Highland Warrior. Hannah Howell

to drag me off to his lair and try to use me to pick clean the purses of my kinsmen?”

      “We are the MacFingals. I am Sir Ewan, the laird of Scarglas, and the mon weighted down with your vast array of weaponry is my brother Gregor. Ye can learn the names of the rest when we camp for the night.”

      “Just how far away are ye taking me?” she asked as he searched her saddle and packs, handing Gregor her second sword and three more knives.

      “Ye didnae think ten knives and one sword were enough?”

      “I might have lost one or two weapons in a battle. What are ye doing?” she asked when he mounted Stormcloud.

      Ewan grabbed her by the hand, relieved when she nimbly swung up behind him and offered no argument. “I am riding this horse. He has had more rest than my own. I am taking ye to Scarglas, a little o’er a day’s ride from here. When we get there, ye will tell me who ye are and where ye are from. Or ye can save us all a lot of trouble and do it ere we get there.”

      Before she could tell him exactly how small his chances were of her granting that wish, he kicked Stormcloud into a gallop and left her with no choice but to hang on. He might have a lot of questions for her when they camped for the night, and she might even give him a few answers. She had a few questions of her own, however, such as who in the world were the MacFingals of Scarglas?

      Chapter 2

      “She is muttering,” said Gregor as he leaned against the tree next to Ewan and joined him in watching Fiona.

      Ewan almost smiled. The moment they had camped, he had ordered Fiona to prepare a meal. She had obeyed him, but made no secret of her annoyance. The fact that only Simon, the youngest of his men at sixteen and his half-brother, was helping her seemed to have added to her irritation. She was, indeed, muttering, when she was not sweetly telling an obviously infatuated Simon what to do. Ewan had caught only a few words of her disgruntled litany, and had decided it would be best to distance himself.

      “I suppose that, because she believes she is a mon, she finds the chore demeaning,” continued Gregor.

      “Oh, I dinnae think she believes she is a mon,” murmured Ewan.

      “But her skill with weapons—”

      “She has been purposefully trained. I have nay doubt of that. And she has been trained weel.”

      “Why would someone train a lass to fight?”

      “I can think of many reasons. Mayhap a dangerous shortage of fighting men, mayhap she comes from a place where battles are frequent, danger all round, or mayhap she was reared mostly by men who didnae ken how else to deal with her. I favor the latter. She moves about in the lad’s clothing as if she is accustomed to such attire.”

      Gregor watched Fiona closely for a moment and nodded. “Aye, she does. She e’en moves more as a lad does than a lass.”

      “She also shows little fear about being amongst us, a lone woman amongst a dozen men.”

      “Oh. Mayhap she is no maid, is accustomed to men in all ways.”

      “Nay.”

      “Ye sound so certain of that.”

      “As certain as I can be. I make my judgment based upon how she acts.” And, he reluctantly admitted to himself, because he felt a strange, but fierce, loathing of the possibility that Fiona had been touched by any man, let alone many. “She has faced us with weapons, burned our ears with insults, and tries to thwart our plan to ransom her by simply refusing to tell us her full name or where she comes from. There has been nay one small attempt to flirt with any of us, to use any feminine wiles. And look ye at how besotted our Simon is, yet she makes no use of that weak spot in our ranks. There isnae e’en the hint of seduction in her actions.”

      “Ah, aye. She appears to treat him as a younger brother or the like.” Gregor smiled faintly. “Tis fair certain that is why Simon is so enthralled. Shy and virginal is our Simon. A few maids at Scarglas have sought to catch his eye, but he is proving verra skittish. I was thinking I should take him to a whore soon who will teach the lad a thing or two.”

      Ewan thought of the time his father had thrust him into a woman’s bed, insisting it was time he became a man. He had been fifteen, tall and bone thin, and painfully shy. He had also already begun to be appalled by his father’s apparent attempt to breed his own clan, keeping his current wife and far too many other women pregnant year after year. Ewan shuddered at the memory of the night he had lost his virginity. It had been a night full of failures, embarrassments, and awkwardness, all performed in the arms of a hard-eyed woman who outweighed him by at least five stone and badly needed a bath.

      “Nay,” he said sharply and pretended not to see Gregor’s look of surprise. “Leave the lad be. He will take that step when he is ready and ’tis best done that way.”

      Gregor shrugged. “As ye wish. It just seemed to me that he was a wee bit slow to get the itch.”

      “I am sure he gets the itch, but ’tis best if we let him choose his own time to scratch it.” He studied Simon, who reminded him a great deal of himself at that age. “He probably just needs to get beyond seeing himself as naught but sharp bones and a pair of too big feet.”

      “Is that how ye felt?” Gregor just smiled when Ewan scowled at him.

      “Nay all of us are blessed with your confidence and bonnie face.”

      “Thank ye for nay saying vanity.”

      “Ye are welcome. Of course, ye might consider resting your parts now and again ere ye wear them out.” He almost smiled when Gregor cast a startled glance at his groin, then glared at him.

      “We cannae all be the monk ye are,” Gregor grumbled.

      “I am nay a monk,” Ewan snapped.

      Gregor rolled his eyes. “Bedding a woman once a year is monkish. I dinnae ken how ye can do it.”

      “Tis called restraint. Tis better than breeding a bushel of bastards.”

      “I only have two. We have all tried to do as ye have asked. A mon has needs, however, and we dinnae all have your strength. Some of us cannae help but wonder if that restraint is why ye are so dark of humor.”

      Ewan sighed and shook his head. It was an old argument. It was difficult to teach restraint when the patriarch of the clan showed none. The fact that Scarglas had far too many women within its walls who were free with their favors did not help, either. He had had some success since wresting the laird’s seat from his father five years ago, but not as much as he would have liked. Ewan looked at Fiona and could not stop himself from wondering what she would think of Scarglas and its people.

      “Mayhap that lass will give the lad confidence,” murmured Gregor. “If Simon can learn to be at ease with a lass as fair as that one, he may gain some ease with others. Weel, if that lass will be staying with us for a while.”

      “Oh, I think she will be our guest for a long while, unless ye can think of a way to get her to tell us exactly who she is.”

      “Ye could always try to seduce the truth out of her. Where are ye going?” Gregor asked when, after one furious glare, Ewan started to stride off into the woods.

      “Hunting,” Ewan replied. “Better I try to kill some beastie and put meat on our table than run my sword through ye. I might just start to regret that in a year or two.”

      It did not surprise Ewan when he soon heard Gregor trailing him. The dangers surrounding him and his family meant that he was never allowed to go off on his own. He also knew he would do no hunting, would only catch something if it was unfortunate enough to stumble across his path. It annoyed him to admit it, even if only to himself, but he was trying to escape the temptation of Gregor’s suggestion.

      Seduce a woman as beautiful as Fiona? It was laughable, or would be if it did not stir up so many thoughts and feelings