Read Online Isle of Mull 03 - To Love a Warrior by Lily Baldwin - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Lily Baldwin
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other endeavor. She passed several thrilling moments under his watch. When at last he stood, she once more savored his height. He did not quite tower over her—no man did that—but he did almost make her feel small. Almost.
“Shall we walk then?” he asked.
She nodded, accepting his arm. “What are you collecting?” he said, motioning toward the basket swinging at her side.
“We begin the shearing on the morrow. My mum sent me to gather more blaeberries,” she said. Then she stopped and turned to face him. “I should be asking ye the same question. What brings ye this far east of Gribun?”
“I was heading into the wood to hunt,” he said, drawing closer.
Nerves coursed through her. “I shouldn’t linger overly long. My mother waits for the berries.”
“I will help you then,” he said. “But first, you owe me that ride.”
A weak protest rose to her lips, but she swallowed it back down, instead allowing him to pull her toward his horse. He ran his hand down his horse’s sleek nose.
“What is he named?” she asked.
“Ulf. In my language it means wolf. I named him so because of the white patch on his chest.”
“He is beautiful,” she said, running her hand across the horse’s black side. “He is not unlike ye with your black hair and white skin. Ye even have eyes like a wolf. I’ve never seen eyes like yours.”
She gasped as he came behind her and scooped her into his arms. She clung to his neck and laughed out loud. “Carry me about all day and ye’ll not need to train for a fortnight. Ye’ll be as strong as an ox.”
“This may come as a surprise, my dear, but despite your height and strength you feel like air in my arms.” He lifted her onto Ulf’s back and pulled himself behind her. “Your hair smells of lavender,” he said while he started to undo the bindings of her scabbard. “Do you mind? I had hoped to feel something softer than steel in my arms while we rode.”
“I do not mind,” she said as she gripped the horse’s mane to keep her arms from trembling. He secured her sword to his saddle, and then his arms came around her, pulling her flush against his chest.
Riding west, they galloped across the moors. He loved the feel of her body pressing against his. The curve of her waist demanded his touch, and her soft hair brushed his face, surrounding him with her scent while they raced across the moors. No other woman could feel as good as Nellore. Their bodies fit together as though destined to be joined. The sweet sound of her laughter filled his ears when he urged Ulf to gallop ever faster. Lost as he was in the pleasure of her body pressed against his, he had not observed the shift in scenery. He pulled tight on the reins when he glimpsed the hut of the Witch of Dervaig in the distance.
“What is it?” she asked. “Why have we stopped?” He saw her hand rise to feel for her sword, but her fingers grappled at air.
“I have your sword,” he reminded her. “I did not mean to bring us this far west,” he said.
She turned in her seat and looked up into his eyes. “Are you afraid?” she asked.
He shrugged. “I’m not afraid. I’ve never given the legend of the witch much due since I first heard the tales as a lad. In fact, my grandfather, Aidan MacKinnon, told me not to fear the witch, but when I pressed him further, he refused to speak more on the subject.”
“If ye’re not afraid, then why have we stopped?”
He smiled down at her. “When Angus Og first arrived five years ago, and we set out to fight for our king, your father told me something I will never forget.”
“What is that?” she asked.
“He said that trouble finds everyone eventually. You never need go in search of it.”
She smiled. Her father had said those same words to her many times. She turned and stared at Bridget’s old hut. She had been inside on several occasions over the years. Refusing to let her ancestral home fall into disrepair, Bridget had secreted across the moors
“Shall we walk then?” he asked.
She nodded, accepting his arm. “What are you collecting?” he said, motioning toward the basket swinging at her side.
“We begin the shearing on the morrow. My mum sent me to gather more blaeberries,” she said. Then she stopped and turned to face him. “I should be asking ye the same question. What brings ye this far east of Gribun?”
“I was heading into the wood to hunt,” he said, drawing closer.
Nerves coursed through her. “I shouldn’t linger overly long. My mother waits for the berries.”
“I will help you then,” he said. “But first, you owe me that ride.”
A weak protest rose to her lips, but she swallowed it back down, instead allowing him to pull her toward his horse. He ran his hand down his horse’s sleek nose.
“What is he named?” she asked.
“Ulf. In my language it means wolf. I named him so because of the white patch on his chest.”
“He is beautiful,” she said, running her hand across the horse’s black side. “He is not unlike ye with your black hair and white skin. Ye even have eyes like a wolf. I’ve never seen eyes like yours.”
She gasped as he came behind her and scooped her into his arms. She clung to his neck and laughed out loud. “Carry me about all day and ye’ll not need to train for a fortnight. Ye’ll be as strong as an ox.”
“This may come as a surprise, my dear, but despite your height and strength you feel like air in my arms.” He lifted her onto Ulf’s back and pulled himself behind her. “Your hair smells of lavender,” he said while he started to undo the bindings of her scabbard. “Do you mind? I had hoped to feel something softer than steel in my arms while we rode.”
“I do not mind,” she said as she gripped the horse’s mane to keep her arms from trembling. He secured her sword to his saddle, and then his arms came around her, pulling her flush against his chest.
Riding west, they galloped across the moors. He loved the feel of her body pressing against his. The curve of her waist demanded his touch, and her soft hair brushed his face, surrounding him with her scent while they raced across the moors. No other woman could feel as good as Nellore. Their bodies fit together as though destined to be joined. The sweet sound of her laughter filled his ears when he urged Ulf to gallop ever faster. Lost as he was in the pleasure of her body pressed against his, he had not observed the shift in scenery. He pulled tight on the reins when he glimpsed the hut of the Witch of Dervaig in the distance.
“What is it?” she asked. “Why have we stopped?” He saw her hand rise to feel for her sword, but her fingers grappled at air.
“I have your sword,” he reminded her. “I did not mean to bring us this far west,” he said.
She turned in her seat and looked up into his eyes. “Are you afraid?” she asked.
He shrugged. “I’m not afraid. I’ve never given the legend of the witch much due since I first heard the tales as a lad. In fact, my grandfather, Aidan MacKinnon, told me not to fear the witch, but when I pressed him further, he refused to speak more on the subject.”
“If ye’re not afraid, then why have we stopped?”
He smiled down at her. “When Angus Og first arrived five years ago, and we set out to fight for our king, your father told me something I will never forget.”
“What is that?” she asked.
“He said that trouble finds everyone eventually. You never need go in search of it.”
She smiled. Her father had said those same words to her many times. She turned and stared at Bridget’s old hut. She had been inside on several occasions over the years. Refusing to let her ancestral home fall into disrepair, Bridget had secreted across the moors
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