The Highlander's Folly (The Novels of Loch Moigh Book 3) by Barbara Longley Page A

see where you’re going that way.” He made a grunting sound deep in his throat. “Allain, the rain has caused a small burn to run from the wood yonder. Clean yourself up, lad, and be quick about it. Tristan, Harold, help me remove the hobbles and take the canvas from the horses’ hooves. We won’t need to muffle our passing any longer. The enemy has been routed and vanquished.”
    Oh Lord. She’d vanquished one of them herself. “You were right. Killing is a messy business,” she muttered. “I don’t ever want to have to do that again.” She opened her eyes but kept her gaze on the path ahead. “Where are Tieren and Murray?” Her heart pounded again, and panic stole her breath. “John and George aren’t . . . Tell me everyone is OK.”
    “Everyone is indeed OK. The others are ensuring our way ahead is clear.” Hunter unfastened the nearest horse’s hobbles. “We dinna have much farther to go. Once we’re in Aberdeenshire, we will remain there until my kin sends a guard to escort us the rest of the way. You will be safe.”
    “Safe? In fifteenth-century Scotland?” She snorted. “You’ve got to be kidding me. I’ve read a book or three about your century, and there’s nothing safe about it.”
    “And yet, have you no’ insisted more than once that you have no need of my protection?” He met her gaze, his steel-gray eyes deadly serious.
    “Touché.” Heat surged to her cheeks. “I’m beginning to see that we all need each other’s protection.” She hiccupped again and reached for the gelding’s reins with a shaky hand.
    “Aye. ’Tis the way of it.” Hunter moved to her side and cupped his hands. “I ken you are able to mount on your own, but accept my aid all the same.”
    “Gladly.” She placed her muddy boot in his palms and hoisted herself onto the horse’s back. “My legs are like rubber bands right now anyway.”
    “I dinna ken what rubber bands are, but I’ve oft felt what you are feeling now, Beag Curaidh. A good hot meal and a day or two’s rest, and I trow you will recover well enough.” He patted her leg, leaving a muddy handprint behind. He smiled up at her, his expression filled with understanding.
    She frowned. “What does beg coo-ree mean?”
    “ ’ Tis but a sobriquet to honor your bravery. It means ‘wee warrior. ’ ”
    “Oh.” She blinked back the tears filling her eyes again. “I don’t think I was brave, Hunter. Everything just kind of happened at once, and I acted on instinct.”
    He smiled at her again, and a flush of heat suffused her insides. “Will I be able to bathe in Aberdeenshire and clean these clothes maybe?”
    “Aye.”
    “Good.” Grief and a bone-deep weariness overtook her. She wanted to put her arms around the horse’s neck and fall asleep on his back for the rest of the trip. Could she do that? Too bad they’d abandoned the wagon. “Does this horse have a name?”
    “Aye. Nevan called him Mìlidh, which means ‘champion.’ He’s a fine destrier.”
    “He is.” She patted the bay’s neck. “But Milly? Where I come from, that’s a girl’s name.” The gelding tossed his head as if she’d insulted him.
    “Och, but you are no’ there. You are here, and here ’tis a strong name for a horse that has proven himself in battle more than once.”
    “Point taken.” She yawned, and her mouth opened so wide, it made a popping sound. Tristan and Harold finished removing the canvas from the hooves of their ponies. Allain returned from the brush wearing a kilt of plain brown wool. His hose were dripping wet. He wrung them out and rolled them before stowing them with the rest of his things. Still babbling on about the battle, the younger boys mounted and took their places in line. Meghan scrubbed both hands over her face in an effort to wake herself up. Man, what would she give for a mocha latte about now, with extra whipped cream and chocolate shavings on top. She sighed heavily.
    “Are you able to ride, lass?” Hunter wiped