Highland Wolf (Highland Brides, #10)(5)
In truth, luck had been with them today. He’d been concerned that he was too late when he’d ridden in to see the gathering around the chapel. But then he’d spotted Kerr dragging a lass from the keep toward the church and he’d realized that the timing of his arrival had been perfect.
Now he could hardly believe how easy it had been and was worried his luck wouldn’t hold. Conall wasn’t really concerned about taking on MacNaughton’s and Kerr’s men. His warriors were some of the best sword arms in all of Scotland and even England, but he didn’t like the idea of a battle erupting with the lass there. She could get hurt or even killed by a stray arrow or sword strike. He’d rather get her safely away without battle.
“We should get moving, Laird Wolf,” Claray said suddenly. “As ye said, MacNaughton and me uncle may ha’e sent men after us. We’ve no time to dawdle.”
Blinking his thoughts away, Conall glanced to Claray, amazed to see that she was already heading back into the woods the way he’d come, leaving him behind. The rabbit was still cradled to her chest.
Muttering under his breath, he followed quickly, catching up to her just a few feet inside the cover of the trees. He eyed her sideways for a moment, watching her fuss and coo at the rabbit, and then cleared his throat and said, “Lass, I ken ye’ve no idea who I am, or why I took ye with me, but—”
“O’ course I do.”
He eyed her sharply. “Ye do?”
“Aye.” She didn’t bother looking up from her bunny. “Ye’re the Wolf, a brave and honorable warrior who fights only in battles whose cause ye believe in.”
Conall grimaced at the description, recognizing it from those fool songs the troubadours had taken to singing about him.
“And God sent ye to save me,” she added, and Conall nearly tripped over his own feet at the words.
“God?” he choked out.
“Aye. I prayed fer three days and nights fer Him to save me from MacNaughton, and He sent me you,” she announced, and then asked, “Do ye have any scraps o’ linen ye could spare, m’laird?”
“Linen?” he echoed, befuddled by the change in topic. “Nay. Why?”
“I really think ’twould be better to bind Brodie’s wounds,” she explained.
“Who is Brodie?” he asked, even more confused.
“The rabbit,” she explained.
“Ye’ve named it?” he squawked with disbelief.
“Well, I can no’ keep calling it bunny,” she pointed out, and then muttered, “Mayhap one o’ yer men have something I could use to bind him,” and rushed ahead of him as they stepped out of the woods.
Conall followed more slowly, watching as she rushed to Roderick, Payton and Hamish. He wasn’t terribly surprised by the men’s reactions to her rescuing a wounded rabbit. All three looked taken aback at first, and then vaguely amused. But then Hamish reached into one of his saddlebags and retrieved a strip of linen big enough for the job. He even got down from his horse to help her with the task of binding the wounded rabbit.
Conall just shook his head. Hamish was always prepared. It was the reason he was his first. No matter what came up, the man usually had whatever was needed in any given situation: strips of linen for bandages, herbs for remedies and tinctures, spare strips of leather to mend damaged boots, a small whetstone to sharpen your sgian dubh, a sack of oats to make oatcakes on a hot rock around the fire . . . The man seemed to think of everything. He was also quick about his work and the pair were finished with their fussing over the rabbit by the time Conall reached his horse.
As he mounted, Conall listened to her ask Hamish his name, and then thank him for his aid. The man’s gruff, slightly embarrassed response made him smile with amusement. None of them were used to the presence of ladies and his first was obviously uncomfortable with her appreciation. Or perhaps he was embarrassed at helping to mend a rabbit, Conall thought as he studiously avoided the questioning glances Roderick and Payton were giving him. They wanted to know if he’d explained who they were. But he hadn’t, and was now more than a little annoyed that she hadn’t given him the chance to.
“M’laird?”
Conall glanced down blankly to see that Claray had returned to his side and was now eyeing him with uncertainty.
“Do I ride with you again? Or did ye bring a mare fer me to—Oh!” she gasped with surprise when he leaned down to catch her under the arms and lift her up before him, rabbit and all.
Settling her in his lap again, he urged his mount to return to the trail before asking, “Can ye ride, then?”
“O’ course. Horses like me,” she assured him.
Conall dropped his gaze, trying to see her expression to determine whether she was teasing him or not. It seemed a nonsensical answer to him. But he could only see the top of her head, not her expression. Shrugging, he let the matter go and concentrated on the path ahead as they continued their journey.
The sun was barely peeking over the horizon now, daylight waning. If they traveled through the night at a slow but steady pace, and sped up to a trot during the day, they should reach MacFarlane in two or three more days. Once there, he would hand Claray over to her father and let him explain everything to the lass. He’d also recommend MacFarlane keep her at home until he was ready to come claim her. Conall had no desire to be rushing off to save her from the likes of MacNaughton at every turn, and it was her father’s responsibility to keep her safe until they wed.