The Highlands of Scotland
Summer 1216
Every step of his mount was agony.
It is nothing, Roarke told himself harshly, shifting his
weight to ease the torturous pressure on his spine. But
the relentless throbbing in his muscles continued, an
incessant reminder that his body no longer enjoyed the
hard resilience he had once known.
It was a bitter realization.
"'Tis getting late," observed Eric, urging his horse
alongside Roarke. The enormous, fair-haired warrior
studied the fading light. "We should make camp."
Roarke shook his head.
Eric stared at Roarke, his blue gaze penetrating. Roarke
returned his friend's scrutiny with rigid indifference.
"As you wish," said Eric after a moment, shrugging. "I was
only thinking of the horses."
"We will go farther." He resisted the urge to shift his
weight.
"Strange that there's been no sign of him yet," remarked
Donald, idly stretching his arms over his head. He
yawned. "Perhaps the elusive Falcon and his charming band
will be more apt to introduce themselves once we've
settled for the night."
"That's what they did to the last men Laird MacTier sent
to capture them," growled Myles. The heavyset warrior spat
contemptuously on the ground. "Attacked them as they lay
snoring after knocking out the men assigned to keep watch."
"Stripped them bloody naked and stole their horses," Eric
added. "The fools had to walk back to the holding wearing
nothing but a few strategically placed branches. Laird
MacTier was furious."
Donald arched one brow in bemusement. "Now, that doesn't
seem very sporting. Stealing weapons and valuables is one
thing, but why would theFalcon steal their plaids? "
"To humiliate his enemies." Roarke was unable to contain
his disgust. Better to slay one's opponent, quickly and
with honor, rather than strip him like a bairn and send
him limping naked back to his clan. "The Falcon and his
men prefer the weapon of shame to the clean cut of death.
If they make MacTier look like a fool, then other clans
will view us all as fools. That is why we must crush this
band of outlaws."
"Yet MacTier wants the Falcon taken alive," mused Donald.
"He wants to kill the troublesome bastard himself," Roarke
explained. The Falcon had been a festering thorn in his
laird's backside for months now, and his patience was at
an end. "MacTier also needs him alive so he can learn
where the Falcon has hidden the fortune he has stolen from
us."
"We needn't drag him all the way back to our holding just
for that." Eric's massive hand clamped the hilt of the
heavy dirk strapped to his waist. "A few strips of flesh
peeled away, and he'll tell us exactly what we want to
know."
"Our orders are to bring him back alive, Eric," Roarke
reminded him.
The warrior reluctantly released his weapon. "I prefer
battle to this tedious business of hunting," he complained
darkly.
"In battle I don't have to choose between whom I kill and
whom I maim."
"By God, that's an inspiring reflection!" said Donald,
chuckling. "No doubt when we return home you will enchant
many a fair maiden with your gallant philosophy."
Eric snorted. "I leave the enchanting of maidens to you.
You have the pretty face for such idiocy."
"'Tis not my face that wins their hearts," Donald
maintained, although with his handsomely carved features,
there was no denying his appeal to women. "'Tis simply
that I know how to put a gentle maiden at ease--unlike
you, who with that fearsome Viking scowl manage to send
them screaming home to their mamas before you even bid
them good day."
Eric's expression darkened. "Women are feeble, silly
creatures."
"Eric's right," agreed Myles, scratching his shaved
head. "Fawning over women is a sport for fools." He
belched.
Donald sighed. "'Tis clear you both have been removed from
the company of lasses too long," he mused. "Tonight I will
begin your lessons on how to win a maid's attentions, and
soon you'll have them flocking to you like starving birds
to ripe berries."
"I have no desire for women to flock to me," Eric
replied. "Women sap a man's strength and waste his time,
which is better spent training for battle."
"Ah, but there's nothing sweeter than the softness of a
lass pressing tightly against your hardness," rhapsodized
Donald dreamily, "or the velvety caress of her moist,
parted lips grazing upon your--"
"There is a clearing ahead," interrupted Roarke. "Go and
see if it is a satisfactory place for us to make camp."
"Gladly," Eric growled. "Anything to escape Donald's
infernal clatter." He dug his heels into his mount and
cantered toward the clearing.
"The day will come when you beg me for advice on winning a
lass's heart," Donald shouted cheerfully, riding fast
behind him.
"Go with them, Myles," ordered Roarke, "and try to keep
Eric from killing Donald before I get there."
"It won't be easy," Myles muttered, heading toward the
clearing.
Roarke watched as his warriors disappeared into the
shadowy veil of trees. Certain he was alone, he slowly
bent his head from side to side, groaning with relief at
the ripple of cracking sounds that rewarded his effort.
Then he raised his arms and flexed them, easing the
painful knots of tension in the damaged muscles. He
grunted and stretched forward on his horse, trying to
loosen the stiffness in his aching back. The movements did
little to alleviate his discomfort, but even a marginal
improvement was better than none at all. Now he would be
able to feign a modicum of ease as he dismounted before
his men, rather than succumbing to the treachery of his
weary, battered body.
"Look here," called Donald, seeing Roarke approach. "It
appears someone has been here before us." He yanked a
shimmering dirk from the earth at the base of a
tree. "Someone with a penchant for lavish weaponry," he
added, turning the heavily jeweled hilt over.
Myles's eyes grew wide. "Bloody hell, that must be worth a
small fortune."
"It is not the weapon of a warrior," scoffed Eric. "Only a
fool would trust his life to such a clumsy piece."
Uneasiness flashed through Roarke. Dusk had withered to a
smoky caul, making it difficult to see through the shadows
of the thickly entwined pine and rowan trees. A whisper of
sound caressed the stillness, barely more than the flutter
of a wing, but a sound that somehow struck him as out of
place in the sweetly scented arbor of these woods. He
narrowed his gaze and fought to distinguish between the
shifting shapes surrounding them, straining to hear beyond
his warriors' irritatingly loud ruminations on the dirk.
There was nothing except the occasional twitter of a bird,
and the soft rustle of a small animal as it skittered
across the loamy ground.
You are being foolish, Roarke told himself impatiently,
wondering at his tenseness. It is nothing.
Suddenly a giant net dropped from the trees, trapping his
startled men like rabbits.
"Got them!" shouted a voice gleefully from above. "Three
fat flies in one sticky web!"
"Good work, Magnus!" called another, "but there's still
one left!"
Roarke jammed his heels into his mount and flew forward,
barely evading the second net.
"You missed, Lewis!" shouted a tall fellow who dropped
from the trees with feline agility. He regarded Roarke
with cool wariness, considering his next move.
"Sorry!" apologized a chastened voice over Roarke's head.
"Not yer fault, lad," the first voice assured him. "He's
as slippery as a fish on a fire, that one is!"
"Never mind that, somebody get him!" commanded the tall
one, who had now been joined on the ground by a stocky man
with wildly curling hair. Ignoring Roarke, they grabbed
the ends of the net and began racing in a circle around
his bellowing warriors, who were swearing and knocking
each other over as they vainly attempted to free
themselves.
Suddenly another warrior burst from the trees upon a
magnificent steel-colored charger, his sword a flash of
silver against the swiftly waning light. The new attacker
wore a dark, battered helmet and a coat of finely wrought
chain mail over coarse woolen leggings. His eyes were two
black slits, but the grim determination with which the
warrior gripped his weapon left no doubt as to his intent.
Roarke charged forward and met the first thrust of his
opponent's blade, edging him back, but only for a second.
The warrior instantly raised his sword and thundered
toward him once more, thrusting before Roarke could better
his own position. Roarke whipped up his own blade in a
powerful arc, ably deflecting the warrior's blow in a
golden burst of sparks. The clang of steel mixed with the
ignoble swearing and howling coming from his now
hopelessly entangled soldiers.
His attacker was no match for Roarke's size and strength,
but what the fellow lacked in power he more than
compensated for with deftness and speed. Roarke thrust
again and again, each strike edging his opponent back a
little farther, until finally they were beyond the
clearing and he sensed the advantage was his. Utilizing
every shred of his strength he swung his sword high into
the air as he prepared to hack off his opponent's head.
Pain lanced his buttock, reducing his roar to a startled
bellow. Another arrow sliced the air beside his ear and
flew toward his adversary, who lurched to one side, then
flapped his arms helplessly as he toppled off his horse. A
third shaft whistled past, causing Roarke's mount to rear,
which had the distressing effect of driving the iron point
buried in his bum even deeper. Cursing savagely, he
released his reins and sword to grab at the blasted arrow,
then flailed at empty air before crashing unceremoniously
beside his helmeted attacker.
"Move so much as a whisker, ye great hulkin' beast, and
I'll plant this arrow straight in yer shriveled, greedy
heart!" declared a voice from above.
Roarke glanced at his sword, which lay impossibly beyond
his reach. Summoning the mangled remains of his dignity,
he gritted his teeth and eased himself onto his good
buttock.
"Not so bold now that ye've a shaft up yer arse, are ye?"
His captor cackled. "Let that be a lesson to ye, for
darin' to tangle with the mighty Falcon!"
Roarke stared at the ancient old man with the quivering
bow and arrow aimed none too steadily at his
chest. "You're the Falcon?" he demanded, unable to conceal
his astonishment.
The snowy-haired thief's eyes narrowed. "If ye're thinkin'
to make sport with me, ye should know I've killed dozens
of men for less." He stretched the string of his bow to a
menacing tautness. "Were ye wantin' another arrow in ye?"
"I meant no insult," Roarke assured him, eyeing the
trembling arrow precariously gripped in his captor's
gnarled hand. "It's just that you have a band of men
working with you." He glanced at the three who now had his
bellowing warriors trussed in their net. "I assumed you
were their leader."
The old man regarded him warily, evaluating his
explanation. Suddenly his wrinkled mouth split into a
yellow smile. "No harm done, laddie," he said, striking a
jaunty pose. "'Tis easy enough to see how ye might be
confused, facin' such a formidable warrior as myself.
That's the Falcon lyin' there beside ye," he continued,
waving his weapon at the fallen warrior. "An ye'd best
hope he's not sorely injured, or I'll be buryin' another
shaft in ye!"
Roarke glanced at his opponent, who hadn't stirred since
hitting the ground. Clearly the fellow's fall had dazed
him. Infuriated that he had been trapped by the very prey
he stalked, Roarke reached over and roughly knocked off
the Falcon's helmet.
"My God," he drawled hoarsely.
The dazed warrior's eyes opened and stared at him in
confusion. Their color was a brilliant swirl of emerald
and gold, like a Highlands forest in the shifting
sunlight. The infamous Falcon studied Roarke a moment, the
fine crescents of her brows arched, as if trying to
remember how she had come to be lying upon the ground
beside him. She showed no sign of fear but merely
childlike curiosity, as if his proximity to her was
entirely acceptable, if only she could recall the
explanation. Roarke studied the delicate perfection of her
in awe, wondering when he had ever seen such silky skin, a
nose so elegantly sculpted, or lips as full and invitingly
curved. Her hair spilled across the ground in a glossy
dark cape, its tangled strands rippling over the crushed
grass like fine dark ale. He wanted to say something, but
his ability to speak had deserted him, and so he simply
stared, lost in the guileless depths of her gaze.
"Ye took a wee tumble, Melantha," said the old man. "A
good thing ye were wearin' yer helmet, or ye'd have
cracked yer head like an egg," he added, chuckling. "Are
ye all right?"
Melantha's gaze remained fastened upon the stranger
staring down at her. "I fell?"
Roarke nodded. Had the arrow in his backside arrived but a
fraction of a second later, he would have severed this
magnificent creature's head from her neck. A woman. Little
more than a girl, really. Shame sluiced through him,
making him feel sick.
How he ever would have forgiven himself for performing
such an atrocity, he had no idea.
Melantha studied the handsome warrior looking down at her,
confused by the concern she saw etched in the lines of his
weathered face. Her mind was wrapped in a gauzy shroud,
but it was clear that this man was most troubled by her
fall.
"I'm fine," she assured him, reaching up to lay her hand
against the roughness of his cheek. The intimate gesture
seemed to surprise him, but she did not withdraw her palm.
Instead she pressed it against the warmth of his skin,
fascinated by the hard contour of his jaw against her
slender fingers.
"I doubt this brute is overly concerned about how ye're
feeling," interjected Magnus, "seeing as he was just about
to cut yer head off when I shot him in the arse."
The veil cloaking Melantha's mind instantly disintegrated,
releasing her memory in an icy rush. She snatched back her
hand and rolled away to grab her fallen sword before
nimbly rising to her feet.
"Who are you?" she demanded, pointing her blade at
Roarke's throat.
He winced as he tried to balance himself on his good
hip. "My name is Roarke."
"Now, that's a fine name," observed Magnus, leaning
casually against his bow. "It means 'outstanding ruler.'
Are ye a laird then, kiddie?"
Roarke shook his head, his gaze still fixed on Melantha.
Her loose-fitting coat of finely wrought chain mail and
her shapeless leggings effectively concealed any hint of
her feminine figure, yet Roarke found himself stirred by
the lean, willowy grace of her as she stood over him.
"I am a warrior," he said.
"From which clan?" Melantha's sword was poised to slash
his neck if he so much as breathed the wrong way. "And
spare me your lies, for if I hear a different answer from
one of your fine soldiers, my men will enjoy slowly
flaying each of you until we have the truth."
"From the Clan MacTier." Roarke watched in fascination as
her eyes narrowed.
"You're rather far from your holding," she observed
tautly. "What are you doing in these woods?"
"We are on our way to the MacDuff lands," Roarke lied. "We
have been entrusted with a message to be delivered to
their laird."
She eyed him suspiciously. "What message? "
"The message is for Laird MacDuff's ears alone."
"He lies."
The tall, agile fellow who had first leaped from the trees
approached. He did not appear to be much past twenty-two,
but the hard set of his face indicated he had long since
lost the whimsy of youth. His shoulder-length hair was of
brown and gold, and he bore a neatly shaped beard to
match, which served to obscure his relative lack of years.
"They carry no message." He regarded Roarke with contempt.
"How do you know, Colin?" asked Melantha.
"Because the others have already revealed that they were
coming here to capture the Falcon," he replied. "It seems
we have caught four more of Laird MacTier's finest." His
tone was heavily derisive.
Melantha pressed the point of her sword into the base of
Roarke's throat. "Be warned," she said ominously, "I have
no patience for men who lack the courage to speak the
truth."
"And you be warned," Roarke growled, shoving her blade
away, "that I will not be prodded like a slab of stringy
meat with this rusty sword of yours."
Colin sprinted forward and jabbed his own weapon at
Roarke's chest. "Do that again," he invited with deadly
calm, "and I'll make certain it is the last thing you ever
do upon this earth."
"Here, now, lads, that'll do," objected Magnus. "There's
no call for more fighting today, to my way of thinking.
These MacTiers have been caught with little harm done save
for an arrow in this big beast here, and while that might
sting a bit, I don't believe 'tis going to kill him."
"A pity," Colin snapped, his sword still prodding
Roarke. "Perhaps I should remedy that."
"That's enough, Colin," said Melantha. "Take him over to
the others and bind him. Lewis will watch them while we
talk."
"On your feet, MacTier," ordered Colin, keeping his sword
at Roarke's chest.
Roarke awkwardly rose and limped toward his men, clenching
his jaw against the pain streaking through his buttock.
His warriors watched him glumly through the tangled prison
of netting.
"Is your injury serious?" demanded Eric, unable to see the
arrow projecting from his backside.
"No," Roarke replied shortly.
"Where is it?" Donald asked.
Roarke hesitated. Realizing he could hardly walk around
with an arrow sticking out of his backside and not have
them notice, he turned.
"That's--most unfortunate," managed Donald, trying his
best not to laugh.
"Don't believe you've been struck there before," Myles
commented.
"It will need stitches," Eric said. "The flesh there is
soft and easily torn--"
"It's nothing!" Roarke snapped, wishing they would all
shut the hell up. "Forget it."
"Give me your wrists," ordered Colin, brandishing a length
of rope. "And don't try anything, or Lewis will gut you
like a fish."
A gangly, awkward looking youth with blood red hair and
freckle-spattered skin nervously stepped forward. Roarke
doubted young Lewis had much experience gutting anything
that wasn't small and already dead, but he refrained from
commenting on this. Instead he obligingly held out his
wrists and permitted Colin to secure him to a tree.
"Lewis, you watch over them while the rest of us talk,"
instructed Colin. " If any of them gives you any trouble,
kill him."
Lewis glanced apprehensively at Roarke. Roarke glowered,
causing the poor lad to stumble back. Roarke rolled his
eyes, unable to believe he had permitted himself to be
captured by such a ridiculous band of misfits. If only his
hands were free and he did not have this goddamn arrow
stuck in his ass he could easily overcome the whole bloody
lot of them.
As it was, there was little more he could do than scowl as
the other members of the Falcon's band gathered just
beyond the clearing.