Part 2 (1/2)
Magnus proudly held up the arrow he had been cleaning. ”Here's the whole shaft right here. I've put a wee notch on it, so I'll know it from the others. That way I can save it for a special occasion.”
”Wonderful,” Roarke muttered, awkwardly easing himself onto his good hip.
He glanced moodily around the campsite. The cool gray of dawn had spilled into the clearing, causing his men to stir. The Falcon's band, however, was already wide awake. Finlay was seated on a rock with his sword in his lap, honing the broad blade against a small stone, while young Lewis was meticulously repairing some minor tear in the net that had trapped Roarke's men. Melantha and Colin were nowhere to be seen.
”Where are the other two?” asked Roarke.
”They went hunting,” Magnus replied, vigorously s.h.i.+ning the head of his prized arrow with a tattered corner of his plaid.
”Excellent.” Donald yawned. ”I'm famished.”
Myles grunted and stretched his bound arms. ”So am I.”
”Warriors do not eat from the hands of their enemies.” Eric cast them a dark look.
”Now, Eric, I see no reason to starve just because we are sharing company with this fine band of outlaws.” Donald smiled pleasantly at Magnus.
”Absolutely right,” agreed Myles. ”No point in going hungry.”
”You're both weak.” Eric snorted, disgusted. ”Hunger makes a warrior strong.”
Donald could not help but laugh. ”Is that so? I'll be sure to remind you of that the next time I watch you devour an entire leg of venison.”
Roarke studied his men, considering. With two members of the Falcon's band gone, this was a good opportunity to overwhelm these remaining outlaws. The fact that he and his men were bound and weaponless put them at a disadvantage, but Magnus's advanced age, Finlay's brashness, and Lewis's fearful cowering made the odds much more equitable. He cleared his throat and glanced meaningfully at his men. Donald responded with a barely perceptible tilt of his head.
”I hate to be a bother, Magnus, but my men need to relieve themselves,” Roarke said. ”Perhaps they should do so before Melantha returns, to spare her any embarra.s.sment.”
Magnus's eyes crinkled with amus.e.m.e.nt. ”Melantha is scarce likely to be bothered by the sound of ye draining yer ballocks. The la.s.s could hardly live in the woods with the rest of us and worry about such triflin' matters.”
”Nevertheless,” Roarke persisted, ”my men would rather see to their needs without a woman watching.”
”Shy, are ye?” Magnus chuckled. ”Very well, laddie. Finlay, take these blus.h.i.+n' lads one at a time and let them water the woods. Not far, mind ye. Just over by that tree will do fine.”
Finlay hopped down and pointed his freshly honed sword at Donald's chest. ”Try anything and I'll skewer you like a rabbit on a spit.”
”That won't be necessary,” Donald a.s.sured him, looking more amused by his threat than concerned. ”I do believe I will need to have my legs freed if I am expected to get up.”
”Lewis, quit fussin' with that net and help Finlay,” ordered Magnus.
Lewis hesitated, eyeing Donald uncertainly.
”Now, lad, ye needn't be afraid,” Magnus soothed. ”Finlay here will make sure he doesn't bite you.”
Not looking terribly rea.s.sured, Lewis carefully laid down the strands of net he was working on and slowly moved toward Donald.
Donald smiled and bent his knees, ostensibly to scratch his bound ankles. Once Lewis was close he would kick the unsuspecting boy in the chest, knocking him onto his back. Then Donald would spring to his feet, place his booted foot on the lad's neck, and threaten to crush his throat if Finlay didn't lay down his sword.
”I'm thinkin' ye should stretch those legs of yours out a bit before Lewis unties them, laddie,” Magnus said, blithely polis.h.i.+ng his arrow with his plaid. ”Ye'd not want to accidentally kick poor Lewis, now, would ye?”
Donald managed to look credibly affronted. ”Good Lord, Magnus, what kind of a warrior do you take me for?”
”Forgive me, lad,” he apologized. ” 'Tis just that ye're a MacTier, and as such we have to be extra careful.”
Roarke kept his expression indifferent, but inside he felt a stab of admiration. Clearly Magnus was not quite as naive as he appeared.
”That'll be Colin and Melantha,” Magnus said, returning his attention to his arrow.
Roarke scanned the surrounding woods. He strained to hear, but could not detect the faintest crush of a twig or the rustle of branches to signal that someone was coming.
”You're mistaken, Magnus. There's no one there-”
”Good hunting?” asked Magnus as Colin and Melantha suddenly emerged through the trees.
Colin tossed a coa.r.s.e brown sack onto the ground. ”A few skinny rabbits and some small birds. If they're made into stew and stretched with some vegetables, they should last a while.”
”That sounds absolutely wonderful,” said Donald, returning to the clearing with Finlay. ”But please, don't trouble yourself making a stew-roasted on a spit will do just fine.”
”They aren't for you,” Colin snarled.
”Are we not to be fed, then?” enquired Roarke mildly.
Finlay snorted in disgust. ”You came here to kill us, and now you expect to have your bellies filled?”
”Starve me if it pleases you,” returned Roarke, ”but at least feed my men. They have not eaten for nearly a day.”
Melantha tossed him a look of contempt. ”A day without food is nothing. Your men are strong and can easily endure it.”
Golden petals of sunlight had filtered into the clearing, and as they flickered across her fury-clenched face Roarke was suddenly struck by the pale fragility of her. Melantha's shapeless chain mail and leggings effectively concealed the curves of her body, but Roarke did not need to see her waist or hips to know that this girl was intimately acquainted with the hollow ache of hunger. Last night in the soft glow of the fire her cheeks had seemed high and elegantly sculpted, but in the harsher light of day her beauty was revealed to be a little too lean. Her cheeks and jaw bore the sharply cut contours of deprivation, and the delicate skin beneath her dark eyes was shadowed by sleeplessness and months of insufficient nourishment.
”Well, now, I'm not sure 'tis a good idea not to feed these big brutes,” interjected Magnus. ”After all, we don't want them fallin' ill.”
”Magnus is right,” relented Colin. ”I suppose if we're not going to kill them, we have to feed them.”
”Fine,” Melantha snapped, turning away. ”Feed them something-but not the meat.”
”Oatcakes all round, then,” declared Magnus brightly, rubbing his hands together in antic.i.p.ation. ”Lewis, fetch some from yer bag and give them to our prisoners.”
Lewis obediently went to his horse and retrieved a worn leather satchel from which he produced a number of hard, lumpy biscuits. Scurrying about like a skittish hare, he somehow managed to distribute them among Roarke, Donald, and Myles. But as he approached Eric, the gigantic blond warrior gave him a murderous scowl, causing poor Lewis to stop dead in his tracks.
”Keep your food,” Eric growled.
Roarke sighed. ”Just eat it, Eric.”
Eric adamantly shook his head. ”The biscuits are poisoned. In a moment you'll be screaming in agony as your guts boil up into your mouths.”
Donald and Myles stopped chewing and stared at their half-eaten oatcakes in dismay.
”Good G.o.d, lad,” sputtered Magnus, slapping his knee with amus.e.m.e.nt, ”if we wanted ye dead, we'd not waste perfectly good oatcakes on ye to see the job done!”
Finlay raised his blade so that its wickedly sharp edge glinted in the sun. ”I'd just cleave you wide with my sword and let that be the end of it.”