Hope had flared to life in Dwyn, a brilliant fire in her breast. She’d known her father would like that. It not only wouldn’ttake her away from him, it would add someone else to take over more of his responsibilities, freeing him to pursue his owninterests. She’d been sure that would appeal to him, and she’d been right. The next thing she knew he was responding thatthey would travel to Buchanan so that the sons could meet his daughter.
Dwyn had been over the moon . . . until her sisters had decided to help. She knew they really had wanted to help, that they’dwanted her married and happily settled like they were going to be with their still-living future husbands. They had not tried to make her feel inferior. But, in the end, that’s what their help had done. Their determination to lower the necklines onher gowns to highlight her large breasts, which were her “finest feature,” had reminded her that she had not been graced withthe beauty they had, but was plain and unappealing. Their insistence on taking in the waistline of those same gowns untilthey were so tight that she could barely breathe so that she looked slimmer had just reminded her that she was not long-leggedand slender like her sisters. And the lessons they’d insisted on giving her in how to be interesting and not a bookworm hadreminded her that she was a dull little wren, not likely to attract a husband.
By the time they’d left for Buchanan, Dwyn was regretting ever answering Lady Jetta’s first letter, and sure the trip wasgoing to be a terrible waste of time. Things had not improved when she’d arrived and Lady Catriona and Lady Sasha had begunto peck at her, reinforcing what her sisters had unintentionally made her feel. She was plain, and boring and fat, and noneof the Buchanans would be interested in her, they’d said, and then begun to call her horse-face and to whinny at her, andshe’d thought the trip would not just be a waste of time but probably the most miserable time of her life.
And then Geordie climbed up into her tree and everything changed. He made her laugh. He made her burn. He made her feel desirable,and even desired. He made her feel powerful, like a goddess . . . and he was so kind and gentle with her. So careful withher at all times. Geordie made her see herself through entirely different eyes than her sisters and Catriona and Sasha did.He made her like herself again, and she loved him for that and much more. For his kindness to Drostan. For the way he helpedhis family. For his strength and character.
She loved him . . . and she had to get back to him now, Dwyn realized, pushing her thoughts away. She didn’t dare leave himalone for too long. Time was of the essence here. She needed to get him to help as quickly as she could, and it seemed therewas only one way to do it now that his horse was gone.
Mouth tightening grimly, Dwyn rushed over to grab the plaid and then turned to charge back into the woods.
Chapter 12
“Yer horse is gone,” Dwyn got out on a gasped breath as she reached Geordie and started to lay out the plaid.
“Aye,” he sighed. “I tried to tell ye that, but ye ran off too quick.”
“The men must have loosed him,” she muttered, pulling the plaid corners out.
“And slapped him to make him run,” Geordie added. “Else he would no’ have gone. He has probably returned to the keep. They’llsend help if he has.”
Dwyn glanced at him sharply at that. “What’s his name?”
“Who? Me horse?”
“Aye, Geordie, what’s his name?” she asked again.
“Horse.”
“Ye named yer horse Horse?” Dwyn squawked with disbelief. “Do ye call yer dog Dog too, then?”
“I do no’ have a dog,” Geordie reminded her, sounding amused but weary.
“Ye do now. Two o’ them, and their names are Angus and Barra, so do no’ expect them to answer to Dog,” she said firmly.
“Wife, what—?” His question ended on a grunt when Dwyn moved around to his side opposite the plaid and shoved with all hermight to roll him onto his stomach. It put him half on the plaid, and before he could protest her shabby treatment of him,she rolled him again, onto his back this time. Much to her relief that roll put him in the center of the plaid.
“Dwyn,” he said with a frown in his voice as she moved to his feet and began to tie the ends of the plaid together beneathhis boots. “What are ye doing, lass? Ye need to make yer way back to Buchanan.”
“I intend to,” Dwyn assured him, “with you.”
“Nay, lass. Ye—”
“Horse!” she called over his protest. “Horse!”
“Dwyn!” His voice was a raspy hiss, but it was his hand grabbing her ankle that made her stop and turn to him as he said,“These men may have cohorts out here, and ye could draw them to us.”
“They do have others out here with them,” she admitted unhappily, recalling the one villain saying there was a good chancethe men would all get to have a turn at her. Giving up on the horse for the minute, she moved to the end of the plaid oppositehis feet. Dwyn hadn’t spread the whole plaid out; she’d left almost half of it bundled in a clump just past where his headnow lay. There simply wasn’t room in the woods to lay out twelve feet of plaid. Taking up the ends now, she tied them aroundher waist, knotting them to be sure they didn’t untie and slip off. She then started walking in the general direction shethought Buchanan keep must be. At least, she tried. The man was much heavier than she’d expected, or perhaps heavier thanshe’d hoped was a better description. Dwyn had to lean all her weight forward to get him moving across the forest floor, butafter a couple of false starts, she was able to drag him at a slow steady
