“Sir Ruari Kerr, laird of Gartmhor. I fought with the Douglases.”
“And they show their gratitude by leaving ye here to rot. Why didnae the English take ye for ransom?”
“I fell as the English fled with our men snarling at their heels.” He closed his eyes. “Once those Sassenach dogs cease to run they will be gathering their ransoms for the men they captured.”
Sorcha tensed, a chill seeping through her body. That would not be long for the battle had taken place on the English side of the Cheviot hills. The English did not have far to run to be safe enough to tally their losses. She had been a fool to think her troubles were over simply because her brother’s chosen side had won the battle. Of course the English would demand a ransom. It was the only reason to take the highborn soldiers captive. What the English could not know was that they could demand a ransom for Dougal till their tongues fell out, but it would gain them nothing. Sir Dougal Hay might be a laird and may have been dressed as fine as the Douglas himself, but he did not have two coins to rub together.
Dougal was doomed, she thought, her heart heavy with worry and a building grief. Then she looked at Sir Ruari Kerr. She recognized the name and the lands he held. Unlike with Dougal, one could trust in the richness of Sir Ruari’s attire. Although she hated to even consider the possibility of holding the handsome knight for ransom, she could not immediately discard the idea. It could be the only way to get the coin needed to buy back Dougal’s life.
“I heard that the Scots captured Hotspur himself,” she said.
“Aye, they did,” he replied, partly opening his eyes to look at her.
“So, willnae the captured Scots be returned to us in trade for him?”
“Only those who are asked for. If your brother is weel kenned by the Douglas clan…”
“He isnae.”
“Then ye shall probably have to buy him back.”
“And since the English suffered such a resounding defeat, they will no doubt ask for large ransoms in an attempt to salve some of their bruised pride.”
“Aye, they will.”
“Cousin,” Margaret whispered as she hurried up to Sorcha. “I found another mon still alive, a lad actually.”
“Where is he?” asked Sorcha.
“On the right-hand side of the field, nearly half the distance down ’twixt here and the trees at the far end of the field, in a thicket.”
“Aye, I see the thicket. He is in there?”
“He is now. Using my skirts and cloak to hide his movements, I stood guard while he squirmed into the bushes. Have ye thought of a way to help these men flee this field?”
“How weel was the laddie dressed?”
“Not as fine as this knight. Aye, and his attire is fair ruined by rips, blood, and mire.”
“Then we shall claim him as kin and say we are taking his body home.”
“We cannae claim this rogue as kin. No one with a kinsmon dressed so finely would be robbing the dead.”
“I wouldnae wager too heavily on that, but aye, ’tis what these dogs will think.” She frowned at Ruari for a moment then smiled crookedly as she realized what she planned to say would not be a complete lie. “We shall say that we want to take his body back to his kinsmen, for anyone dressed so finely must be important, and his kinsmen will surely reward us for finding his body. Both men must play dead.” One sharp look from Ruari’s green eyes told her that he understood.
“We cannae carry both men on Bansith. She is just a wee pony.”
“True. We must make a litter. Ye will have to fetch what is needed, Margaret, as I daren’t leave our pony or this mon unguarded.”
“Ye havenae tended to his wounds, Sorcha.”
“We are pretending he is dead, Cousin. Ye dinnae bind the wounds of a dead mon,” Sorcha explained in a gentle voice. “We will see to his injuries as soon as we are out of sight and reach of these human carrion.” Sorcha began to fully detail what she would need to make a litter.
Ruari covertly studied the two young women he was now dependent on. The one called Margaret was a well-rounded fair-haired beauty with wide blue eyes and all the dimples any man could ask for. The woman called Sorcha was the one who drew his keenest interest, however, and he found that curious. Margaret was far more suited to his usual taste. Sorcha’s heavily lashed, huge brown eyes were her best feature. They were dark pools reflecting a keen wit, strength, and determination, qualities he had never considered flattering in a woman. She had a small face, her fine bone structure clear to see. Ruari suspected that if she ever curved her full, tempting mouth in a smile, there would be no sign of a dimple. Her hair was thick and hung to her tiny waist, the rays of the setting sun touching upon reddish highlights in its rich chestnut depths.
Inwardly frowning as he recognized his attraction to the woman, an attraction strong enough to be stirred despite his pain and weakness, he carefully inspected her tiny figure. The drab gray gown she wore was snug, hugging every slim curve. Small high breasts, a tiny waist, and slim, shapely hips stirred his interest even though such a figure had never caught his eye before. She moved with a lithe, easy grace he had to admire.
What troubled him more than the fact that he was attracted to a woman who met none of his usual requirements was that this tiny woman was saving his life. That was surely going to produce a lot of jests from his kinsmen. The highly praised and honored Sir Ruari Kerr saved by an insignificant lass from an insignificant branch of the Hay clan? Ruari winced as he all too easily imagined the laughter of his kinsmen.
The sound of a footfall drew him from his bout of self-pity. One of the scavengers was approaching his rescuers. Ruari hastily assumed the posture of a dead man, praying he could keep his breathing shallow enough to be indiscernible. He heartily cursed his wound and the loss of blood which left him so weak. It insured that he could not fight. If death approached, he would like to be able to at least try to strike out at his killers before they cut his throat. All he could do was lie silent and pray that Sorcha Hay was as clever as she seemed to be.
Sorcha warily eyed the tall thin man as he stopped in front of her. She did not like this sign of strong interest on the part of the battlefield thieves. She definitely did not like the delay this intrusion caused. Now that she knew Dougal’s fate and what she needed to do to help him, she was anxious to leave this place of unshriven dead and the treacherous humans who preyed on such misery.
“I see that ye build a litter,” the man said, his voice soft and cold as he fixed his dark, unblinking stare on Sorcha. “Have one of you injured yourself?”
“Nay, sir, but I thank ye for your concern,” Sorcha replied, cautiously setting her hand on her sword beneath her cloak. “We but need something to carry two bodies.”
“Two bodies? Why do ye wish to remove the dead from the field?”
“Not all the dead, sir. Just two.”
“Dinnae be clever, lass,” he muttered, pointing one long, bony, and filthy finger at her. “Ye had best tell me what I wish to ken or ye and your bonnie companion may join these corpses.”
“My cousin found one of our kinsmen upon the field, and we wish to take him home. We intend to take this mon as weel.”
“Oh, aye? And I am to believe that he is a kinsmon, too?”
“Nay. I didnae claim him one, did I? He is richly dressed, of a breed not often left to rot on the battlefield. I thought that returning his body to his kinsmen may weel bring me a coin or two.”
“Ye