Highland Warrior Read Free Page A

about to end the game, to try to break the spell she wove, she reached for the reins. The horse lowered his head and shoved her away forcefully enough to cause her to sprawl on her back on the ground. Stormcloud then produced that sound which all too closely resembled a human snickering. Ewan tried his best not to laugh, but the loud hilarity of his men broke his control.
    Fiona cursed softly as she got to her feet and brushed herself off, then glared at thelaughing men. “I dinnae suppose ye would have let me ride on him anyway.”
    “Nay, I wouldnae,” Ewan said. “Ye are our hostage.”
    “Might I learn just who plots 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