Chapter 8
Kester’s heart—andstomach, and veins, and very soul—were frozen, and it had nothing to do with the temperature of the water. ‘Twas fear. He couldn’t recall ever being so afraid, and it had nothing to do with himself and everything to do with the woman in his arms.
He’d watched Robena fall off her horse into the rushing water, and his body had acted without any sort of prompt from his mind. One moment he was crouching there, silently urging her across the river, and the next he was running. He’d managed to get ahead of her and plunge into the water, right around the time that branch had pulled her under.
Luckily, the water was shallow, and he’d had little trouble standing fast against the torrent and pulling her from beneath the surface.
But now…now she was draped across his lap and his horse was galloping toward safety…and she still wasn’t moving.
He glanced down at the sodden woman and breathed another prayer. “Just a wee bit longer, lass,” he murmured. “Ye’ll be warm soon.”
“Is he breathing?” called Weesil from behind him.
By the time Kester had exited the water, a dripping Robena in his arms, his men had joined him, leading his horse. He wasn’t sure how and when Pudge had crossed the river, but he was thundering along behind them now as well.
Kester’s arm tightened around her shoulders and he leaned forward, urging his horse faster.
“She’s breathing,” he heard Pudge growl. “She’ll live.”
The older man sounded as worried as Kester felt.
“Dear Heavenly Father! Look at his face!”
At Auld Gommy’s screech, Kester instinctively glanced at Robena. Her head was tipped back over his arm, her pale face pointed at the cloudless sky. Her eyes were closed, her breathing shallow, and her skin far too pale.
“His mustache!” Giric gasped. “Robbie’s lost his mustache!”
From the corner of his eye, Kester saw Auld Gommy cross himself. “Sweet Christ Almighty,” the old man prayed, “the current was strong enough to rip the lad’s mustache clear off his face!”
“He’s a she, ye dumb shite,” Pudge called out.
Behind them, Mook rumbled, “Who’s a she?”
“He!”
“He’s a she?” he repeated. “Which he? Me he? Is me a she?”
“Jesu Christo, ye’re an idiot,” muttered Pudge. “Robbie’s a she. Look at her! Look at the laird!”
Giric clucked his tongue. “Och, Pudge is right. The MacBain wouldnae hold a lad so close. Robbie’s a lass?”
“She’s the Oliphant lass he fell in love with,” Pudge explained.
Kester set his jaw, pulling Robena closer. Aye, he’d fallen in love with her. He loved her, and look what his stupidity had done to her.
“Where are we going?” Auld Gommy called out. “No’ that I’m complaining, if ye think galloping willy-nilly westward will help the lass. But if ye want some nourishing broth, I’m going to need a fire.”
“There’s a village ahead, mayhap two miles,” Pudge explained.
Kester wasn’t certain who ‘twas who asked, “Which one?” but before he could answer, Pudge did it for him.
“’Tis on Murray land. A Murray village, but they dinnae ken us as enemies on this side of the land, so we should be able to find shelter.”
“Which Murray village, is what I’m asking.” That was definitely Weesil.
“I cannae tell ye the name,” growled Pudge. “Because then ye’ll look at a map and be able to tell exactly where we are. Surely ye’ve noticed, thus far in the narrative, we’ve been sufficiently vague about where exactly in the Highlands we actually are? Naming the town will make it too obvious. ‘Tis also possible the narrator is making shite up and doesnae actually have any real understanding of basic Scottish geography, but far be it from me to disparage such an intelligent and graceful narrator.”
The men were silent for a few moments, the only sounds the pounding of their horse’s hooves as they thundered westward. Finally, Weesil said, “Aye, fair enough.”