The Witch and The Thief

11

Hamish whipped his head around at the noise and stared at the shadows hiding Lachlan and Maera from his view. Lachlan held Maera tight. His magic gathered, boiling beneath his skin, and a spell perched on his tongue, waiting to be loosed.

But in the space of a heartbeat, the startled animal darted across their path, and Hamish growled low in his throat before racing after it, crashing through the bracken and bushes covering the forest floor. He let out a fearsome battle cry, grabbed the hilt of the sword with both hands, hurled it through the air, and skewered the frightened deer, pinning it to a tree.

The Sword of the Gargoyle dissolved the flesh and innards, and the carcass dropped with a squelching thud. Hamish shouted in rage upon approaching his kill. Birds escaped their treetop nests in a flurry of disapproving chirps, and Lachlan wasted no time using the commotion to his advantage.

Adjusting Maera's left arm across his shoulders, he wrapped his right arm around her waist, and quietly crept from shadow to shadow. At the same time, Hamish hacked at the deer's remains in a boisterous display of anger that thankfully helped camouflage their steps. When the sounds faded, and Lachlan felt they'd put sufficient distance between them and Hamish, he urged Maera to a faster pace.

However, her ankle proved uncooperative and made anything more than a slow limp impossible. Lachlan cast a glance over his shoulder, swept Maera off her feet, and cradled her to his chest before he broke into a run.

She wrapped her arms around Lachlan's neck and torso, clinging on for dear life as he dashed between trees and jumped over obstacles in his path. By the time Lachlan reached Brutus, tethered to a tree on the fringe of the forest, his arms and legs burned from the exertion.

Setting Maera sideways on the saddle, Lachlan grabbed the reins and hauled himself up behind her, then urged Brutus to a fast pace, worried that Hamish would thwart their escape.

He didn't dare return to town with her, so Lachlan directed their mount toward Foulglen Moors, the only place that would offer people like them safety. It was a valley of heather fields and treacherous bogs nestled between rugged mountains, known as a haven for outcasts in the highlands.

A great many people eventually moved on in search of a more hospitable landscape, which would suit Lachlan's purposes in hopefully providing a dry, abandoned cottage for them to seek shelter in until he figured out what to do with Maera.

The wind continued to howl, and the rain clouds scuttled across the night sky, giving a partial view of the moon in a bed of stars to light their path.

Once the Kenneroch forest was well behind them, Lachlan allowed the shadows to recede, slowed Brutus to a walk, and allowed himself to take a deep breath. It did little to calm the wild racing of his heart, but his mind felt clearer, and the panic suffusing his limbs eased considerably.

T'was at that moment, he realized Maera's entire body trembled—little wonder, considering her dress was soaked through, and she'd escaped certain death. He ought to find someplace safe for her to get warm and heal herself before continuing.

It was the noble thing to do, not to mention if she died from exposure, his daring chivalry would be for naught. And in his opinion, there was nothing worse than wasted efforts, especially when he'd done a superb job of saving her so far.

Lachlan glanced down to inform her of his decision and found Maera staring at him with eyes glazed over with exhaustion, pain, and residual terror. It was a look that tore at his heart.

Giving in to instinct, and not giving himself time to think of the consequences, Lachlan shifted the reins to his right hand. He brushed at a large smudge of dirt on her cheek with his thumb, and another on her chin. Then he pushed a tangled lock of hair away from her face and tucked it behind her ear.