Without another word, he lifted her, all but tossing her into the saddle. If the s all she could do not to fall off. Tears crushed her eyes and she doubled over, fighting unconsciousness.
Help me please, God.
Fergus lifted Crispen, who settled in front of her. She was glad he wasn’t riding behind her because, God’s truth, she needed something to hang on to.
“Can you manage the reins?” she whispered to Crispen as she leaned into him.
“I’ll protect you,” Crispen said fiercely. “Hold on to me, Mairin. I’ll take us home, I swear it.”
She smiled at the determination in his voice. “I know you will.”
Fergus gave the horse a slap, and it started forward. Mairin bit her lip against the scream of pain that battled to erupt. She would never make it even a mile.
Alaric McCabe drew up his horse and held his fist up to halt his men. They’d ridden all morning, searching endless trails, tracking hoofprints to no avail. All were dead ends. He slid from the saddle and strode forward to view the disturbance in the soil. Kneeling, he touched the faint hoofprints and the flattened grass to the side. It looked as though someone took a fall from a horse. Recently.
He scanned the immediate area and saw a footprint in a patch of bare soil a few feet away, then lifted his gaze toward the area the person had headed. Slowly he rose, drew his sword, and motioned for his men to spread out and circle the area.
Carefully, he stepped through the trees, watching warily for any sign of ambush. He saw the horse first, grazing a short distance away, the reins hanging, the saddle askew. He frowned. Such disregard for the care of a horse was surely a sin.
A slight rustle to his right swung him around, and he found himself staring at a small woman, her back wedged against a huge tree. Her skirts jumped like she had a litter of kittens hidden underneath, and her wide blue eyes were full of fear—and fury.
Her long black hair hung in disarray to her waist, and it was then he noticed the colors of her tunic and the coat of arms embroidered at the hem.
Rage temporarily blinded him, and he advanced, his sword held in an arc over his head.
She flung an arm behind her, shoving something farther between her and the tree. Her skirts wriggled again, and it was then he realized she shielded a person. A child.
“Stay behind me,” she hissed.
“But Mair—”
Alaric froze. He knew that voice. His fingers shook, for the first time in his life his hand unsteady around the hilt. Hell would be a cold place indeed before he ever allowed a Cameron hand on his kin.
With a snarl of rage, he charged forward, grasped the woman by the shoulder, and hurled her aside. Crispen stood against the tree, his mouth open. Then he saw Alaric and all but leapt into his arms.
The sword fell to the ground—another sin of neglect—but in that moment Alaric didn’t care. Sweet relief staggered him.
“Crispen,” he said hoarsely, as he hugged the boy to him.
A shriek of rage assaulted his ears just as he was hit by a flying bundle of woman. So surprised was he, that he stumbled backward, his hold on Crispen loosening.
She wedged herself between him and Crispen and landed a knee to his groin. He doubled over, cursing as agony washed over him. He fell to one knee and grabbed his sword just as he whistled for his men. The woman was demented.
Through the haze of pain, he saw her grab a resisting Crispen and try to run. Several things happened at once. Two of his men stepped in front of her. She halted, causing Crispen to slam into her back. When she started in the opposite direction, Gannon raised his arm to stop her.
To Alaric’s astonishment, she swiveled, grabbed Crispen, and fell to the ground, her body huddled protectively over him.
Gannon and Cormac froze and looked to Alaric just as the rest of his men burst through the trees.
To further confuse the hell out of all of them, Crispen finally wiggled out from underneath her and threw himself on top of her, scowling ferociously the entire time at Gannon.
“Don’t you hit her!” he bellowed.
Every one of his men blinked in surprise at Crispen’s ferocity.
“Lad, I wasn’t going to hit the lass,” Gannon said. “I was trying to prevent her from fleeing. With you. God’s teeth, we’ve been searching for you for days. The laird is worried sick over you.”
Alaric strode over to Crispen and plucked him off the huddled woman. When he reached down to haul her upright, Crispen exploded again, shoving him back.
Alaric stared at his nephew with an open mouth.
“Don’t touch her,” Crispen said. “She’s badly hurt, Uncle Alaric.”
Crispen chewed his bottom lip, and it looked for the world like the lad was going to break down and cry. Whoever the woman was, it was obvious Crispen didn’t fear her.
“I won’t hurt her, lad,” Alaric said softly.
He knelt down and brushed aside the hair from her face and realized she was unconscious. There was a bruise on one cheek, but otherwise she didn’t look injured.
“Where is she hurt?” he asked Crispen.
Tears filled Crispen’s eyes, and he wiped hastily at them with the back of his grubby hand.
“Her stomach. And her back. It hurts her fierce if anyone touches her.”
Carefully, so as no to alarm the boy, Alaric pulled at her clothing. When her abdomen and back came into view, he sucked in his breath. Around him, his men alternately cursed and murmured their pity for the slight lass.
“God in heaven, what happened to her?” Alaric asked.
Her entire rib cage was purple, and ugly bruises marred her smooth back. He could swear one of them was in the shape of a man’s boot.
“He beat her,” Crispen choked out. “Take us home, Uncle Alaric. I want my papa.”
Not wanting the boy to lose his composure in front of the other men, Alaric nodded and patted him on the arm. There would be plenty of time to get the story from Crispen later. Ewan would want to hear it all.
He stared down at the unconscious woman and frowned. She had offered her body for Crispen’s, and yet she wore the colors of Duncan Cameron. Ewan would be beyond control if Cameron had any involvement in Crispen’s disappearance.
War. At long last, war would be declared.
He motioned for Cormac to tend to the lass, and he reached for Crispen, intending that the boy ride with him. There were several questions he wanted answered on the ride home.
Crispen shook his head adamantly. “Nay, you take her, Uncle Alaric. She has to ride with you. I promised her that Papa would keep her safe, but he’s not here so you have to do it. You have to.”
Alaric sighed. There was no reasoning with the boy, and right now he was so glad he was alive, he’d cede to his ridiculous demands. Later he’d bend the brat’s ear about not questioning authority.
“I want to ride with you, too,” Crispen said, his gaze nervously going to the woman.
He inched closer to her as if he couldn’t stand the idea of being separated from her.
Alaric looked skyward. Ewan hadn’t taken a firm enough hand with the boy. That was all there was to it.
And so Alaric found himself astride his horse with the woman draped across the saddle in front of him, her body shielded in the crook of one arm, while Crispen sat on his other leg, his head nestled against her bosom.
He glared at his men, daring even one of them to laugh. Hell, he had to relinquish his sword for the duty of carrying the two extra persons, never mind their weight didn’t equal that of a single warrior.
Ewan just better be damn grateful. He could decide what was to be done with the woman just as soon as Alaric dumped her into Ewan’s lap.
CHAPTER 3
As soon as they crossed over the border onto McCabe land, a shout went up that echoed through the hills, and in the distance, Mairin heard the cry taken up and relayed. Soon, the laird would know of his son’s return.