Chapter 7
Robena couldn’t decideif she hated herself or not. It had been her idea to embrace the short time she had with Kester, and she was glad for that opportunity.
But that joy was tempered by what she could only describe as a constant state of impending doom as they got closer and closer to their destination.
The night she piped for the men, she and Kester spent an hour in the woods, holding one another and talking. And kissing. The kissing was nice.
But again, ‘twas sweetness mixed with sorrow. The knowledge that this was all they could ever have, and even this would be over soon.
She’d cried and laughed, and then—exhausted—fallen asleep in his arms.
They’d awoken before dawn; him wrapped in his plaid, and her wrapped in him.
And she’d had to bite her tongue to keep from crying again, because until she’d experienced it, she hadn’t realized how much she wanted to awake every day like this.
The next night was much the same, although she had no idea what excuse he offered to his men when he followed her into the woods after her piping had once again moved her to tears.
She couldn’t help her choice of music; her songs were a reflection of her heart.
But now they were only two days from the Games and had made their excursion onto Murray land.
“Should we be just…sitting around like this?” she asked, pacing around the clearing in the woods. The horses were still saddled but had been set loose to drink from the creek. “What if we’re discovered?”
“We’ll no’ be discovered,” muttered Giric, who lay on his back with his hands folded over his stomach, his eyes closed. “The laird and Weesil will warn us afore that happens.”
“Aye, laddie.” Auld Gommy was picking at his teeth with a dagger. “They’re scouting—no’ just for opportunity, but trouble as well. And besides, Pudge has the best ears of any MacBain warrior.”
When she glanced at the grizzled veteran, who stood with his arms across his chest and frown on his face, he shrugged. “‘Tis true,” he admitted. “And the horses will no’ let us be ambushed.”
“There’s nae one out here,” Mook explained. “Nae one will ken we’re here until ‘tis too late.”
Tis too late.
She shuddered as the simple statement called to mind horrors.
When the men had first suggested a raid on Murray land, it had seemed a lark. She hadn’t objected because, well…she would gladly accept any excuse to prolong this journey a day or two.
But now…she worried what she’d agreed to participate in.
“Are ye…what are ye planning on doing?”
She liked these men, and thought Are ye planning on raping and murdering innocents? sounded a little too accusatory.
Pudge snorted quietly. “Worried, Robbie?”
Mook grinned. “‘Tis the Murrays who should be worried! When Widowmaker is unsheathed, they’ll ken it!”
“Widow…maker?” whispered Robena, eyes wide.
“‘Tis the name of his great bloody weapon,” muttered Giric from his spot on the ground.
“Aye!” Mook gestured gleefully at the front of his kilt. “‘Tis huge—“
“No’ yer cock,” interrupted the handsome man, without opening his eyes.
Robena glanced between the two men, then at the large blade hanging from Mook’s hip. “Yer sword is named Widowmaker?” she guessed.
Auld Gommy waved the dagger he’d been using for oral hygiene. “All great warriors name their blades, lads. Or bows, in Giric’s case.”