Page 36 of Come the Morning

Luckily, she landed on soft, clear ground. Still, it felt as if she had broken every bone in her body. As if her head had cracked open.

She knew she had to leap up, to run on her own. She tried to do so, but the world was spinning. Looking up at the sky and the stars now spinning above her, she realized that twilight was turning to night. Stars were appearing.

“My God, but you are one stupid, stubborn woman!”

“No!” she cried out desperately.

But it was too late. His hands were moving over her, checking for broken bones or injury. He touched her in the most intimate ways, but didn’t seem to think she had a right to demur or take offense. He made a snorting sound of disgust, then lifted her up despite her groan of protest. She was cast over his shoulder like a hunter’s kill as he mounted his horse.

Maybe that was close to what she was.

He had hunted her.

And now they rode through the night. He with his trophy, returning to the king …

CHAPTER7

She must have actually dozed, because she opened her eyes, disoriented for a moment. Then she realized that she still lay over his shoulder, her head against his back as they loped closer and closer to the fortress at Stirling. She felt beaten, weary, cold through to her bones.

She was almost glad when she heard him crying out to the guards at Stirling. She heard the change of the horse’s hoofbeats, the clopping against stone, as they came to the courtyard of the fortress.

He dismounted with her. She tried to rise, praying that she could revive, scream for some assistance from this zealously loyal madman, and demand to be put down, but she didn’t need to scream; he was already setting her on her feet. As he did so, she wavered. She knew she was going to fall flat onto the dirt and stone, but he caught her, sweeping her up into his arms.

“Is she injured, m’laird?” she heard a groom inquire. “Shall I send for the king—”

“Nay, lad, she’s weary, cold, and worn, not hurt. I’ll take care of her, and see the king.”

Not hurt!she thought indignantly, yet even as she tried to struggle against him then, she went still. She stared up at himwith concern, suddenly realizing what the stableboy had called him.

M’laird.

She’d realized belatedly that he had to be a fighting man, a knight, or a rich patron’s man-at-arms. No man was built so without hours practicing with the heavy accouterments of war.

But he wasn’t just a knight, he was a laird.

She fixed her eyes on his as he walked into one of the residence entrances of the fortress, and not through the main doors which would have led to the great hall—and the king. “M’laird? Well,sir, where are you taking me now?”

“To a place where you can rest until I’ve had a chance to see the king.”

She continued to stare at him, furious, powerless. “I shall kill you for this one day, I swear it.”

“M’lady, it seems I shall have a harder time preserving your life than my own, though I am aware of your intent to end my existence,” he said impatiently, his strides long as they moved down a hallway. She looked around herself uneasily. This section of the fortress held residences for the king’s court, and his most trusted advisors and champions.

She struggled up against him. “I demand that you take me immediately to the king.”

“You may make demands from here until hell freezes over, m’lady.”

“Damn you, where are you taking me?”

“Not to a dungeon, m’lady,” he told her, amused. “Though that might not be such a bad idea.”

He stopped in the corridor, using a foot to push open a heavy wooden door.

“Where—”

She broke off. He opened the door to a large room with handsome tapestries hung on the walls for warmth, a huge fireplace against one wall with rich furs strewn before it.

“Whose room is this?” she asked.