Page 40 of Blood & Claw

“Aye … the men we’re after caused trouble here last night. A local lad tried to be a hero.” He packed the food away in the saddlebag. “But your mentor’s still with them … still alive.”

“Thank the—”

A strangled cry made him whip around.

Ailsa had moved from where she’d been standing next to Rùn’s head and now stood right behind him. Her fingers clenched hard around a youth’s thin wrist.

And in the lad’s grubby hand, Darach spied his coin purse.

He jolted. Curse it. He wasn’t usually easy to pickpocket. The lad was light-fingered indeed. Glaring at the thief, he snatched the coin purse from his fingers and tied it back on his belt. Meanwhile, the youth started to struggle in Ailsa’s grip. Wrenching himself free, desperation blazing in his eyes, he tried to grab her purse instead.

Gasping, Ailsa staggered back. Her hand shot out then, fingers raking his face.

The thief screamed and raised his hand to his bleeding cheek. Reeling back, he inspected his fingers to find them slick with blood, before his gaze cut up to Ailsa. “Bitch!”

He then turned and bolted into the crowd like a hare.

Ailsa watched him go, her already pale face draining of color. The hand she’d attacked him with flexed at her side.

“Nicely done,” Darach murmured, impressed despite himself. The lass moved like a greased eel. “He won’t bother us again.”

His companion didn’t answer. Swallowing hard, she glanced around at the watching crowd.

The locals now murmured amongst themselves. Gazes narrowed. Fingers tightened around tools and weapons. Mothers ushered their bairns away. A storm was gathering.

Darach’s skin prickled. “Come on.” He sprang up onto Rùn’s back and reached down a hand to Ailsa. “Time to go.”

11: KEEPING SECRETS

SLIDING OFF RÙN’S back, Ailsa winced.

Shades. She hadn’t realized that riding left you crippled. Her thighs and arse were bruised.

The light was fading now; they’d just stopped to make camp for the night.

“You’ll be even stiffer by morning,” Dale said as he started to undo Rùn’s girth. “But it’ll get easier after a day or two.”

Ailsa didn’t answer. She didn’t want to think about climbing back onto the stallion’s back, about spending all day pressed up against this aggravating man.

Nonetheless, at least she had a night’s reprieve.

After Cleghorn, they’d pressed on, riding hard. Most of the afternoon had passed in silence, only the steady tattoo of Rùn’s hooves on the road accompanying them as they traveled. They met a few travelers on the way—peddlers and farmers mostly, carrying baskets of wares and drawing small carts piled with vegetables.

Dale had stopped at one point, questioning an iron merchant with a wagon full of rattling cauldrons who’d traveled down from Duncrag. The woman confirmed that she’d passed the group they were following earlier that day. Mid-morning.

Ailsa’s pulse had quickened at the news. They were gaining on them.

“At this rate, we’ll catch up with them soon,” Dale informed her as he unsaddled his horse.

“Will they know they’re being followed?”

He glanced over his shoulder, his tawny gaze spearing her. “Possibly … since you put the wind up them in Farnoch.”

Ailsa frowned. She didn’t appreciate him bringing that up. Again.

Turning back to his horse, the mercenary started to rub down Rùn with a twist of grass. The big stallion, his coat gleaming with sweat, snorted as he began to graze.

Folding her arms across her chest, she glared at Dale’s back.