times, and she had written again after her parents were killed, there had been no reply. They had gone to France to fight, to join one of the mercenary bands there. Mora had the chilling feeling they were dead. She would not be surprised if, when her cousins learned where her brothers were going, they had made certain they would never return. If her brothers had joined with some mercenaries, she suspected it would not be difficult to get a few of those men to kill two of their own kind for the right coin.
Staring in the direction of the fire as she thought, Mora was slowly pulled out of her musings. The man stood with his hands on his hips staring into the fire and frowning. He was a fine-looking man from what little she could see. The flickering light from the fire made it difficult to see his face though. She was much more interested in his face. She had seen far too many men who had a fine, manly build that any woman would appreciate—only to discover they had a face that looked as if they had lost too many fights or a horse had sat on it.
She stared down at the ground fighting tears as a memory surfaced. She had said something similar to her mother once concerning her uncle’s men-at-arms and had wondered aloud if her cousins chose such men purposefully so that no one of them would outshine her cousins. Her father had laughed but had quickly smothered it as her mother had scolded her, telling her that a man’s heart and soul were of more importance than his face.
Although she had never been unkind to any of the men, Mora had taken the scold to heart. After all, her cousins were all quite handsome, yet it was now clear their hearts and souls were dark as sin. She had had more proof of her mother’s lesson many times and owed one homely, burly man for her cat as he had saved it from being drowned and asked her if she wanted it.
A sense that she was being watched drew her attention back to the man at the fire. He was staring right at her and she tensed. When he just shook his head, and turned to start walking into the woods, she sagged with relief. Waiting a few moments, she began to make her way, as swiftly and quietly as she could, toward the horse. When a branch snapped and she felt a tug on her braid, she cursed softly and waited a moment, fighting to untangle her hair from the branch, worrying that she was losing time to escape. Listening carefully for a moment, but hearing nothing, she hurried forward still struggling with the branch. She had reached the horse before she finally got free of it and started plucking out the bits and pieces it had left behind in her hair.
The animal stared at her but made no sound as she set her bag down and began to saddle him. She attached her bag securely and then swung up into the saddle. It was not a graceful mount because he was so tall, but she was soon settled nicely in the saddle, and was pleased he was such a placid beast.
She was reaching for the reins when the horse suddenly moved and Mora found herself flying through the air. The landing on the ground stole all breath from her body and she did not think she would recover fast enough to still get away. Then she groaned, for the small wound on her side that her cousin had inflicted stung badly. She wondered if it was not as insignificant as she had thought.
A big hand grabbed her by the wrist and she silently muttered every curse she knew. A tug on her arm turned her onto her back and for a little while she feigned unconsciousness, but then she opened her eyes. She stared at the man crouched beside her, still holding her wrist in a grip that did not hurt but which she knew she would not break free of.
She could see no weapon in his other hand as she felt her eyes grow wider and wider. She lost only a touch of the fear she felt when she saw that and it still hung on enough to keep her heart pounding so hard she was amazed he could not hear it. The man may not be holding a weapon, but that did not mean he had none or would be reluctant to use it on a woman. He would not be condemned if he struck her down since she had just tried to steal his horse. That was, after all, a hanging crime.
Then a deep voice asked, “Why are ye trying to steal my horse?”
Chapter Two
Sir Gybbon Murray heard the sharp, quick sound of a branch break and quickly finished his business. As he stepped around the tree he had just relieved himself against, he frowned at the shadowy figure struggling to free itself from a branch. He decided he was due a problem as most of his journey had been trouble free. When the figure finally straightened up, he recognized it firmly as a woman as she yanked pieces of the branch out of her hair.
Then she looked around and he pressed himself up against a tree so that he would not be visible. He cursed softly as she next hurried over to his horse, Jester. He had thought that by riding into the wood lining the road he had avoided the thieves who so often roamed the night. This woman obviously intended to take his horse. He looked around very carefully assuming she had to have some male compatriots, but could see nothing.
He smiled as he looked back at her. He did not have to rush over. Jester would take care of her, he thought, and had to smother a chuckle as he watched her saddle the animal and take the reins from the tree he had looped them around. He crossed his arms over his chest and waited as she attached her bag to the saddle and then mounted Jester in a particularly graceless way.
It did not take long for Jester to do what he did best. She was only just settling the reins in her hands when his horse moved. It took barely a moment, and little effort, for Jester to hurl her out of the saddle to the ground. Gybbon winced when she hit the ground hard. She sprawled face down and groaned softly, reaching for her side.
“Why are ye trying to steal my horse?” he asked.
He reached out and grabbed her wrist as she fumbled with her side, afraid she was about to get a weapon. Not finding the blade he expected, he looked down at her as she turned onto her back. She was pale but he did not know if that was just caused by the weak light from the fire he had built, or fear, or even pain. A long thick braid of hair had flipped up over her head and it was definitely pale in color. She did not open her eyes and he then wondered if she was unconscious or just in a swoon. He was ready to give her a light slap on the face to try and rouse her when she opened her eyes, brushing her braid off her face.
Gybbon wished the light from the fire was stronger so he could see her eyes clearly. He always felt more confident of his judgments when he could see someone’s eyes. As she stared at him, her eyes grew wider and wider until he suspected they would soon sting. He just could not guess if it was because of fear or surprise.
Mora stared at the man crouched by her side. She could see no weapon in his hand and she lost a touch of the fear gripping her so tightly. It still hung in strong enough to keep her heart pounding so hard she thought he must be able to hear it. The man may not be holding a weapon but that did not mean he had none. He must also be incensed at what she had tried to do and knew he would not be condemned if he struck her down because of it. It was a hanging crime.
“I wasnae stealing him. I was just borrowing him for a wee while.” She was not surprised when he gave her a look of annoyance as she knew it was a weak, senseless statement.
“I see. Just how was I expected to get him back when ye were done with him? Ye gave me no name nor a place to collect him at. Nay even a time when I could have him back. How is that nay stealing?” He frowned, cocked his head to the side, and looked toward his horse. “What is that sound?”