The Laird's Captive Wife(23)

With that he returned to his own side of the loft and flung himself down on his cloak. Those quiet words of reassurance might have satisfied her but he could no longer fool himself. Something had awoken inside him that he thought dead. The knowledge shook him to the core of his being and with it came a resurgence of anger for letting it happen. That was the first and last time. For both their sakes it mustn’t happen again. He took another deep breath and let it out slowly. Then he wrapped the cloak around himself and shut his eyes. It was a long time before sleep came.





Chapter Four

Ashlynn was awoken by a hand shaking her shoulder.

‘Time to move, lass.’

She came to with a start but, on recognising her companion, relaxed a little. Grey dawn light revealed the details of the hay loft and awoke the memory of the previous evening. With it came profound embarrassment and regret. What a fool she had been! What must he think of her? Yesterday it would not have mattered but now…A covert glance at her companion revealed nothing of his thoughts for he had moved away and was buckling on his sword belt. Ashlynn bit her lip.

‘Iain, about what happened last night…’

His hands paused in their task and the dark eyes met hers. ‘Nothing happened last night, lass.’

‘I know.’ She paused awkwardly. ‘Thank you.’

Just for a second it took him aback. However, his tone was perfectly even when he spoke. ‘I’ve never forced a woman yet, and I’m not about to start with you.’ He finished buckling the sword belt and then moved to the ladder, pausing briefly to glance in her direction. ‘Now we’ve established that, we’ll get on our way.’

Having broken their fast on cheese and oatcakes they saddled the horses. Iain said nothing until they led the beasts from the barn. Then he paused, regarding her with a steady gaze.

‘Will there be any need for me to tie you on your horse, lass?’

Under that piercing look she felt herself redden. ‘No.’

‘Do I have your word on that?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good. We’ll be going then.’

With that he swung into the grey’s saddle and waited for her to mount the mare. Then they set off. They rode in silence for some way, he seeming indisposed to talk and she not caring to intrude on his thought. From time to time she threw him a sideways glance but, as was habitual with him, his expression revealed nothing.

In fact his attention was on the countryside around them, looking for any sign of movement that might betoken a mounted force. Nothing stirred, save a few sheep grazing on the hillside. Detecting no immediate threat he relaxed a little, turning his attention to the girl at his side. She rode well, controlling the spirited little mare with ease. Once again he found himself curious.

‘She’s a fine horse,’ he observed. ‘A gift perhaps?’

‘From my father.’

‘He had a good eye for a mount.’

‘Yes, he did.’ The memory brought others that were unwelcome and she changed the subject. ‘The grey is a fine animal too. What do you call him?’

‘Stormwind.’

‘It suits him. Did you train him yourself?’

He nodded. ‘Aye, I did. A wild beast he was too when he was younger.’

Looking at the grey Ashlynn could believe it, and yet the rapport between horse and rider was pronounced. Having watched her father and brothers handling young stock she knew that such a sympathetic partnership had been forged out of skill and patience, not the use of the whip. Again it presented another facet of the man.

‘I own to surprise,’ he went on. ‘About the mare, I mean.’

‘Why so?’

‘I expected to hear the word husband in connection with gift, not father.’

Ashlynn’s gaze remained determinedly between the horse’s ears. ‘Did you?’

He paused, framing his next question with care but needing to know. ‘Was your husband among those slain at Heslingfield, perhaps?’

‘No.’

‘Then…’

‘I have no husband.’

‘Why not?’

With an effort she kept her voice level. ‘That is none of your business.’

‘None at all,’ he replied. ‘I asked out of curiosity only. You are of age and you canna have lacked for suitors.’

Upon the word Athelstan flashed into her mind and, with his image, the knowledge that they would never marry now. The realisation brought both relief and guilt. And then, for no good reason, his face dissolved and Iain’s took its place. Almost at once it raised a wry smile; he was the last man on earth her father would ever have chosen to be her husband. And yet, the thought persisted, what if he had? Would she have objected so strenuously to the match then? Would the thought of sharing his bed repel her? The answer was instant and shocking. Shocking because of who he was and shocking because, in spite of that, he was an attractive man. Worse, he engendered feelings that both disturbed and excited in equal measure.