Amanda Scott (26 page)

“Is Smoke giving you trouble, laird?” Tam Matheson asked. He, too, had learned from the chief falconer, for that worthy was
his father. Having helped train birds for Fin and Patrick, Tam tended to blame himself for the birds’ few faults.

Patrick grinned. “Everyone is giving the laird trouble these days, Tam—his birds, his women, his—”

“Mind your tongue,” Fin said, repressing the picture of Molly that leaped to his mind’s eye. “If you recall, I’m still capable
of schooling your manners.”

“Aye, master,” Patrick said with a chuckle, adding, “How do those boots of mine fit you, Tam?”

“Excellent well, as ye see,” Tam said, raising a foot to show him.

Fin said nothing, trying to keep his thoughts on the goshawk and off Molly.

Patrick shot him a measuring look, then said more soberly, “Uphill yonder is that long, heathery meadow we like. Shall we
try them there? It’ll give that vixen of yours room to stretch her wings, and we’ll be able to keep a better eye on her if
she takes to the trees.”

“The laird’s Smoke be belled, Patrick,” Tam said indignantly.

“Aye, Tam, but if she catches sight of a grouse and the grouse dives into the trees, we’ll want to see which way they go,
in the event that Smoke loses him and keeps going. Bell or no bell, she’ll be hard to follow through woodland, and she is
still young.”

Tam shrugged, and Fin smiled, knowing that Tam was thinking—and rightly—that he’d be the one to hunt for the goshawk if they
lost sight of it. Patrick wasn’t one to waste his time with tedious tasks if he could avoid them, and the goshawk would respond
to Tam’s whistle as quickly as it would to Fin’s.

When they drew rein in the meadow, Patrick shot Fin a challenging look. “I’ll wager that my Kit takes his prey at first flush
and that Smoke will fail.”

“How much?”

“Ten merks.”

“Done,” Fin said, pulling the glove off his free hand with his teeth and tucking it into his jerkin so that he could loosen
the braces that closed the goshawk’s red-plumed Dutch hood. “Smoke can outfly anything. Easy, lass,” he murmured to the tense,
quivering bird. Starting at every sound and too-quick movement, the goshawk pulsated like a plucked bowstring. He could feel
the low vibrations humming through his gloved fist and fingers.

The goshawk seemed to glower at all it surveyed, but Fin knew it was merely seeking and would soon spy its prey. Its tension
stemmed from hunger and anticipation, not from nerves.

He could hear distant twittering in the woods, but nearer at hand, the denizens of the meadow apparently had the good sense
to lie low and keep still.

On the far side, a coppery grouse broke cover, clacking wildly, the rapid flapping of its wings making a noisy whirr as it
hurled itself skyward.

Fin released Smoke’s jesses, and in the same instant the goshawk’s great wings unfurled and her powerful thighs thrust her
into the air. Her wings’ strong, slow beat belied her startling speed from the fist. Already nearing the target, her wings
flattened into a glide, tips pointed, edges trailing.

The grouse, belatedly recognizing its danger, shrieked and tried madly to take evasive action.

A split second before the goshawk struck, a long yellow shaft streaked through the air ahead of it, and the grouse plunged
to the ground, still flapping wildly in its death throes, its shrieking stilled.

“What the devil?” Fin exclaimed. “Some fool shot an arrow from the woods!” Patrick shouted.

“Yonder,” cried Tam, pointing.

Following the gesture, Fin saw a saffron-colored flash through the trees. Tossing the goshawk’s hood to Tam, he wheeled his
horse, saying, “Fetch Smoke, Tam. I’m going to have words with that villain. He nearly killed my hawk!”

Urging the gray into the woods, he watched for movement that would again reveal his quarry’s direction, and immediately glimpsed
another flash of saffron, a figure darting swiftly through the trees.

Digging his heels into the gray’s flanks, he felt its muscles tense as it leaped forward. Highland-bred, the horse took the
rugged woodland terrain in stride, and just ahead, the darting runner was flagging. Flat ground lay between them, and Fin
leaned over the horse’s neck, urging it to a greater speed.

Riding alongside the running figure, he reached down, grabbed a fistful of saffron-colored fabric, and hauled the struggling
villain—bow, quiver, and all—facedown over his saddlebow, losing one of the fellow’s shoes in the process. Holding him there
with one hand while he reined in the gray with the other, and deducing from the size of the figure he held that it was only
a lad, Fin gave the backside so temptingly presented a couple of angry, hard smacks.

The shrieks he evoked were decidedly unmasculine in nature, and his captive began to struggle more wildly than before. The
blue cap fell off, and a massive cloud of curly red-gold hair tumbled free. Seeing those familiar silken tresses, Fin clenched
his jaw in a flash of raw fury and smacked again, even harder.

“Stop that, you villain!” she screamed.

He smacked again. “If you don’t want more, be silent and keep still,” he ordered grimly. “You nearly killed my hawk! What
the devil were you thinking? Where did you get those dreadful clothes, and what in the name of all that’s holy are you doing
outside the castle walls?”

Molly gritted her teeth. No one had laid a hand on her at Dunakin, and it had not occurred to her that anyone might ever dare
do so again. Her backside felt like it was on fire, and although she could remember her mother and nurse spanking her when
she was small, she did not remember that it had hurt so much.

She had no acceptable answers for Kintail’s questions, either, reasonable though they were. She had not expected the hawk
to fly so fast to its target, but she did not think that telling him so would help much.

She had been watching the men from the woods, and having heard Kintail boast that his bird could outfly anything, she had
decided to deprive it of its prey, showing him that an arrow could certainly fly faster. The thought that the fiendish bolt
might have harmed as much as a feather of the magnificent hawk both sickened and appalled her, so she could not blame Kintail
for his fury. She was glad, though, that he had stopped smacking her, and she did not want him to do so again.

“Well?” The grim note in his voice was not encouraging.

She drew a ragged breath to steady her nerves, and as if the gray sensed her unease, it sidled, then steadied again at a slight
movement of its master.

She said with careful calm, “May I get down?”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“On what you say to me beforehand.”

“What if I have nothing to say?”

“Then you must think of something.” His hand came to rest on her backside. The powerful fingers twitched ominously.

She swallowed. What did he want her to say? Would he settle for a simple apology, or did he want more? Surely, he did not
expect her to agree to marry him just to keep him from smacking her.

The fingers twitched again, then the hand lifted.

“I’m sorry!” she said hastily. “If you want me to say more than that, you’ll have to tell me what I am to say. I…I don’t know
what you want!”

Two strong hands gripped her waist, and he lifted her to sit sideways before him. Since her backside still ached, the position
was less than comfortable, but she did not think that complaining or reminding him that she wanted to get down would do her
any good. Besides, she had lost one of her shoes.

When the horse sidled again, she felt his thighs tense as he steadied it.

Gazing blindly into the distance, she waited for him to speak, but before he did, approaching riders diverted his attention,
and she heard him mutter a curse.

The riders were Sir Patrick and another man she did not recognize.

Patrick shouted, “Ho, Fin, what have you caught?” As usual, laughter tinged his voice, but Molly felt no appreciation just
then for his sense of humor.

“Where are the others?” Kintail asked.

“Yonder,” Patrick said, gesturing toward the meadow. “Smoke took to a tree after the grouse fell. She perched there and glowered
down at it for a time, as if she wondered why it was flapping around like a beheaded chicken. But when the flapping ceased
and nothing else of a disturbing nature occurred, she flew down intending to feast. She responded to Tam’s whistle as prettily
as you please, however, so I told the others to wait there and came to see what you’d caught.” He bowed gallantly from the
waist. “Mistress, ’tis a pleasure, as always, to see you.”

Molly glowered at him.

Directing his attention to the second man, Kintail said sternly, “Talk of this incident goes no further. Do you understand
me?”

“Aye, laird. I’ll say naught.”

“Good. You and the others go on ahead. Patrick, you ride with me.”

The second man turned back the way they had come, and Molly was relieved to see him go, but if she hoped that Sir Patrick’s
presence would spare her from Kintail’s anger, Kintail quickly disabused her of that hope.

As the two men turned their mounts toward home, he said in the same stern tone he had used earlier, “Now, mistress, I want
an explanation, and it had better be a good one if you do not want more of what I gave you before.”

Shooting a glance at Patrick to see if he realized from these words what Kintail had done, she saw that he was looking straight
ahead, his normally expressive countenance now wooden. She would find no ally in him.

Deciding that since nothing she could say would appease Kintail she might as well say what she was thinking, she said tartly
(but without looking at him), “Do you frequently beat females, sir? Because if you do, I must tell you that I do not approve.
Nor do I think such violence is necessary. As large as you are, you probably frighten most people witless simply by bellowing
at them.”

Heavy silence greeted this observation.

Then Kintail said abruptly, “Did you intend to shoot the hawk?”

“Don’t be daft,” she snapped. “I never miss my aim.”

Patrick, surprised, said, “Never?”

She hesitated, knowing that neither man would believe her if she spoke the truth. “Rarely,” she said, prevaricating.

“Well, it was a fine shot, and I am an excellent judge of such matters. Who taught you to shoot?”

“Never mind that,” Kintail said sharply. “You keep silent, Patrick. She doesn’t need encouragement. You had no business even
to be there, mistress.”

But Molly had had enough. “Sir Patrick,” she said firmly, “would you please ride on ahead of us? I would speak privately with
your laird.”

Patrick shot her a look of astonishment, then glanced at Kintail.

“Go,” he said, gesturing.

Without another word, but likewise without disguising his relief, Patrick gave spur to his horse and disappeared into the
woodland ahead.

Fearing that Kintail might begin scolding again, she said swiftly, “I was wrong to shoot. I had no idea that your hawk could
cross the meadow so quickly, and I’d heard you say that nothing could outfly it. That challenged me, I’m afraid, to show you
that an arrow could take the grouse before your hawk could.”

He did not reply at once, and in the interval, she felt unnaturally aware of his nearness and size. His body felt too warm
against hers, his muscles too hard. She could feel him breathing, could feel his heart beating. He was too large for comfort.

At last, quietly, he said, “You were not running away.”

“Only from you, just now,” she muttered. “You had reason for that.”

“Aye.” Her backside still ached.

“How did you come here?”

She remembered the rowboat, having forgotten it until that moment. “I slipped out through the tower door and took one of the
boats.”

“You left that door unbarred?”

She nodded, not looking at him.

“For that alone, you deserved beating,” he growled.

To divert him from that painful thought, she blurted the first thing that came to mind: “Do you still intend to marry me?”

“I’ll not force you into a marriage you do not want.”

Strangely, considering how hard she had fought the notion, his response disappointed her.

“But you still believe it is the right thing to do,” she persisted, “even though you despise me. Mackinnon told me that you
had no wish to marry at all.”

Seeing his lips twitch into a near smile, she breathed more easily.

He said, “First of all, I do not despise you. As for marriage, whilst ’tis true that I resisted my father’s efforts to marry
me to one suitable female after another, I thought I had years ahead of me before I need worry about an heir. I learned differently
when he was killed. Life can end abruptly, lass, and I care deeply about my people. I take my duties seriously, to them and
to the castle. Were I to fall suddenly as my father did, I would leave them bereft of more than their laird.”

“So you want me just to get heirs.” The thought brought an ache to her throat strong enough to make her forget her earlier
pains.