“Don’t ye trust me?” he said, tossing her words back at her.
Oddly enough, she did trust him. Still, it was with a good deal of reluctance that she eased toward a sturdy oak, grasped the lowest branch, and pulled herself carefully up the trunk, finally settling on a thick limb out of their reach.
The wolves abandoned her then and crept toward the man with the sword.
She could see the Highlander’s inner battle as his knuckles whitened around the hilt of his claymore. She understood. A warrior’s sword was his natural defense. Surrendering it in the face of danger was completely at odds with his instincts.
“Lay it down!” she hissed. “Hurry!”
His mouth twisted with misgiving as he cautiously lowered the blade to the forest floor.
Surely the wolves would retreat now. The man was no longer a threat.
But they didn’t.
Apparently, they weren’t convinced the Highlander meant her no harm.
Thankfully, the Highlander wasn’t so naïve. He had expected as much and was prepared.
As soon as one of the wolves lunged forward, he grabbed hold of the broad limb of a sycamore overhanging the path and swung himself up to safety. The wolf missed his ankle by an inch.
The beasts continued to range beneath the tree, growling and snapping in frustration at the prey they couldn’t reach.
Hallie was mortified. She couldn’t look the man in the eye. She’d been so sure her wolf—the one she’d hand-raised—would back down once the threat was gone.
Now both of them were helpless and weaponless, treed, at the mercy of the circling beasts. And it was Hallie’s fault.
She expected the Highlander to rail at her. To accuse her of trying to get him killed. To curse in frustration at their predicament. To bellow in rage.
But he didn’t. And his silence was almost worse.
Eventually the wolves stopped pacing. Hallie hoped they’d given up the hunt and would return to their den. That was not to be. Instead, they bedded down at the foot of the Highlander’s tree in patient wait.
Hallie perched atop the oak limb, waiting for them to leave.
An hour passed. And then another. And another.
It was almost dawn when the wolves finally rose on silent haunches and slunk away into the woods. Hallie glanced over at the Highlander to see if he’d noticed.
He was slumped against the trunk, fast asleep. His mouth was half open. His long legs dangled over the thick branch.
Her lips curved up in a rare smile. He looked less like a fierce Highlander and more like a helpless lad now.
Then she sobered as she realized she had the advantage. While her pursuer slumbered, she could clamber down the tree. Seize his sword. And steal away to Rivenloch. Right under his nose.
It was what cunning Feiyan or impulsive Jenefer would have done. Hallie could be halfway home before the dozing Highlander woke.
Then she sighed. Hallie wasn’t like her cousins. She’d made the man a promise. She’d sworn she’d return to Creagor with him.
He might be her enemy. But she couldn’t leave him to the wolves. He’d held up his end of the bargain. Against his instincts—and common sense, it turned out—he’d willingly surrendered his blade.
She had to keep her word. She owed him as much.
But she had another weapon left in her arsenal. Her wits. With a hostage in tow, she could change her strategy. She’d never specified exactly when she’d return with him to Creagor.
Chapter 5
Something poked Colban, waking him with a start that nearly toppled him to the ground.
“Bloody…!”
He’d forgotten he was in a tree. He made a quick grab for the limb to keep from falling into the jaws of…
The wolves were gone.
In their place stood a smug Valkyrie with a sword—his sword. She must have poked him with it.
He wondered how long she’d been standing there.
Then he wondered if she woke up every morn, looking as fresh and beautiful and magnificent as a newly blossomed rose.
“We should go now,” she said, interrupting his wayward thoughts, “ere they return.”
He was exhausted. His bones ached, thanks to a night spent huddled in a tree. He was in no shape for a long journey. But he knew she was right.
The sun had just lifted its yellow head above the horizon. It wasn’t too late for the wolves to return for one last kill before they retired to their den for the day.
He nodded, raking his tangled hair back from his brow.
Then he realized their situation. He’d been snoring away in a deep sleep. Oblivious to the world. The wolves had gone. The warrior lass had confiscated his claymore. She could have easily escaped.
But she hadn’t. She’d kept her promise. The lass appeared to be a woman of her word.
Still, he wasn’t sure he trusted her to keep it. Not while she was the one holding the claymore.
He swung down from the branch and dropped onto the path. Facing her, he was astonished again by her impressive height. He had to lower his gaze only an inch to stare into eyes as calm and blue as the summer sea.
A sunbeam shot through the trees, gilding her ice-blonde tresses. Warming her cheek with a rosy blush. Brushing her lips with a gentle kiss of light.
For an instant, he couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.
Then she spoke, startling him from his reverie.
“Let’s go,” she said, nodding to indicate the path ahead.
He frowned, confused for a moment. The Valkyrie might be fierce and beautiful. But she apparently had no sense of direction. It was a good thing he’d followed her into the woods.
“Creagor is back this way,” he said. He cocked his head in the direction they’d come and held his hand out for his claymore.
“We’re not going to Creagor.”
Her chilling assertion sent a shiver along his spine. His eyes flattened. His lips thinned.
“Ye made a vow,” he reminded her.
“And I’ll keep it.” She lowered her eyes. “Just not yet.”
“Not yet? What is that supposed to—”
Her hand tightened on the claymore.
He muttered a curse. She’d seemed so honorable, so upstanding. But he should have known better than to take her at her word. To a lass like her, words were tools to be bent to her will.
He shook his head. A wise man never relied upon a woman. They were about as trustworthy as wolves.
It was a shame. He’d half-hoped to have a pleasant stroll back to Creagor with the lovely lass on his arm.
That was obviously not to be.
But he had no intention of going with her to Rivenloch, if that’s what she planned.
He gave the sword a fleeting glance. The blade might be lowered. But her grip at on it was firm and at the ready.
Still, she was only a maid. And the claymore was heavy. He could wrench the blade from her hands before she found the strength to lift it.
As if she read his thoughts, she said, “Don’t try anything foolish. I’d hate to have to disfigure that handsome face.”
She was clearly mocking him. Handsome? He was a mess from his fight with Morgan. His brow was cut. His eye was bruised. His lip was swollen.
And though she appeared cool and fearless, he wasn’t threatened by her.
She might be tall. But he was far stronger.