Risk Everything (6 page)

She was sure of it.

Finally, exhaustion claimed her.

Rolf slept soundly, comforted by dreams of holding his sweet Ingirid close. As he roused, his hand stole between her legs, ready to take his ease from the soft body pressed against him. Instead of a soft smock, he confronted trews! A boy? He jerked his hand away, moved back from her, and rose up on an elbow. He shook his head to clear it.

In the breaking dawn, he remembered who lay there.

And why she did.

Meghan’s face was gentle in sleep, her long lashes shading the dark circles beneath her eyes. She had not slept well. Her soft inviting lips parted slightly, and little puffs of air escaped.

Brown hair tumbled about her face, unkempt, giving her the look of a woman who had been well loved between the sheets.

She likely missed his warmth, for she scooted back searching for that small comfort. Upon not finding it, a soft, forlorn sound escaped her lips and she stilled.

Slowly he rose and quietly slipped away into the trees. Not once did he take his gaze from her. He did not trust her, though she still slept. When he returned, he rekindled the fire.

“Rise, woman, if you wish to freshen yourself afore we depart.” Even to his own ears, his voice sounded harsh. ’Twas not the way to awaken a sleeping woman.

She did not respond as his warriors would. He nudged her rear with his boot.

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“Churl!” Meghan pushed up with her hands. And gasped.

Her teeth clamped tight while she rose to her feet.

She looked stiff and sore from head to toe. Shame nudged his conscience. He dismissed it. Certain she sported a mass of bruises beneath her clothing, he would have to leave her unbound this day. The thought did not please him. Unlike no other woman he had ever known, Meghan’s strong will and determination to elude him drew his grudging respect.

He would have no easy time breaking her.

“Come.” As he had the day before, he led her a short way into the bushes.

“Give me your ankle,” he ordered as he dangled the length of rope. He stared her in the eye, warning her to behave.

She did as he expected. A slight move to the right, then a twirl to the left, her right foot aimed high for his jaw. He clamped her ankle in a viselike grip, holding it shoulder high.

“Ah, such eager obedience. But you didna needs be so swift.” When Meghan wobbled and waved her arms about, he nestled her foot between his legs and squeezed it tight.

Against his sex. A flush began at the neck opening of her shirt and rose to her cheeks.

What? Meghan blushing? He wouldna have expected it.

Her gaze fell to where he clasped her. What she spied caused her eyes to widen. He ignored the hot bulge that strained against his clothing. Before this sennight was through, ease would be available for the ache that plagued him.

“You have till a count of twenty and five. No longer.” He turned his back, trailing the line out as he went but keeping it taut enough that he felt resistance there.

“One. Two. Three. Four . . .” Her curses filled his ears.

Some were passing strange. No one had ever called him a

“rat-eyed weasel,” or a “wart on Satan’s arse.”

Before he could say twenty and four, she charged back through the trees. If looks were weapons, he would be bleed-ing aplenty.

Rolf tossed her a small bag of oats and motioned to the fire where steam rose from an iron pot there.

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“Prepare the porridge if you would break your fast.”

Her chin stuck out defiantly, her eyes narrowed. His narrowed back, and he put his thoughts there of what he would do if she did not mind him. She read him aright and turned to do as he bid. She added a handful of oats to the bubbling water.

Prior to arriving at Rimsdale, she would obey him. He would not have his people think he could not control a woman. In particular, not this young woman, isolated from her family and without a champion to defend her.

Meghan’s teeth ground together. By the saints! She likened the changes in the man Rolf had been and the man he now was to the difference between a piglet and an enraged boar.

Treat me like an animal on a lead, will he?

Demand I fix his porridge, will he?

She watched as the pot bubbled away, the smell of porridge causing her mouth to water. She was hungry. What a shame to waste good gruel on such a harsh man.

Her eyes lit. Once, Mereck’s bride Netta had told her what mischief she had done during their journey from Northum-bria to Blackthorn. On preparing Mereck’s food to bring to him, she had put worms in his stew.

She glanced down at useless rocks and leaves. Mayhap a little sand from the water’s edge would do the trick? She had slack enough in her lead to reach it.

“I go to bring fresh water to drink,” she called out to him.

At his nod, she took her flask, went to the water, and filled it with one hand. With the other, she palmed a small amount of sand.

She strolled to the fire and darted glares at his back as she took a wooden spoon and scooped gruel from the pot onto a trencher of stale bread. Adding the sand to the porridge left in the pot, she stirred it well. She grinned as she emptied it onto the second trencher.

She felt him watching her. Had he seen?

“Come. Your food grows cold.”

She ambled a short way from the fire, then sat cross-legged on the ground and took a large spoonful of her gruel. Eyeing

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him over the spoon, she blew on it till it cooled enough to eat.

’Twas heaven to eat something warm.

He filled his wooden spoon and thrust it in his mouth, then frowned. He did not seem to savor his mouthful as much as she did her own. His gaze lifted to her face. The next spoonful he clasped between his lips to rub it there. His hand swiped it away. He gulped a mouthful of water and rinsed it.

He knew.

His gaze scoured her face. She shrugged and scooped up another large spoonful. The spoon went flying to land in the leaves. He snatched the trencher from her lap and placed it next to him.

“Did your aunt Phillipa not see you taught in womanly skills? ’Tis best you learn. Now.”

His big hand clamped her jaw, forcing her to open. He filled her mouth with his sandy porridge. She tried to jerk away.

“Eat it, witch.” His hand covered her mouth so she could not spit the food out. “Your efforts must have been the best you could do. You wouldna dare prick my wrath by such a lowly trick as to spoil my food . . . would you?”

She flashed hate at him. He pinched her nose shut. Like a person drowning, she lashed out, fighting for air. He held tight to her face, wrapped his legs high around her, pinning her arms to her side as he toppled her on her back and straddled her.

“Swallow.” The word ended on a snarl.

She felt her face turning purple. The horrid man would hold on until she passed out. Her throat worked, trying to swallow. It wouldna go down. Frantic, she tried again. He released her nose at the last moment, and the porridge slid down her throat.

He leaned over, his nose near touching hers.

“Ne’er try such with me again, Meghan of Blackthorn, else you will eat naught but wormy bread for a sennight.”

His words exploded out with such force they made her head ring. He unclasped her mouth and shot to his feet as she gasped for air. She was still breathing deeply as he threw their

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food into the fire and rinsed the pot. She winced, hearing her stomach grumble.

Drat the man! She brushed at the dirt and leaves clinging to every inch of her. ’Twas no easy job, for her hair was full of snarls, and she had no comb. She did the best she could with her fingers. What did it matter? She cared not what he thought of her, and if she had her way, she would escape him afore they reached Rimsdale.

“Dig your sharp elbows between my ribs again, and I will tie them together,” Rolf threatened.

“Let me ride Storm and ye will be free of my presence.”

Meghan twisted her head to look back at him. Hmm. He did look a bit on the surly side at that. Good.

“Ha. Daft I am not,” he muttered.

Meghan’s muscles screamed. She sat in front of him, straddling his horse and sharing the saddle. Cradled between his legs, her bottom rested against his hot groin. Every time she tried to shift to a more comfortable position, she felt his tarse respond. She inched forward and stiffened her back, straining to bend as far from his heat as possible. Had she not been an excellent rider, she would have long since fallen from his damned steed.

Her slight movement made him curse beneath his breath.

“By what name do ye call yer mount?” Mayhap talking would occupy her mind and turn it from his closeness.

“Horse.”

Irritable, was he? Ha. What reason did he have to be aggrieved? She was the one carted off against her will.

“Horse?” She gave a disgusted huff of air and again poked him with an elbow. “Ye mean to tell me ye order the stable boy to ‘saddle Horse’ and he brings this particular one?”

“Why would he not? He knows ’tis my mount and no other’s.” He slipped both his arms under hers and held tight to her body.

Meghan shuddered as she felt his hard muscled arms

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against the sides of her breasts. Each breath she took seemed to rub her breasts against him. She tried taking shallow breaths. It did not help, for she soon felt starved for air and took one too deep.

“ ’Tis a lass’s way to name every living thing that abides within a castle’s grounds,” Rolf added.

“A woman’s way, is it? Nay. Not so. Damron calls his warhorse Angel, though Brianna says he should bear the name Lucifer. Mereck’s destrier is
M’Famhair
, for the horse is for truth a giant. Bleddyn’s huge black is Thunder.” Her chin lifted. “No lass but a man named each of them.”

She twisted around and glared up at him. Seeing his baleful expression, she turned back. Her frequent movements were done apurpose. Her dirk rested in a sheath strapped to his right boot. If she could steal it away, she had the means to escape the next time he tethered her by the ankle.

“Be still. For the love of Christ, hold your clack! I dinna remember you ever running at the mouth as you are this day.”

When she squirmed around and looked up at him again, he grabbed her shoulders.

“Eneuch!” His shout caused Simple to give a startled chirp and take to the sky.

“Look what ye have done. Poor Simple will get lost for sure now. It will be your fault, ye dratted man.”

She squelched a chuckle when an explosion of air blasted past her ear. Rolf was vexed. No doubt about it.

Well, she was none too happy herself. They had not stopped, not even once. By the looks of the sun, they were well into the afternoon. If she didna make her move soon, they would be within leagues of Rimsdale. If they were not already that close.

She stretched her hands far in front of her, then high over her head. Though it caused her breasts to brush against his arms, she ignored it.

“Cease,” he demanded.

“I canna. Every muscle stiffens. Soon I willna be able to move at all.” She twisted to each side and moved her arms around.

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“We will stop but a short way ahead. Rimsdale is but three leagues distant.”

So close? How had they covered so much ground today?

By hard riding and not stoppin’, ye foolish woman. By the saints. Now she not only talked to herself but also answered.

“Then you willna mind my stretchin’ a bit afore we stop.”

She leaned far to the left, then to the right, her arms stretched with her. He grabbed her waist, no doubt thinking she would topple over.

She straightened and grinned in triumph. Her dirk was where it belonged, in the sheath strapped to her leg, hidden beneath the folds of her overlong shirt.

’Twas in its rightful place.

Chapter 6

Meghan could not sit still. Never had she been forced to ride with a man since she was a babe. When she was but four years of age, she became adept at escaping her nursemaid and making her way to the stables. There she would climb atop the gate of a stall and coax the horse to come to her. The stable hands near died of fright when they found her jabbering to the steed while patting and kissing his huge neck.

No amount of paddling her wee bottom had kept her from returning to the stable and doing it again whenever she wanted. The stable master pleaded with the old laird, her grandda, until he gave her a Highland pony and taught her to ride along with Connor.

Now she wanted off Horse. She rolled her eyes skyward and grimaced, thinking about Rolf’s neglect to name his steed. For certain, this beautiful animal deserved a worthy name.

“By the cross, woman, are you ne’er still?” Rolf ’s impatient huff of air tickled her cheek.

“I can be when the mood strikes. I am not used to sittin’

and doing nothin’ when on a horse.”

He turned deeper into the woods and stopped beside a wa-terfall that near overflowed the banks of the stream beneath it. As it raced over good-sized rapids, the air filled with sounds she likened to music. He swung his leg over the horse and sprang to the ground. When he reached for her, she ignored his gesture of aid. She, too, jumped down.

Her feet hit the ground, and she winced as the jolt shot

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through her sore body. Until this lout had caused her such stress, she had been quite graceful. Not so today.

While the horses drank, Meghan cupped her hands and splashed icy water on her face. She stood, waiting. Rolf raised one brow in a questioning slant. She held up her left foot.

“How far will ye count this day?” She waited, her foot in the air.

Rolf ’s eyes hooded as he watched her. Did he think her so foolish as to attempt to strike him again? She had other plans.

“Well now, my leg grows tired.” Meghan shifted and scowled at him.

He made a loop and tightened it around her ankle.

“Nay, I willna count. Best you hurry, though, or your modesty will suffer,” he said as he dropped her foot.