‘Into the woods and through a bog to destroy any scent and then onwards. Can you see the summit of Ben Mor from here?’
She nodded and he saw the slight uncertainty which was instantly replaced by belief. She pointed towards the horizon. ‘One set of mountains. One pass through unless we skirt south through the next valley. We head east.’
‘Excellent. If I go too fast, let me know.’
She looked down at her sorry dress. ‘You promise to stop so I can change where there is shelter? This gown has definitely seen better days.’
‘As soon as we are safe.’
They plunged into the heathland, going away from the road and the clearing and up on to the moor. To Sandulf’s relief, the sound of owls hooting quickly died behind him and the sun came out.
The going was boggy underfoot until they reached another small wood, but Ceanna’s sheer determination to cover as much ground as possible impressed him. She never asked to stop, never once complained her feet hurt or that her gown was a sodden mess—all things he’d expect a woman to do. She had far more backbone than any woman he knew.
When he judged they had gone far enough and no one followed, he slowed the pace. ‘When you spot a place which will protect your modesty, we will stop. I’ve no wish for you to faint.’
‘You have a poor idea about me or Pictish women if you think us so weak-livered.’
‘But I feel I’m going to learn.’
‘A Northman who wants to learn—will wonders never cease?’
Unable to help himself, he burst out laughing.
She screwed up her nose, but her eyes danced with hidden lights. ‘Do you think I’m funny?’
‘I appreciate your dry wit.’
‘People normally think it is something odd.’
‘That’s their loss.’
She missed a step. Instinctively, Sandulf reached out to steady her. A warm pulse went up his arm and the awareness of her rocked through him. His fingers itched to draw her nearer. A dark tendril of hair cascaded down her neck, pointing towards the gentle swell of her breasts. Her lips parted softly, red and ripe, revealing the pink tip of her tongue. He bent his head.
Vanora gave a sharp bark, breaking the spell. He instantly sobered and let go.
She wanted to be a holy maid, a voice resounded in his mind. He needed her to unlock St Fillans where Lugh the assassin resided.
He knew how such maids were treated in Constantinople—the reverence and awe in which they were held. He had no business stealing kisses, even if he thought it a shame that such a lovely creature was going to spend the rest of her life locked away from the gaze of men.
She cradled her arm. Her blue-grey eyes were fringed with thick black lashes. Her mouth trembled. He groaned inwardly as his body responded to her nearness. ‘What is going on? Why have we stopped?’
‘You nearly fell. Into the mud. I was helping you, but then realised you were capable of standing.’ He hoped she wouldn’t notice the husky timbre of his voice.
She laughed lightly. ‘Balance—or lack of it—is one of my worst failings.’
He rejoiced in her innocence. She had little idea of the agony he was in. ‘Take more care.’
Her face fell slightly and he winced. His voice had been too abrupt. ‘I will.’
‘I might not always be there to catch you.’
Her tongue wet her lips, sending fresh pulses of heat through him. ‘We’ll be parting company when we arrive in Nrurim.’
He forced his feet to move away from her. He had to stop finding reasons to touch her—that was the path towards madness. Keeping her pure would enable her to meet her self-proclaimed destiny as a holy maid.
He had so nearly succeeded where his brothers were sure he’d fail. He could then seek out Alarr, his middle brother, and most importantly Brandt. The kingdom might be lost, lost due to Brandt’s temper, according to Rurik, but his older brothers would have to admit that he was worthy of being one of the fabled sons of Sigurdsson. And he would get justice for Ingrid. He tried to imagine what it would feel like to hear their words when they knew what he’d achieved. The thought of this had sustained him through much danger and difficulty, but this time he found no pleasure in them. Instead he kept thinking about the shape of Ceanna’s mouth.
‘We need to keep our face away from the sun and go east,’ he said, forcing his voice to sound brusque.
‘No, that way.’ Ceanna pointed to a small hollow where a loch shimmered in the midday heat. ‘We go there.’
‘I thought the Pass of Brander was back that way.’ They would have to cross it at night, in case of prying eyes, but he would worry about that later.
‘I spy a small lake. This gown is worse than rags.’ Her stomach gave a loud rumble. ‘Bother.’
Sandulf forced his face to remain carefully blank. ‘Hungry?’
‘I don’t suppose there is much hope of anything to eat.’
He threw back his head and laughed.
She halted abruptly. ‘What now? What have I done?’
‘You, only you. Most women—’ It was impossible to explain that his mother, aunt and sister-in-law would never have admitted such a thing. Men had appetites, his mother used to say, and women had taste. He was never entirely sure what that meant. ‘You’re a refreshing change, my Lady Skadi.’
‘I am not your lady nor this warrior woman you go on about. I’m your unasked-for travelling companion.’
‘Truer words were never spoken.’ Sandulf recited to himself all the reasons why seducing this woman would be a poor idea—starting with his need to avenge Ingrid’s death and ending with her desire to be a holy maid. But the reasons suddenly seemed less important than the way her lips curved up in a smile or how her eyes danced. She was his travelling companion, his way in to the monastery at Nrurim, nothing more. ‘But I’ll grant your heart’s desire anyway. You get changed
