never learn to block an overhand blow?”
Lachlan turned rapidly toward the green. “By the saints, he parries like a limp chicken.”
“Aye, ‘tis a mockery of the MacGowan name. Would that someone could teach him the proper method.”
For a moment Anora thought Lachlan might march straight away to the training field, for she saw the muscles in his broad neck tighten as if he already held a sword. But he remained as he was, a slight scowl stamped upon his face as he eyed his younger brother. “Aye, someone should teach him, indeed. What a pity you’re not up to the job, Mour.”
“Umm,” Gilmour said.
“What is wrong with the way he parries?” Anora asked, gazing toward the battle field.
“He is off balance,” Lachlan said. “If he is to stand strong beneath the blow, he must spread his legs thusly and—”
“I doubt the lady is interested in learning how to battle, Lachlan,” Gilmour said.
“Nay,” she said, and forced a laugh. “I know nothing of the art of defense, of course, but if you say he is inept … that is to say, mayhap he would be better suited for staying here whilst we journey—” Her breath stopped abruptly and she turned as a shimmer of white snagged her attention.
“Pearl,” she gasped. The mare stepped up beside her. Her foretop, snarled with autumn brambles, fell across her fine dark eyes as her unruly mane brushed Anora’s arm. Without another thought, Anora grasped the bridle in her hand and lifted her gaze to the man on the horse nearby.
Ramsay MacGowan stared down at her from a scarred and restive stallion.
“I found this mare in the woods,” he said. His expression was unreadable, his eyes as steady as a falcon’s. “Might she be yours?”
Anora smoothed her hand down the mare’s finely arched neck, A scratch marred the pearly hide of her shoulder, but beyond that she seemed unscathed, and suddenly Anora wanted to cry. But tears were a luxury afforded only by the wealthy and the daft.
“Aye,” she said and pursed her lips. “Aye, she is. My thanks for her safe return.”
He stared at her hand, and she stopped its movement, curling her fingers subconsciously against Pearl’s warm hide.
“I suppose we can hardly let you walk all the way to your father’s keep … Mary of Levenlair.”
He said the name oddly, as if he did not quite associate it with her, but she forced herself to remain calm. It mattered naught what he thought, for the other two brothers were more than willing to believe.
“A fine steed she be,” Lachlan said.
“Aye, she is that,” Ramsay agreed, and shifted against the high cantle of his saddle. “Finely made, yet tougher than she first appears.”
“She’s had a hard time of it, I suppose, unaccustomed to fending for herself,” Lachlan said.
Aye, it was clear that Pearl had had a difficult time. Her saddle and pad were missing. She had lost some two stone, and her ivory tail, long as a spinster’s broom, was knotted with a dozen prickly burrs.
“Aye,” Ramsay agreed. “Despite the Munros’ bloody nature, ‘tis said they treat their mounts well.”
Anora stopped her hand in mid air, realizing that she had been petting the mare again. Surely ‘twas not a thing a regal lady would do, yet it seemed better to continue than to stare up at him like a cornered hare. She forced her fingers to stroke the mare’s rabbit-soft hide.
“The Munros!” Gilmour said. “What the devil do you speak of, Ram? The mare is the lassies’.”
“Aye,” Ramsay said. “I see that.”
She refused to look at him, but kept her hand moving in a slow rhythmic motion.
“What do the Munros have to do with the mare?” Lachlan asked, but when Ramsay said nothing, Anora spoke.
“Your brother thinks I am somehow in league with a clan called the Munros.”
“You jest,” Lachlan said.
“It happened when he was a wee thing,” Gilmour explained, and shook his head as if deeply troubled. ” ‘Twas the tumble from the rowan tree when he
Lachlan turned rapidly toward the green. “By the saints, he parries like a limp chicken.”
“Aye, ‘tis a mockery of the MacGowan name. Would that someone could teach him the proper method.”
For a moment Anora thought Lachlan might march straight away to the training field, for she saw the muscles in his broad neck tighten as if he already held a sword. But he remained as he was, a slight scowl stamped upon his face as he eyed his younger brother. “Aye, someone should teach him, indeed. What a pity you’re not up to the job, Mour.”
“Umm,” Gilmour said.
“What is wrong with the way he parries?” Anora asked, gazing toward the battle field.
“He is off balance,” Lachlan said. “If he is to stand strong beneath the blow, he must spread his legs thusly and—”
“I doubt the lady is interested in learning how to battle, Lachlan,” Gilmour said.
“Nay,” she said, and forced a laugh. “I know nothing of the art of defense, of course, but if you say he is inept … that is to say, mayhap he would be better suited for staying here whilst we journey—” Her breath stopped abruptly and she turned as a shimmer of white snagged her attention.
“Pearl,” she gasped. The mare stepped up beside her. Her foretop, snarled with autumn brambles, fell across her fine dark eyes as her unruly mane brushed Anora’s arm. Without another thought, Anora grasped the bridle in her hand and lifted her gaze to the man on the horse nearby.
Ramsay MacGowan stared down at her from a scarred and restive stallion.
“I found this mare in the woods,” he said. His expression was unreadable, his eyes as steady as a falcon’s. “Might she be yours?”
Anora smoothed her hand down the mare’s finely arched neck, A scratch marred the pearly hide of her shoulder, but beyond that she seemed unscathed, and suddenly Anora wanted to cry. But tears were a luxury afforded only by the wealthy and the daft.
“Aye,” she said and pursed her lips. “Aye, she is. My thanks for her safe return.”
He stared at her hand, and she stopped its movement, curling her fingers subconsciously against Pearl’s warm hide.
“I suppose we can hardly let you walk all the way to your father’s keep … Mary of Levenlair.”
He said the name oddly, as if he did not quite associate it with her, but she forced herself to remain calm. It mattered naught what he thought, for the other two brothers were more than willing to believe.
“A fine steed she be,” Lachlan said.
“Aye, she is that,” Ramsay agreed, and shifted against the high cantle of his saddle. “Finely made, yet tougher than she first appears.”
“She’s had a hard time of it, I suppose, unaccustomed to fending for herself,” Lachlan said.
Aye, it was clear that Pearl had had a difficult time. Her saddle and pad were missing. She had lost some two stone, and her ivory tail, long as a spinster’s broom, was knotted with a dozen prickly burrs.
“Aye,” Ramsay agreed. “Despite the Munros’ bloody nature, ‘tis said they treat their mounts well.”
Anora stopped her hand in mid air, realizing that she had been petting the mare again. Surely ‘twas not a thing a regal lady would do, yet it seemed better to continue than to stare up at him like a cornered hare. She forced her fingers to stroke the mare’s rabbit-soft hide.
“The Munros!” Gilmour said. “What the devil do you speak of, Ram? The mare is the lassies’.”
“Aye,” Ramsay said. “I see that.”
She refused to look at him, but kept her hand moving in a slow rhythmic motion.
“What do the Munros have to do with the mare?” Lachlan asked, but when Ramsay said nothing, Anora spoke.
“Your brother thinks I am somehow in league with a clan called the Munros.”
“You jest,” Lachlan said.
“It happened when he was a wee thing,” Gilmour explained, and shook his head as if deeply troubled. ” ‘Twas the tumble from the rowan tree when he
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