Highland Devil (Murray Family #22)(3)

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?"

"I dinnae hear anything." She lied because she could hear Freya growling.

Still holding her, he stood up and walked toward Jester, dragging the  woman with him. "It is coming from your bag." He reached toward it. "And  now the bag is moving. Open it."

"Nay. They are just my belongings. Some clothes and such as that. Oh, and a few things I saved from the manor."

"Clothes that growl? Open it."

She sighed. His voice was hard and she sensed he was truly beginning to  feel annoyed. In her experience, annoyed men struck out. Her father  never had, but she had seen too many others who did. It seemed it did  not take much for a woman to annoy a mon, either. She just hoped this  man did not hate cats as much as her cousins did.

Carefully unlatching her bag, she took a deep, steadying breath. She  could do nothing but hope she had not saved her pet once only to have  another man kill her. The moment she opened the bag, Freya leapt out,  landing on her shoulder and curling her tail around Mora's neck. The  small, gray cat stared at the man.

"A cat? Ye have been toting around a cat?" He took the bag from her.

"I had to. The men I am fleeing almost killed her because she scratched one of them."

"Who would want to kill a kitten? The scratch couldnae have been a bad one."

Trying not to think on the long, bleeding gouges on Robert's face,  several of them dangerously close to his eyes, she answered, "She isnae a  kitten. She is two years old, probably as big as she ever will be."

"Ah. A runt." Still holding her by the wrist, he pulled her toward the campfire. "Sit."

"I should continue on my way," she protested, and reached for her bag.

He allowed her to grab it, then pulled her closer to the fire. "'Tis  dark and nay a good time to travel. And where would ye go? I dinnae  think there is another horse along the road for ye to steal. What is  your name?"

"Mora Ogilvy." She had opened her mouth to protest the word "steal" and then sighed, knowing there was no point in it.

"Sit." He almost smiled at the way she narrowed her eyes as she stared  at him, but she then sat down by the fire, setting her bag close by her  side. The woman did not like to be ordered around.

Gybbon sat across from her and studied her. She was small, almost as  near to being called a runt as her cat. Her hair was blond, but the  firelight glinted off some red strands as well. From what little he  could see of her figure, she was temptingly curved in all the right  places. Since it was difficult to see her figure as well as he would  like in the firelight, he turned his study to her face.