Page 6 of The Protector’s Promise

There!

The old Roman road split just ahead. As soon as the others rode over the ridge behind them, her men would see which path they took . . . unless they were already long gone. But which path should he take? The main road? Aye. They would likely think he’d take the one less traveled.

His eye judged that he’d taken the turn just in time to lose them.

But he kept going at a gallop, working under the assumption the pursuers were just behind him. He only slowed after riding for what seemed like hours, though he knew from the sun’s position it had not been so long.

“They’ll kill you when they find us.”

“They are welcome to try.”

For the first time since he whisked her onto his horse, the Scotswoman turned to look at him. A pert nose. Full lips. Her outfit and demeanor told him she was a lady, and a brave one at that.

“Why did you take the stone?”

“Why do you want it back?”

She turned back around, the unladylike huff prompting his next impertinent question.

“You the daughter of . . . whom exactly? A great border lord? Perhaps the king of Scotland himself?”

“My father,” she spat out, “is an earl.”

“Ahh,” he mocked. “An earl. Of course.”

“He is no castellan.” Her taunt hit too close to the mark. His relatively lowly position had made it impossible for him to marry another earl’s daughter . . .

“You never answered my question,” she said. “What does the Lord of Camburg want—”

“How do you know who I am?” Her words surprised him for a moment, but hadn’t he guessed she had some connection to the priestess? “The priestess sent you.” He didn’t expect a response, but as the road narrowed and wound its way through a thicket of trees, she answered anyway.

“She did not send me. The stone you carry is rightfully mine. It belongs to Scotland. It belongs—”

“You know what it is?”

“You don’t?” She turned around again, and by God, if she kept doing that, he’d be near crippled with desire by the time they made it back to Camburg. He’d obviously been too long without a woman. “Then why did you take it?”

When she blinked, her dark lashes kissed the creamy skin beneath. William had never kidnapped a woman before, but he found it was an exceedingly difficult task. The last time he’d been this distracted by a woman . . . in fact, he had never experienced anything like this.

His only answer was not much of one at all. “It . . . called to me.”

Her eyes widened. “That’s it? You really don’t know?” Then something changed in her expression. Whereas it had been angry before, it softened. And then, unfortunately, she turned back around.

“Will you tell me?” he heard himself asking.

“Aye,” she said. “I will. But you must promise to give it back—”

“I cannot tell you why, only that I know that I need it.”

Her shoulders slumped. “Then I tell you nothing.”

He’d expected as much. “Will you at least tell me your name?”

She folded her arms in front of her, forcing him to tighten his grip lest she fall off the horse.

“You know mine. At least—”

“Lady Marion, daughter of Archibald Rosehaugh, 3rd Earl of Ormonde.”