down. With that nearness, her scent floated over him, softly pleasing, and something more...much more. His groin tightened in response. “This will help,” she said and straightened, taking her scent with her.
He could not see what she did, but her fingertips whispered across the skin of his forehead to ruffle his hair, and the pounding receded.
“You took quite a blow,” she said quietly. “’Tis a good thing you have a thick skull.”
He could hear amusement in her voice, but felt none of his own, only relief. The pain continued to recede as her hands stroked gently over his forehead and down the sides of his face. Tension he was not aware of holding ebbed, and he sighed deeply.
“Who are ye?” he asked, feeling more and more at ease and drowsy as she continued, the pain blessedly fading away. “How can ye do that?”
“I should be asking the questions, don’t you think?” Her voice projected calm reason, as if she was discussing nothing of importance. But she delivered her next question with more emphasis. “Who are you?”
“I am called Toran,” he heard himself say, biting his tongue before he said the rest of his name. What was she doing to him?
“And you do not belong to this clan Colbridge fought today, do you?” she asked. “Your tartan is different than the ones the other prisoners wear.”
Damn. Confusion and dismay washed over him and he reached for an answer that would satisfy the lass. He was in great danger here, bound and without his weapons in an enemy camp, but it would be worse if she found who he really was and told her leader. He’d fought with the MacAnalens, so the invaders probably believed he belonged with them, at least until she of the sharp eyes and soft hands noted the small differences in the tartan he wore.
“Aye,” he improvised. “My clan is related.”
“And you’re a chief?” she asked, seeming to accept his evasion. She continued to stroke his neck and shoulders, her fingers brushing over his torc, and Toran’s strange lassitude deepened, but not enough to halt his tongue.
“Aye,” Toran admitted after struggling not to speak, his voice sounding curiously distant to his ears. He tried to clench his jaw shut, but found that he couldn’t do it with her hands so warmly soothing on his skin. “Clan Lathan,” slipped out before he was even aware he was about to speak. He groaned his dismay and tried to clamp his lips between his teeth, but numbness stole his ability to compress them. Was she a witch, then, he mused dreamily, to pull answers from him even when he did not wish to give them?
“Ah, well then; that is why Colbridge wanted you,” he heard her murmur to herself as he slipped into a warm, blessedly pain-free sleep.
****
Gar Colbridge stood on the edge of the field of battle and looked around him with grim satisfaction. In the waning sunlight, the bodies of his enemies lay strewn like so much chaff across the landscape. A few of his men and some of the camp women picked through them, stripping useable clothing and searching for weapons and other valuables. Those, he knew, would be few and far between in this poor countryside.
“A good day, all in all,” his master-of-arms remarked, dropping his reins and dismounting next to his commander’s horse.
“Aye,” Colbridge answered, giving a nod to the sturdily built man beside him who had, under his guidance, molded a ragtag band of reivers into a passably capable fighting force. “We’ve achieved what we meant to do this day, and reaped a bonus, too...the MacAnalen chief, alive.”
He relished the moment, in the heat of the battle, when he’d recognized the clan leader. He had noticed the man’s torc a moment before striking and turned his blow to disable rather than kill. Odd that none of the laird’s men were nearby to defend him, but luck, it appeared, was in Colbridge’s favor this day. The tides of battle must have swirled them away, leaving him the element of surprise.
A clan
He could not see what she did, but her fingertips whispered across the skin of his forehead to ruffle his hair, and the pounding receded.
“You took quite a blow,” she said quietly. “’Tis a good thing you have a thick skull.”
He could hear amusement in her voice, but felt none of his own, only relief. The pain continued to recede as her hands stroked gently over his forehead and down the sides of his face. Tension he was not aware of holding ebbed, and he sighed deeply.
“Who are ye?” he asked, feeling more and more at ease and drowsy as she continued, the pain blessedly fading away. “How can ye do that?”
“I should be asking the questions, don’t you think?” Her voice projected calm reason, as if she was discussing nothing of importance. But she delivered her next question with more emphasis. “Who are you?”
“I am called Toran,” he heard himself say, biting his tongue before he said the rest of his name. What was she doing to him?
“And you do not belong to this clan Colbridge fought today, do you?” she asked. “Your tartan is different than the ones the other prisoners wear.”
Damn. Confusion and dismay washed over him and he reached for an answer that would satisfy the lass. He was in great danger here, bound and without his weapons in an enemy camp, but it would be worse if she found who he really was and told her leader. He’d fought with the MacAnalens, so the invaders probably believed he belonged with them, at least until she of the sharp eyes and soft hands noted the small differences in the tartan he wore.
“Aye,” he improvised. “My clan is related.”
“And you’re a chief?” she asked, seeming to accept his evasion. She continued to stroke his neck and shoulders, her fingers brushing over his torc, and Toran’s strange lassitude deepened, but not enough to halt his tongue.
“Aye,” Toran admitted after struggling not to speak, his voice sounding curiously distant to his ears. He tried to clench his jaw shut, but found that he couldn’t do it with her hands so warmly soothing on his skin. “Clan Lathan,” slipped out before he was even aware he was about to speak. He groaned his dismay and tried to clamp his lips between his teeth, but numbness stole his ability to compress them. Was she a witch, then, he mused dreamily, to pull answers from him even when he did not wish to give them?
“Ah, well then; that is why Colbridge wanted you,” he heard her murmur to herself as he slipped into a warm, blessedly pain-free sleep.
****
Gar Colbridge stood on the edge of the field of battle and looked around him with grim satisfaction. In the waning sunlight, the bodies of his enemies lay strewn like so much chaff across the landscape. A few of his men and some of the camp women picked through them, stripping useable clothing and searching for weapons and other valuables. Those, he knew, would be few and far between in this poor countryside.
“A good day, all in all,” his master-of-arms remarked, dropping his reins and dismounting next to his commander’s horse.
“Aye,” Colbridge answered, giving a nod to the sturdily built man beside him who had, under his guidance, molded a ragtag band of reivers into a passably capable fighting force. “We’ve achieved what we meant to do this day, and reaped a bonus, too...the MacAnalen chief, alive.”
He relished the moment, in the heat of the battle, when he’d recognized the clan leader. He had noticed the man’s torc a moment before striking and turned his blow to disable rather than kill. Odd that none of the laird’s men were nearby to defend him, but luck, it appeared, was in Colbridge’s favor this day. The tides of battle must have swirled them away, leaving him the element of surprise.
A clan