oot o’ her…”
Rob cleared his throat as he rose to his feet and cast Will a warning look. He’d been reckless that day, risking injury to
himself and to his companions for a few hours of physical pleasure. He took no pride in the retelling of it, despite their
victorious raid.
Will answered with a bright grin, bid him good morn, and then turned back to his audience to finish the tale. “We all had…”
“Will, that’s enough,” Rob said more sternly this time. He didn’t want Davina hearing the rest.
He needn’t have bothered, for she was no longer listening. Her gaze was fastened on him as he strode toward her. For an instant,
she looked frightened—as if her breath was caught somewhere between her throat and her lips. Suspecting that she had seldom
seen any half-naked men roaming the Abbey, he tugged on the folds of his plaid draped low on his bare waist and tossed one
end over the shoulder she had bandaged the night before.
She blinked and then raised her gaze higher to meet his and blushed. “How does your arm feel?”
“Better.”
“I prayed for you last night.”
“Ye have my thanks fer that.” He was tempted to smile at her. Hell, how many times had he done the like last night? ’Twas
unsettling to think how easily he lost control over his own mouth when she looked at him. He’d lain awake deciding what it
was about her that attached itself to his heartstrings before he had time to guard against it. She was bonnie, to be sure,
but there were plenty of bonnie lasses at Camlochlin. Mayhap, it was the sweet vulnerability of her, or the spark of life
that, despite the tragedy that had befallen her, had not been extinguished. She looked as if a slight wind could carry her
off, but she would stand, legs braced, and face it first. She was braw. Aye, she was that. Shooting arrows at her enemies
instead of running for her life. Losing everything and everyone and weeping softly as she rested her head for the night instead
of wailing in her grief. He’d gone to sleep thinking that she was the kind of woman he could lose his heart to, and that he
should bring her home.
But he awoke this morning with a clear head. Tristan still bore the scar on his thigh from Donald MacPherson’s arrow when
the chieftain and his sons had come upon them that balmy summer morn. Rob’s lesson that day had been hard learned and not
forgotten. He would give Davina aid, but that was all. He would find a refuge quickly and return to his life. He would never
again let a lass rob him of his good senses and put his kin in jeopardy. Especially a lass who was responsible for the deaths
of over a hundred men.
Which brought him to his other quandary. Why did Monmouth or Argyll want her dead? Will had been correct when he called her
clever. She had avoided his questions by telling them all what anyone half interested in James of York might want to know.
But none of it had anything to do with the massacre at St. Christopher’s. Why would King Charles’s army be guarding a novice?
What else did she know that she had not read in a book? Did the attempt on her life have anything to do with the new king’s
coronation? She refused to tell him anything, but it didn’t matter. He knew all he needed to know. Davina Montgomery was danger
and risk, and Rob was never careless.
“There is an abbey in Ayrshire,” she said, as if reading the deep concern marring his brow. “I will be safe there.”
Rob studied her face in silence. She didn’t want to go there. It wasn’t fear he saw in her eyes that told him, but resignation—as
if she had no other choice but to accept her fate. “Ye said ye would no’ be safe anywhere.”
“I’d forgotten about Courlochcraig. I was not thinking clearly.”
’Twas a solution. He could leave her at the new abbey and keep her enemies away from his kin. “Verra well. We shall escort
ye to Ayrshire then.”
“I would be grateful for that,” she
Rob cleared his throat as he rose to his feet and cast Will a warning look. He’d been reckless that day, risking injury to
himself and to his companions for a few hours of physical pleasure. He took no pride in the retelling of it, despite their
victorious raid.
Will answered with a bright grin, bid him good morn, and then turned back to his audience to finish the tale. “We all had…”
“Will, that’s enough,” Rob said more sternly this time. He didn’t want Davina hearing the rest.
He needn’t have bothered, for she was no longer listening. Her gaze was fastened on him as he strode toward her. For an instant,
she looked frightened—as if her breath was caught somewhere between her throat and her lips. Suspecting that she had seldom
seen any half-naked men roaming the Abbey, he tugged on the folds of his plaid draped low on his bare waist and tossed one
end over the shoulder she had bandaged the night before.
She blinked and then raised her gaze higher to meet his and blushed. “How does your arm feel?”
“Better.”
“I prayed for you last night.”
“Ye have my thanks fer that.” He was tempted to smile at her. Hell, how many times had he done the like last night? ’Twas
unsettling to think how easily he lost control over his own mouth when she looked at him. He’d lain awake deciding what it
was about her that attached itself to his heartstrings before he had time to guard against it. She was bonnie, to be sure,
but there were plenty of bonnie lasses at Camlochlin. Mayhap, it was the sweet vulnerability of her, or the spark of life
that, despite the tragedy that had befallen her, had not been extinguished. She looked as if a slight wind could carry her
off, but she would stand, legs braced, and face it first. She was braw. Aye, she was that. Shooting arrows at her enemies
instead of running for her life. Losing everything and everyone and weeping softly as she rested her head for the night instead
of wailing in her grief. He’d gone to sleep thinking that she was the kind of woman he could lose his heart to, and that he
should bring her home.
But he awoke this morning with a clear head. Tristan still bore the scar on his thigh from Donald MacPherson’s arrow when
the chieftain and his sons had come upon them that balmy summer morn. Rob’s lesson that day had been hard learned and not
forgotten. He would give Davina aid, but that was all. He would find a refuge quickly and return to his life. He would never
again let a lass rob him of his good senses and put his kin in jeopardy. Especially a lass who was responsible for the deaths
of over a hundred men.
Which brought him to his other quandary. Why did Monmouth or Argyll want her dead? Will had been correct when he called her
clever. She had avoided his questions by telling them all what anyone half interested in James of York might want to know.
But none of it had anything to do with the massacre at St. Christopher’s. Why would King Charles’s army be guarding a novice?
What else did she know that she had not read in a book? Did the attempt on her life have anything to do with the new king’s
coronation? She refused to tell him anything, but it didn’t matter. He knew all he needed to know. Davina Montgomery was danger
and risk, and Rob was never careless.
“There is an abbey in Ayrshire,” she said, as if reading the deep concern marring his brow. “I will be safe there.”
Rob studied her face in silence. She didn’t want to go there. It wasn’t fear he saw in her eyes that told him, but resignation—as
if she had no other choice but to accept her fate. “Ye said ye would no’ be safe anywhere.”
“I’d forgotten about Courlochcraig. I was not thinking clearly.”
’Twas a solution. He could leave her at the new abbey and keep her enemies away from his kin. “Verra well. We shall escort
ye to Ayrshire then.”
“I would be grateful for that,” she
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