“We will have it later.” She disappeared behind a tree. “I want to keep moving.”
Aye. He understood quite clearly. She couldn’t wait to be away from him. If she said it one more time, he’d hunt down some sticks and kindling and build a roaring fire for tea.
He poured water over the small fire still burning. He folded his blanket then tossed it over his saddle and watched her as she reappeared. Then he took his turn behind a tree.
They had about half a day’s journey left before they reached Callanach Castle. They would have been there already if they hadn’t stopped and slept. He didn’t want to spend the few hours they had left fighting with her. But when he returned to her, he realized it was already too late. She offered him no smile when he helped her mount.
She was angry that he wasn’t swearing not to kill her father, innocent or guilty. But dammit, he had to protect his name, or he’d be penniless in a year. No one wanted a judge when they paid for an executioner. What he’d saved would be gone. He knew no trade.
He used some water to clean his hands and offered some to her. He reached into his bag and pulled out two apples while she dried her hands on her skirt. He tossed one of the apples to her and mounted his horse in a single leap.
He could go home. He looked at her. Could he take her with him?
Did he love Lady Rose Callanach? If he did, he was doomed if he killed her father.
“How long until—”
He grounded his teeth. “Soon,” he said and rode away.
“Tristan!” she called to him.
His name on her lips made him stop his horse and wait for her. When she reached him, she glared at him.
“You have no right to be angry with me!”
He gave her glare a dull response. “D’ye think I enjoy hearin’ how ye canna wait to be away from me?”
Was that a smile he saw lurking about her lips?
“I dinna see the humor in this,” he told her, all nonchalance gone.
She brought her hand up to her growing smile.
“It pricks me in my guts, Rose,” he explained, in case she didn’t understand.
“Your guts?” she asked, looking at him as if he’d cut himself open and spilled them before her.
“Aye, this is where it hurts.” He pressed his palm to his flat belly. “Not here.” He held his hand to his heart.
“Oh,” she said on a soft breath. “Well, ’tisn’t that I wish to be away from you. ’Tis everything else.”
He nodded. He was sure he appeared as miserable as he felt. Aye. Everything. Her father was on his list. She’d taken hold of his tempest heart and calmed it. His reputation was on the line. Was he truly going to give up everything for a lass he just met?
He knew one thing, holding her while she relived whatever horrors she’d been through was probably not the wisest thing he could have done. As the last few hours had passed by with her crying out or trembling against him in the midst of his whispers, he felt more and more protective of her, until he knew that he had to find the one who tried to kill her and succeeded in killing her mother. He would not rest until he found him.
Had it been her own father? Whoever set fire to the house had thought he was killing the family…or just the eight-year-old girl. Would a seemingly overprotective father set his house aflame with his child inside? It was too much to consider. If he was guilty, Tristan didn’t know how he would keep from killing him.
He felt like he should tell her. Tell her that he loved her. That whoever was guilty would pay. Whether it was a stranger or her father. He was going to end this danger to her once and for all.
“Rose—”
He heard the whoosh of an arrow cutting the air. His eyes opened wider for an instant before he felt shooting pain lance through him. He looked down at his chest, just above his heart. It took him just an instant to realize what was happening. He’d been shot. Rose! Not again. No one was taking her from him this time!
Fury rose up in him in the next instant. “Stay here!” he called to her as he drove his heels into his horse’s flanks.
He saw the rider getting away fast. He gave chase. A little longer and his horse would have overtaken the other. But he had to stop, lest he ride too far away from Rose. He couldn’t leave her alone in the woods.
He returned to her with the arrow still jutting out of his chest. Hell, he didn’t know how bad it was. How close it was to his heart.
He’d traveled these roads enough times to know where the best market towns were, or where the best healers lived.
“Come.” He pulled himself back onto his saddle. “This arrow has to come oot.”
“What about whoever shot you?” she asked, frightened.
“He has gone. Come, let us get movin’.”
She nodded and wiped some tears from her eyes. “Now then, lass. There’s no need to weep. I will be well.”
“There is no way for you to know that. Someone is out there.”
No. No. He wouldn’t let anyone hurt her. He had to remain strong. Though his chest ached and burned, and he felt weaker with every moment that passed, he held his claymore in his hand, ready to bring it down on a few heads.
Rose kept her horse close. Twice, she almost climbed into his saddle with him to keep him upright.
When they finally came to a small village four miles north—farther away from Dumfries—Tristan led them to an inn.
As soon as the innkeeper saw him and the arrow jutting from his chest, he called to his wife, the village healer and led them to a bedroom.
With Rose and
