The Rose and The Warrior (3 page)

Melantha regarded him coolly. “I'm not such a fool that I will free one of your men and permit him to pull a weapon out of you. Magnus will remove it, or you can suffer until the wound festers and poisons your entire body. If you die, it merely saves me the trouble of killing you myself.” She began to lead the horses away.

Roarke stared after her, infuriated. Had he actually thought there was something even vaguely attractive about this ridiculously attired slip of a girl? She was a hard little bitch, and if he weren't tied up he would take her across his knee and give her a sound thrashing.

“Come, now, lad, ye've no cause for alarm,” Magnus assured him. “I've pulled out many an arrow in my day, and most have lived to tell the tale. Then again, ye might not want to be tellin' others that ye ended up with yer plaid pinned to yer arse!” He slapped his thigh and laughed, vastly amused by Roarke's predicament.

“Just see that you pull the bloody thing out straight,” muttered Roarke as Finlay released him from the tree. He lowered himself onto the ground.

Magnus knelt beside him and placed his gnarled hand upon Roarke's throbbing buttock. “ 'Twill be as straight and true as the shot that landed it there,” he promised.

“You mean you were actually aiming for my backside?”

“Don't be daft,” Magnus chided, grasping the arrow. “If not for these quiverin' hands of mine, I'd have hit ye squarely in yer heart.” He jerked his hand up, releasing the shaft in a gush of blood.

Roarke swore.

“Look at that!” cried Magnus, elated. “I'll be able to use this again!”

“I'm delighted to hear it,” managed Roarke tersely. “Tomorrow you can shoot it into the other side.”

“Only if ye give me reason to.” Magnus tossed the shaft on the ground. “Now, then, let's have a look at the damage.” He eased Roarke's bloodied plaid up and clicked his tongue. “Well, 'tis not the worst I've seen, but I'm afraid 'tis going to need a stitch or two. Have no fear, lad, I'll make it so tidy ye'll be proud to show the scar to anyone.”

“Somehow I doubt that.”

“Finlay, bring me needle and thread, and a scrap of linen for mopping up the blood. And see if these lads had any ale with them,” the old man added hopefully. “Ours is all gone.”

“There is no ale,” Roarke informed him.

Magnus sighed. “Now, that's a sorry thing—I always stitch better when I've had a wee drop.”

“I shall try to be better prepared next time,” promised Roarke dryly.

Finlay returned a moment later bearing the requested items. Despite his determination to remain relaxed, Roarke found himself tensing his buttock muscles as he waited for the needle to pierce his skin. Nothing happened. Wondering what the hell the old man was waiting for, he turned his head.

Magnus's white brows were scrunched into one as he struggled to bring needle and thread together. Try as he might, he could not steady his shaking hands enough to see the deed done. Finally, in a moment of pure exasperation, Roarke grabbed the needle and threaded the damn thing himself.

“Here,” he said, thrusting it into Magnus's hands.

“Why, thank ye, lad. My eyes are not what they once were.” Magnus squinted at the needle, making certain he actually held the sliver of iron between his fingers, then peered down at Roarke's wound. “This won't take a moment,” he declared cheerfully.

Roarke gritted his teeth and silently endured Magnus's fumbling stitches. After what seemed an eternity of pricking and pulling, the old man finally had closed the wound to his satisfaction.

“There, now,” he said, admiring his handiwork. “I think ye'll be most pleased.”

“I'm sure it's magnificent,” Roarke drawled sarcastically, jerking his plaid down to cover himself.

Melantha tossed another stick onto the fire she had built. “If you're finished, Magnus, then Finlay can bind his wrists and feet for the night.”

Roarke yawned. “That won't be necessary. I'm not going anywhere.”

“You're right,” Melantha agreed, “you're not.”

He gave her a black look as Finlay secured his wrists and ankles.

“I'll take the watch after you, Colin,” she said, settling herself upon the ground with her sword at her side. “Wake me before you become overly tired.” She flung her arm over her eyes.

Roarke watched as the rest of the thieves settled for the evening. Eric, Donald, and Myles lay bound a few feet away from him, regarding him intently, waiting for him to give them some sign. Roarke shook his head. There was nothing more they could do this evening except get some sleep. Eric stared at him in frustration, then finally lay back and closed his eyes. Roarke adjusted his position on his stomach, contemplating their situation.

Whatever the intentions of this ludicrous assemblage of outlaws, Roarke felt relatively certain that they did not plan to kill him and his men—at least not on purpose. They probably intended to keep him and his men prisoners for the night, then strip them of their belongings and send them limping back to their holding in the morning like the disgraced MacTiers before them.

Roarke did not intend to let that happen.

At the first opportunity he would overwhelm one of his captors and demand that the others release his men. Then he would take the whole damn lot of them prisoner and escort them back to Laird MacTier.

His orders had been to crush the band and return with only the Falcon, but Roarke did not relish the idea of killing these men. Poor Lewis was little more than a stripling, and quivery old Magnus was far too ancient to merit slaying. Finlay was rough and brash, but these were qualities Roarke admired in a young warrior, so he hated to snuff them out. As for Colin, he was a hotheaded fool, and Roarke would cheerfully skewer him with his sword, if not for the fact that Colin was so fiercely protective of Melantha. It was clear the lad was in love with her. Roarke turned his head to study her, wondering if she could actually be interested in such a callow, posturing boy.

She lay facing the fire, one arm pillowing her head, the other clutching her sword. Her ale-colored hair rippled over her in a tangled cape, and Roarke found himself imagining what it would be like to touch something so silky and fine. Firelight played across her skin, highlighting the chiseled contour of her cheek, the elegant curve of her nose, the feathery sweep of lashes against her eyes. She seemed impossibly vulnerable as she lay there, like a child who had fallen asleep and needed to be carried to bed.

How had this strange girl forged such a formidable reputation as the Falcon, who was renowned for his clever and daring feats as he preyed upon those who crossed his path? Roarke thought of her galloping toward him through the woods, her sword raised high as she battled an opponent nearly twice her size. The courage she had demonstrated in that moment was impressive. Impressive and appallingly stupid. He had nearly lopped off her head.

He shoved the thought from his mind and continued to study her. What had driven her to dally in such a dangerous game? Simple greed, or perhaps boredom? He recalled the intensity of her gaze when she learned he and his men were MacTiers. A terrible fury had shadowed those green-and-amber eyes, a bitter loathing that went far beyond mere contempt.

Whatever her motivation for stealing, this was not a girl who was merely in search of pretty baubles for sport.

A small moan escaped her lips. Roarke watched in fascination as her grip on her sword tightened and her jaw clenched.

“ 'Tis all right, lass,” said Magnus, his voice low and soothing. “Ye've naught to fear, Melantha, everyone is safe. Go back to sleep.”

She did not waken, but hesitated, evaluating his words.

And then she sighed and curled her head protectively in toward her body, her thin hand still clutching the battered hilt of her sword.

C
HAPTER
2

Roarke wakened with a filthy curse.

“Here, now, there's no cause for foul language,” scolded Magnus. “If my fair Edwina were here, she'd make ye hold soap in yer mouth till ye vowed never to speak so again. And I warn ye, she'd not be swayed by yer uncommon size or the black look yer givin' me now,” he added, chuckling.

“Are you sure you didn't get confused last night and stitch the head of that bloody arrow into me?” growled Roarke irritably.

Magnus proudly held up the arrow he had been cleaning. “Here's the whole shaft right here. I've put a wee notch on it, so I'll know it from the others. That way I can save it for a special occasion.”

“Wonderful,” Roarke muttered, awkwardly easing himself onto his good hip.

He glanced moodily around the campsite. The cool gray of dawn had spilled into the clearing, causing his men to stir. The Falcon's band, however, was already wide awake. Finlay was seated on a rock with his sword in his lap, honing the broad blade against a small stone, while young Lewis was meticulously repairing some minor tear in the net that had trapped Roarke's men. Melantha and Colin were nowhere to be seen.

“Where are the other two?” asked Roarke.

“They went hunting,” Magnus replied, vigorously shining the head of his prized arrow with a tattered corner of his plaid.

“Excellent.” Donald yawned. “I'm famished.”

Myles grunted and stretched his bound arms. “So am I.”

“Warriors do not eat from the hands of their enemies.” Eric cast them a dark look.

“Now, Eric, I see no reason to starve just because we are sharing company with this fine band of outlaws.” Donald smiled pleasantly at Magnus.

“Absolutely right,” agreed Myles. “No point in going hungry.”

“You're both weak.” Eric snorted, disgusted. “Hunger makes a warrior strong.”

Donald could not help but laugh. “Is that so? I'll be sure to remind you of that the next time I watch you devour an entire leg of venison.”

Roarke studied his men, considering. With two members of the Falcon's band gone, this was a good opportunity to overwhelm these remaining outlaws. The fact that he and his men were bound and weaponless put them at a disadvantage, but Magnus's advanced age, Finlay's brashness, and Lewis's fearful cowering made the odds much more equitable. He cleared his throat and glanced meaningfully at his men. Donald responded with a barely perceptible tilt of his head.

“I hate to be a bother, Magnus, but my men need to relieve themselves,” Roarke said. “Perhaps they should do so before Melantha returns, to spare her any embarrassment.”

Magnus's eyes crinkled with amusement. “Melantha is scarce likely to be bothered by the sound of ye draining yer ballocks. The lass could hardly live in the woods with the rest of us and worry about such triflin' matters.”

“Nevertheless,” Roarke persisted, “my men would rather see to their needs without a woman watching.”

“Shy, are ye?” Magnus chuckled. “Very well, laddie. Finlay, take these blushin' lads one at a time and let them water the woods. Not far, mind ye. Just over by that tree will do fine.”

Finlay hopped down and pointed his freshly honed sword at Donald's chest. “Try anything and I'll skewer you like a rabbit on a spit.”

“That won't be necessary,” Donald assured him, looking more amused by his threat than concerned. “I do believe I will need to have my legs freed if I am expected to get up.”

“Lewis, quit fussin' with that net and help Finlay,” ordered Magnus.

Lewis hesitated, eyeing Donald uncertainly.

“Now, lad, ye needn't be afraid,” Magnus soothed. “Finlay here will make sure he doesn't bite you.”

Not looking terribly reassured, Lewis carefully laid down the strands of net he was working on and slowly moved toward Donald.

Donald smiled and bent his knees, ostensibly to scratch his bound ankles. Once Lewis was close he would kick the unsuspecting boy in the chest, knocking him onto his back. Then Donald would spring to his feet, place his booted foot on the lad's neck, and threaten to crush his throat if Finlay didn't lay down his sword.

“I'm thinkin' ye should stretch those legs of yours out a bit before Lewis unties them, laddie,” Magnus said, blithely polishing his arrow with his plaid. “Ye'd not want to accidentally kick poor Lewis, now, would ye?”

Donald managed to look credibly affronted. “Good Lord, Magnus, what kind of a warrior do you take me for?”

“Forgive me, lad,” he apologized. “ 'Tis just that ye're a MacTier, and as such we have to be extra careful.”

Roarke kept his expression indifferent, but inside he felt a stab of admiration. Clearly Magnus was not quite as naive as he appeared.

“That'll be Colin and Melantha,” Magnus said, returning his attention to his arrow.

Roarke scanned the surrounding woods. He strained to hear, but could not detect the faintest crush of a twig or the rustle of branches to signal that someone was coming.

“You're mistaken, Magnus. There's no one there—”

“Good hunting?” asked Magnus as Colin and Melantha suddenly emerged through the trees.

Colin tossed a coarse brown sack onto the ground. “A few skinny rabbits and some small birds. If they're made into stew and stretched with some vegetables, they should last a while.”

“That sounds absolutely wonderful,” said Donald, returning to the clearing with Finlay. “But please, don't trouble yourself making a stew—roasted on a spit will do just fine.”

“They aren't for you,” Colin snarled.

“Are we not to be fed, then?” enquired Roarke mildly.

Finlay snorted in disgust. “You came here to kill us, and now you expect to have your bellies filled?”

“Starve me if it pleases you,” returned Roarke, “but at least feed my men. They have not eaten for nearly a day.”

Melantha tossed him a look of contempt. “A day without food is nothing. Your men are strong and can easily endure it.”

Golden petals of sunlight had filtered into the clearing, and as they flickered across her fury-clenched face Roarke was suddenly struck by the pale fragility of her. Melantha's shapeless chain mail and leggings effectively concealed the curves of her body, but Roarke did not need to see her waist or hips to know that this girl was intimately acquainted with the hollow ache of hunger. Last night in the soft glow of the fire her cheeks had seemed high and elegantly sculpted, but in the harsher light of day her beauty was revealed to be a little too lean. Her cheeks and jaw bore the sharply cut contours of deprivation, and the delicate skin beneath her dark eyes was shadowed by sleeplessness and months of insufficient nourishment.

“Well, now, I'm not sure 'tis a good idea not to feed these big brutes,” interjected Magnus. “After all, we don't want them fallin' ill.”

“Magnus is right,” relented Colin. “I suppose if we're not going to kill them, we have to feed them.”

“Fine,” Melantha snapped, turning away. “Feed them something—but not the meat.”

“Oatcakes all round, then,” declared Magnus brightly, rubbing his hands together in anticipation. “Lewis, fetch some from yer bag and give them to our prisoners.”

Lewis obediently went to his horse and retrieved a worn leather satchel from which he produced a number of hard, lumpy biscuits. Scurrying about like a skittish hare, he somehow managed to distribute them among Roarke, Donald, and Myles. But as he approached Eric, the gigantic blond warrior gave him a murderous scowl, causing poor Lewis to stop dead in his tracks.

“Keep your food,” Eric growled.

Roarke sighed. “Just eat it, Eric.”

Eric adamantly shook his head. “The biscuits are poisoned. In a moment you'll be screaming in agony as your guts boil up into your mouths.”

Donald and Myles stopped chewing and stared at their half-eaten oatcakes in dismay.

“Good God, lad,” sputtered Magnus, slapping his knee with amusement, “if we wanted ye dead, we'd not waste perfectly good oatcakes on ye to see the job done!”

Finlay raised his blade so that its wickedly sharp edge glinted in the sun. “I'd just cleave you wide with my sword and let that be the end of it.”

“There, you see, Eric?” said Roarke, his tone placating, “if your guts are going to come out, it will be through your belly, not your mouth.”

Eric stubbornly shook his head. “They lie.”

“Then don't eat it,” snapped Colin. “Our food is too precious to be wasted on you. Lewis, finish giving out those damn things and let's be on our way.”

Lewis hesitated, then broke off a piece of the oatcake he was holding out to Eric and ate it himself.

Eric's expression twisted into a hideous mask of fury.
“Do you dare to taunt me, you skinny, spineless pup?”

The blood drained so completely from Lewis's face Roarke was certain the lad would faint. Nevertheless, he did not retreat—perhaps because his fear had paralyzed him.

“ 'Tis…'tis safe to eat,” he stammered, meekly offering Eric the remainder of the biscuit.

Eric's enraged expression froze.

“Take it,” Lewis urged. “You'll be hungry later.”

The enormous warrior stared in complete bemusement at the thin, outstretched hand trembling before him.

Finally, acutely aware that everyone was now staring at him, he grudgingly accepted the oatcake.

“Is he always this hard to feed?” asked Magnus curiously.

Having taken care of Eric, Lewis tentatively approached Melantha and held a biscuit out to her.

“You have it, Lewis,” Melantha said. “I'm not hungry.”

“Eat it,” ordered Magnus sternly. “Ye've put nothin' in yer stomach since yesterday morn'.”

“I'm not hungry.”

He snorted in disbelief. “No, of course not—ye're never hungry when ye think there might be someone else needin' it more than you. But if ye starve yerself to death, what good will ye be to us then?”

“The day is nearly half gone,” she said, abruptly changing the subject. “Get them on their horses and let's go.”

“That's it, try to turn my attention to something else,” muttered Magnus, shaking his head. “But when ye're too weak to climb up on Morvyn and lead us, don't be bellyachin' to me about how unfair it all is.”

“Come on then,” said Finlay, bending to untie the rope binding Roarke's ankles. “Up with ye and onto yer mount.”

“It's generous of you to allow us to keep our horses,” observed Roarke, suppressing his grimace as he slowly rose to his feet.

“I would have taken great pleasure in making you walk barefoot.” Melantha swung herself lightly up onto her horse. “Unfortunately, I cannot permit you to slow us down.”

Roarke frowned. “Slow you down?”

“We can hardly have ye trailin' after us on foot, now, can we?” said Magnus, leading Eric's and Myles's horses to them. “Especially with that backside of yours laced full of stitches. It would take us over a week to get home.”

“Home?” Myles looked uncertainly at Roarke.

“ 'Tis not that far,” Lewis assured him as he freed the warrior's ankles. “Two days' journey at most.”

“Why in the name of St. Columba do you want to take us there?” asked Donald. “You've taken our weapons and our valuables. What more do you want?”

“They intend to slaughter us like helpless animals before their people,” Eric surmised direly. “Then they will spear our heads on pikes to rot as a warning to others!”

“Good Lord, lad, wherever do ye get such foul notions?” wondered Magnus, looking genuinely horrified. “I'll have ye know we're God-fearin' thieves, not heathen savages.”

“Then why are you taking us with you?” demanded Roarke.

“We want to see how much you're worth to your laird.”

Roarke looked at Colin in disbelief. “You intend to ransom us?”