The Rose and The Warrior (2 page)

Roarke nodded. Had the arrow in his backside arrived but a fraction of a second later, he would have severed this magnificent creature's head from her neck. A woman. Little more than a girl, really. Shame sluiced through him, making him feel sick.

How he ever would have forgiven himself for performing such an atrocity, he had no idea.

Melantha studied the handsome warrior looking down at her, confused by the concern she saw etched in the lines of his weathered face. Her mind was wrapped in a gauzy shroud, but it was clear that this man was most troubled by her fall.

“I'm fine,” she assured him, reaching up to lay her hand against the roughness of his cheek. The intimate gesture seemed to surprise him, but she did not withdraw her palm. Instead she pressed it against the warmth of his skin, fascinated by the hard contour of his jaw against her slender fingers.

“I doubt this brute is overly concerned about how ye're feelin',” interjected Magnus, “seeing as he was just about to cut yer head off when I shot him in the arse.”

The veil cloaking Melantha's mind instantly disintegrated, releasing her memory in an icy rush. She snatched back her hand and rolled away to grab her fallen sword before nimbly rising to her feet.

“Who are you?” she demanded, pointing her blade at Roarke's throat.

He winced as he tried to balance himself on his good hip. “My name is Roarke.”

“Now, that's a fine name,” observed Magnus, leaning casually against his bow. “It means ‘outstanding ruler.' Are ye a laird then, laddie?”

Roarke shook his head, his gaze still fixed on Melantha. Her loose-fitting coat of finely wrought chain mail and her shapeless leggings effectively concealed any hint of her feminine figure, yet Roarke found himself stirred by the lean, willowy grace of her as she stood over him.

“I am a warrior,” he said.

“From which clan?” Melantha's sword was poised to slash his neck if he so much as breathed the wrong way. “And spare me your lies, for if I hear a different answer from one of your fine soldiers, my men will enjoy slowly flaying each of you until we have the truth.”

“From the Clan MacTier.” Roarke watched in fascination as her eyes narrowed.

“You're rather far from your holding,” she observed tautly. “What are you doing in these woods?”

“We are on our way to the MacDuff lands,” Roarke lied. “We have been entrusted with a message to be delivered to their laird.”

She eyed him suspiciously. “What message?”

“The message is for Laird MacDuff's ears alone.”

“He lies.”

The tall, agile fellow who had first leaped from the trees approached. He did not appear to be much past twenty-two, but the hard set of his face indicated he had long since lost the whimsy of youth. His shoulder-length hair was of brown and gold, and he bore a neatly shaped beard to match, which served to obscure his relative lack of years.

“They carry no message.” He regarded Roarke with contempt.

“How do you know, Colin?” asked Melantha.

“Because the others have already revealed that they were coming here to capture the Falcon,” he replied. “It seems we have caught four more of Laird MacTier's finest.” His tone was heavily derisive.

Melantha pressed the point of her sword into the base of Roarke's throat. “Be warned,” she said ominously, “I have no patience for men who lack the courage to speak the truth.”

“And you be warned,” Roarke growled, shoving her blade away, “that I will not be prodded like a slab of stringy meat with this rusty sword of yours.”

Colin sprinted forward and jabbed his own weapon at Roarke's chest. “Do that again,” he invited with deadly calm, “and I'll make certain it is the last thing you ever do upon this earth.”

“Here, now, lads, that'll do,” objected Magnus. “There's no call for more fighting today, to my way of thinking. These MacTiers have been caught with little harm done save for an arrow in this big beast here, and while that might sting a bit, I don't believe 'tis going to kill him.”

“A pity,” Colin snapped, his sword still prodding Roarke. “Perhaps I should remedy that.”

“That's enough, Colin,” said Melantha. “Take him over to the others and bind him. Lewis will watch them while we talk.”

“On your feet, MacTier,” ordered Colin, keeping his sword at Roarke's chest.

Roarke awkwardly rose and limped toward his men, clenching his jaw against the pain streaking through his buttock. His warriors watched him glumly through the tangled prison of netting.

“Is your injury serious?” demanded Eric, unable to see the arrow projecting from his backside.

“No,” Roarke replied shortly.

“Where is it?” Donald asked.

Roarke hesitated. Realizing he could hardly walk around with an arrow sticking out of his backside and not have them notice, he turned.

“That's—most unfortunate,” managed Donald, trying his best not to laugh.

“Don't believe you've been struck there before,” Myles commented.

“It will need stitches,” Eric said. “The flesh there is soft and easily torn—”

“It's nothing!” Roarke snapped, wishing they would all shut the hell up. “Forget it.”

“Give me your wrists,” ordered Colin, brandishing a length of rope. “And don't try anything, or Lewis will gut you like a fish.”

A gangly, awkward looking youth with blood red hair and freckle-spattered skin nervously stepped forward. Roarke doubted young Lewis had much experience gutting anything that wasn't small and already dead, but he refrained from commenting on this. Instead he obligingly held out his wrists and permitted Colin to secure him to a tree.

“Lewis, you watch over them while the rest of us talk,” instructed Colin. “If any of them gives you any trouble, kill him.”

Lewis glanced apprehensively at Roarke. Roarke glowered, causing the poor lad to stumble back. Roarke rolled his eyes, unable to believe he had permitted himself to be captured by such a ridiculous band of misfits. If only his hands were free and he did not have this goddamn arrow stuck in his ass he could easily overcome the whole bloody lot of them.

As it was, there was little more he could do than scowl as the other members of the Falcon's band gathered just beyond the clearing.

“They're a surly lot, that's for sure.” Magnus chuckled, shaking his head. “Let's see if a nice walk back to Laird MacTier without their plaids takes some of the snap out of them.”

“We can't let them go,” Colin objected. “They came here looking for us, and they bloody well found us. If we release them, they'll fetch an army and lead it right back here.”

Finlay drove his sword deep into the ground and spat beside it. “Let's finish them off.”

Magnus's crinkled eyes rounded with shock. “Y'er not suggestin' we kill them?”

Colin regarded him soberly. “I don't see any way around it, Magnus.”

“But that's not our way,” protested Magnus. “We're thieves, lads, not cold-blooded murderers.”

“This isn't murder,” Colin countered. “We're protecting ourselves and our clan from another attack. Besides, they've seen Melantha. We can't let them go, knowing who the Falcon really is.”

“This is terrible,” fretted Magnus. “Ye know I've no great love for the MacTiers, but till now our only crime has been to rob them, and chafe their pride a wee bit.' Tis far more serious to slaughter these lads like trapped deer.”

“It's no worse than what MacTier did to our people the night he attacked us,” retorted Colin furiously. “We lost over two dozen men to the savagery of his warriors. These four were probably part of that slaughter. It's time we repaid the MacTiers in kind—with their own blood.”

“Colin's right.” Finlay jerked his sword from the ground. “Let's get it over with.”

“No.”

Colin regarded Melantha in disbelief. “But if we let them go—”

“If we let them go, they will bring more warriors back to find us,” she acknowledged. “But if we kill them, MacTier will be enraged. He may not know who is responsible for the deed, but he will make sure his wrath is felt by all those clans whose lands border these woods. Our people cannot withstand another attack, Colin. We cannot kill them.”

“If we can't release them and we can't kill them, then what the hell are we to do with them?” he demanded.

“We have to take them with us.”

“Take them with us?” Magnus repeated blankly. “Ye mean as prisoners?”

She nodded. “They're worth more to us alive than dead. We can ransom them back to MacTier—their lives in exchange for money and goods.”

“That's madness,” Colin objected. “Even assuming MacTier cares enough about these warriors to actually pay the ransom, once we release them he'll just attack our clan and steal it back, and more besides.”

“That depends on the size of the ransom,” countered Melantha. “If we demand enough money to buy us the protection of an army, MacTier won't dare attack us after we have released them.”

Finlay regarded her in confusion. “What army?”

“The MacKenzies have a powerful army,” Melantha explained. “They are close enough to us that they could arrive quickly if we sent a message saying we needed them.”

“Y'er not thinkin' clearly, lass,” Magnus objected, “because of that wee tumble ye took off yer horse. The MacKenzies have no interest in helpin' us.”

“We went to Laird MacKenzie for help after MacTier attacked us,” Colin reminded her. “The old bastard refused.”

“He refused because he said we had nothing to offer him in return. The MacTiers had stripped us of everything, so we had nothing with which to barter. But if MacTier is willing to pay us in gold for the return of these warriors, then we will be able to buy the MacKenzies' protection.”

“The lass may have a point.” Magnus thoughtfully stroked his white beard. “Old MacKenzie has always been a greedy bastard. I'd not think him one to refuse a sack of gold in exchange for the occasional use of a few of his warriors. Those lads are always spoilin' for a fight, anyway.”

“I don't like it,” said Colin. “This takes our battle with MacTier out of the woods and leads him straight to our holding.”

“We don't have a choice,” Melantha argued. “We can't let these warriors go, and if we slay them, MacTier will end up at our castle demanding to know who is responsible. At least this way he will be forced to pay, and we have some chance of arranging for our protection.”

“Very well,” relented Colin. “We take them with us. But realize this, Melantha. If the council does not agree to ransom them, we will have no choice but to kill them.”

“The council will agree to it,” Melantha assured him, “once they understand how much we have to gain by keeping these MacTiers alive.”

“Y'er in luck this day, lads,” declared Magnus cheerfully as they returned to the clearing. “We've decided to let ye live, though 'twas by no means a united decision. I was all for having ye chopped into wee morsels and fed to the wolves.”

“An excellent decision,” remarked Donald from the confines of his rope prison. “I commend all of you on your exceptionally sound judgment.”

“We will camp here for the night,” Melantha announced. “Lewis and Finlay, remove the net from those men. Secure their wrists and ankles so they aren't tempted to run away. Magnus, build a fire. Colin, take the first watch. I'm going to walk the horses to the stream.” She gathered the mounts' reins as her men moved to carry out her orders.

“I do hate to be a bother,” Roarke drawled, “but do you intend to leave me standing beside a tree with this arrow sticking out of me all night?”

Melantha shrugged. “The thought had not troubled me. If you are uncomfortable, Magnus will take it out.”

Roarke scowled. “No offense, but that old man's hands shake so much he can barely keep his fingers attached to them. If it's all the same to you, I'll have one of my men remove it.”