Chapter Ten

Mayhap he decided that he'd tormented her sufficiently with the intensity of his rabid scrutiny so that shortly after she remarked upon it, he took his scorching gaze away from her. Convinced she'd held her breath for more than a full minute, she didn't dare steal another glance at his bare chest, having some curious notion that he'd been pleased to discard his tunic in her presence and also that her earlier wayward glances might have been what had prompted so devoted a stare from him.

Sweet Jesus, but it would be so much easier to be around him if she could look upon him and feel nothing. If his seemingly hungry gaze raised no sense of enormous awareness at all. Both his heated regard and her own curiosity about his bare body, powerful and so remarkably chiseled, shaped so provocatively as to beg her touch, had been what had caught her breath.

Still, it lingered, the effect of his stare, that sense that she and not the generously given bread was what he desired as his next meal.

Knowing she couldn't stand here all night trying to make the hole in his arm stop bleeding—the greasy salve had slowed it briefly—Fiona held one end of a fresh strip of linen on the underside of his thick, muscular arm and wrapped it many times around. With no other choice, she leaned forward and gripped the end of the linen between her teeth, her forehead touching his arm and chest before she rent it in two.

His gaze swiveled back to her, sharply, while his body tensed.

More harrowing than war, she realized, the potency of his stare. Her heart never raced like this, to such a fatal degree, in the heat of battle. She made quick and admittedly sloppy work of the ends, the knot too loose, the linen likely to be draped round his elbow before long.

When it was done, she pivoted quickly, needing air and space, but was quickly, meanly reminded that she was bound to him when her arm and wrist refused to move with her. Facing the barn's door, with her back to him, she closed her eyes for a second, seeking composure.

His voice, low and husky, and his words, tantalizing, rebutted all her efforts.

"Fiona Rose, do ye nae like to misconduct yerself with a man who finds ye breathtaking?"

Steeling herself, inspired by so blatant a lie as breathtaking, Fiona whirled on him.

"Breathtaking, am I?" She asked in a flat tone of superior disappointment, assuming an imperious posture and tone, treating him as she would any poorly behaved soldier in her command, or any man whom she was more happily repulsed by. "A Rose I am. Covered in mud and muck and blood. A female who dares to brandish a sword, who nae doubt stinks of yesterday's refuse. And ye find me breathtaking?" She lifted a brow, waiting, maddened by the fact that his self-assured grin never wavered. "Dinna play games with me."

With a tug at her wrist, she drew him forward at the same time she turned her back to him.

He followed without any resistance and stood by her side at the barrel, where Ewan had kindly left the horn of ale and the bread.

"Ye have nae idea, do ye?" He asked quietly, feigning she was sure a mild shock, as she helped herself to a long drink.

No idea about what, she neither knew nor cared. When she lowered the horn, she wanted to command him again to cease, but did not. His type, she understood, sometimes only wanted to rile and engage. She would not.

She didn't mind allowing him to lead and command all afternoon—in truth she might have collapsed about a mile before they'd reached this small village, a shame that—but she was done now playing any inferior role to him, or more specifically, was done allowing him the upper hand.

"Ye probably dinna see it," he continued. "Or like as nae, ye've lost sight of it, occupied as ye are trying to prove yerself with sword and—"

"If ye say that one more time," Fiona gritted out, losing her bid to remain unprovoked, "I'll rip that linen from yer arm and jab my finger in that hole."

Austin stared, his eyes briefly widening and his mouth left hanging open before he burst out laughing.

"Hush," Fiona hissed, slapping at his hand.

He backed away one step from the barrel and withdrew his hand, putting the back of it to his mouth, trying—she imagined she was to suppose—to control his mirth. His broad shoulders shook, and he ducked his head, still chuckling.

Fiona wrenched her gaze from him, not wanting to be fascinated by the way his eyes crinkled at the corners nor the way his laughter made his rugged features soften. She didn't want to find his laughter attractive or think that he was. It irked her how effortlessly he seemed to draw out a reaction from her, ?twas maddening how much she noticed and how easily affected she was.

"Enough of yer nonsense," she muttered, more to herself than to him. But even as she claimed a chunk of bread and plopped it into her mouth, she couldn't help but steal another glance at him, catching sight of his tousled auburn hair and the way he pressed his thumb and forefinger around his mouth, as if that alone would subdue his grin, the move boyish and somehow a serious threat to her defenses against him. "Come. Eat," she instructed. "I want to make a proper bed of straw and collapse." And ideally, wake alone, separated from Austin Merrick and all his vexing allure.

Admittedly, she was quite surprised that he complied so readily, returning to the barrel and helping himself to the half portion that remained of the bread and ale. He ate as she had, swiftly and greedily, barely chewing the crusty bread but allowing the ale he swallowed to soften it.

She stared at his hand while he quenched his hunger and thirst while it rested on the barrel's top next to hers, the chain connecting them drooped beneath their hands. Though her eyes had acclimated themselves to the growing darkness of the barn as it settled, it was nearly impossible to see any detail in his hand. But memory served her well, able to perfect detail now.

Austin's hand was large and strong, more than twice the size of hers, his fingers long and calloused, each one marked with tiny nicks and scars from countless battles and daily toil. The skin, tanned and roughened, gave evidence of a life lived outdoors, exposed to the elements. Veins ran along the back of his hand, prominent and pulsing with life. Some of his knuckles were slightly swollen, a sign of old injuries that had never quite healed properly and the nails, though trimmed, were rough at the edges. Despite their coarse appearance, there was a certain grace in the way he moved his hands and fingers, an almost elegant confidence that spoke of his capability and strength.

She didn't fight too hard against the recent memory of his finger tracing the scar on her face, struck by the contrast of the gentleness in that moment, produced by a hand of raw power that had endured much and likely inflicted more. She dismissed the thought almost immediately though, unsettled by his tenderness in that moment and her ungovernable reaction to it, then and now.

When the bread and ale had been fully consumed, Austin offering the last sip from the horn to Fiona, they returned to the small space beyond the bales of hay and hoped Ewan nor anyone else minded how they disturbed the bales. Austin took down one more from the stack against the wall, using his hands to tear the binds, spilling the hay onto the ground. They bent at the same time, shifting the loose straw into a bed of sorts, large enough for two, which would prove the softest either had known in some time.

The expected safety—surely the English would have caught up to them by now if they had given chase—and being so close to the prospect of sleep dropped them happily onto their makeshift mattress.

Their linked hands sat between them, the only parts of them that touched, and they stared up at the ceiling, cloaked in a deep, impenetrable darkness, the kind that made it difficult to distinguish one shape from another. The faint rustle of the straw beneath them was the only sound breaking the heavy silence.

Outside, the sounds of the night enveloped them: the distant hoot of an owl, the occasional rustle of small creatures foraging in the underbrush around the barn, and the soft whisper of the wind as it moved through the trees. The barn itself seemed to breathe around them, the wooden beams creaking gently as they settled, the sound eerily amplified in the stillness.

Despite the exhaustion that weighed heavily on her limbs and spirit, sleep remained elusive. Fiona's mind raced, filled with the day's events and the uncertainty of what lay ahead. Austin shifted beside her, sleep evidently eluding him as well.

At length, he spoke.

"To be serious now," he started, which struck her as a curious beginning, "I wish to apologize to ye for what I said earlier today in the wagon."

She glanced at him, though saw little more than a dim shadow of his profile. "Ye mean when ye goaded me to tears with talk of my father?"

"Aye," he nodded, taking a deep breath. "I did what I had to do to distract the guards, but I ken I hurt ye with my words. I dinna want those thoughts lingering in yer head, gnawing at ye. Yer father's indifference... it was never about ye."

Her expression hardened slightly, his words—this man's opinion—being about as significant as an unsharpened blade. "How can ye say that? Or rather, why do ye continue to imagine that ye ken me at all?"

Austin turned his head on the pillow of hay, facing her.

Fiona shifted her gaze now to the roof.

"I have my own sire, and had brothers older than I," he answered. "I ken the dynamic of that. It's nae about being enough, Fiona. Yer father's indifference was his own failing, not yers. People, even those we look up to, have their own blind spots and shortcomings. Sometimes, they canna see the worth in what's right in front of them."

Happily, he could not see her roll her eyes. As if his opinion mattered at all. As if his own upbringing could be compared to hers. The very idea that he believed he had figured out her family dynamic irked her to no end. She held her silence, unwilling to indulge him with a response.

Though she grudgingly allowed a wee credit for his apology, it didn't soften her resolve. She was not about to let this man, this Merrick, think he had any profound insights into her life. His words, meant to soothe, only felt like another attempt to prove he was more clever, more perceptive, superior.

But there was a part of her, a very small part, that couldn't entirely dismiss his words. Maybe, just maybe, there was a grain of truth in what he said. Yet, she wouldn't give him the satisfaction of knowing she considered it, even for a moment.

"I dinna need ye to analyze my life," she finally said, her voice low and firm. "I've survived this long without yer theories and guidance, and I'll continue to do so."

Austin sighed, the sound barely audible in the dark. "Fair enough, Fiona. I just wanted ye to ken that sometimes... people fail us. It doesn't mean we failed them."

His words lingered in the air between them, but she remained silent, turning away slightly to signal the end of the conversation. She didn't want to admit it, but his apology, flawed as it was, had pricked some softening inside her, something she'd buried deep. For now, she'd let it lie. The night was long, and there would be time enough to confront those thoughts, but not here, not now, and not with him.

Above and beyond the content of his dubious apology was how he'd begun it.

To be serious now, he'd said.

And that, coming on the heels of his unnerving and devouring stare and his tantalizing query— do ye nae like to misconduct yerself with a man who finds ye breathtaking?—suggested that neither of those things had been enacted sincerely, brought more relief than his opinion on the matter of her sire and his failings.

Austin Merrick was an unrepentant flirt mayhap, a true rogue apparently, so blithe in his manner regarding seduction or whatever that had been that he didn't even take himself too seriously.

It was all a game to him.

There was no depth to the man, she was reminded, and felt all the better for it, gladdened that she realized his insincerity, more pleased that she hadn't made a fool of herself, that she'd patently ignored the response of her traitorous body.

Sadly, sleep, when it came, was not as peaceful as she had expected.

SHE TOSSED AND TURNED all night, oddly more so than she had either in the dungeon or within the transport wagon, when they'd still been captives. The chains clinking with each of her movements sometimes jolted him from sleep. He'd have liked to slide his arm under her head and shoulders and draw her toward him, but the exasperating shackles would not allow for such a position. Austin settled for turning onto his side as she had done and stroking the hair away from her face, his touch whisper soft. He moved himself closer, his want to share his warmth with her as strong as his desire to be near to her.

He trailed his hand over her shoulder and down her arm, pausing when she murmured in her sleep and shifted her hand between them, settling it upon his chest, bringing the extra cuff and bracket with her. Sorrowfully, he imagined it was that there was nowhere else to put her hand, and not any sleepy desire that made her touch him. When she was still again, he grazed his hand further, along the indent of her waist and up along the luscious curve of her hip, where it came to rest. Lightly, he gripped the fabric of her breeches and held on.

A knot of desire twisted in his groin, enlivened by the soft sigh that was breathed through her lips.

When finally she seemed to settle, Austin closed his eyes.

He woke next at the slow creaking of the barn door, coming awake stiffly at the same time Fiona did.

The morning was yet a dreary gray, its fog seeping into the barn, when Ewan's whispered voice came to them, bidding them to wake and move quickly.

"I kent we better get going before the sun rises," he said as Austin and Fiona hastily got to their feet.

Ewan waved them toward the door and through it.

The entire village was gray in the hour before sunrise, the fog heavy and unmoving, but welcome for the cover it provided.

"I alerted Edgar last night ere I retired that we'd be coming before the sunrise," Ewan said as they dashed furtively from the barn and across the cabbage fields toward the row of cottages.

Fiona grasped at the clinking chain as they moved, the one between their hands, and Austin took her hand in his. Against her middle she hugged the spare cuff and anchor with her other hand as they moved,

Edgar's smithy shed stood behind his cottage, a sturdy structure of stone and timber. Austin ducked his head and entered first, not without a hint of suspicion despite the undisturbed night they'd spent in the tithe barn. He pulled Fiona in behind him when nothing untoward jumped out at them.

The roof, thatched with straw, sagged slightly in the middle, and the walls were blackened with years of soot. The scent of iron and coal hung thick in the air. The shed was dimly lit by glowing embers in a small forge, casting a reddish glow over the various tools and weapons hanging from the walls, the latter of which Austin eyed with speculation. An anvil stood in the center, surrounded by hammers, tongs, and bellows. The floor was strewn with straw and ash, and a large wooden workbench, cluttered with metal scraps and half-finished projects, occupied one corner.

Ewan announced their presence to the man standing at the workbench, his back to the door, "Edgar," he called softly. "We've come—the patriots."

A young man in his late twenties turned around, garbed in a leather apron. He was tall and muscular, with a broad chest and arms well-toned from years of smithing—broad enough that his figure had concealed the fact that a woman stood beyond him.

The pair faced Austin and Fiona.

The two couples eyed each other for a moment, silent, their four gazes probing. Austin received naught but a cursory glance, as the attention of the couple fixed on Fiona.

She was remarkable, of course, and would seem so to many, Austin assumed, to those who'd never encountered a female fighter. Stunning beauty aside, she exuded an enviable fierceness, so much of it noted in the brightness of her green eyes.

"Morning," the smithy greeted them belatedly in a low voice, nodding to Austin.

"Aye, and to ye," he returned. "We appreciate yer willingness to help."

"Ewan says ye've a wound that needs to be closed," the smithy said and waved them forward.

As Edgar indicated that Austin should sit on a short three-legged stool near his workbench, announcing he would seal the wound first, Austin's eyes quickly scanned the room until they landed on a long smithing iron resting near the forge. He watched as Edgar grabbed its wooden handle, inserting the flat iron end into the burning coals inside the forge. Austin swallowed thickly, knowing the pain of this might be as great as he'd ever known.

While the iron heated, Austin remained standing, drawing in a large breath before noticing that Fiona's gaze lingered on the smithy's wife as she stood at his side. His brow furrowing, he thought he sensed a flicker of envy in Fiona's eyes.

Austin marveled at this, and gave a quick perusal to the woman, wondering what had garnered so much of Fiona's attention. The smithy's wife was bonny, with porcelain skin, her chin narrow and pointed, her face shaped as a heart. Though not dressed grandly by any means, her léine, which despite its worn condition might have once been fine and possibly rich in color and not this drab olive, was clean and showed signs of having been repaired many times. The woman was soft and small, overwhelmed by a halo of shimmering blonde hair, owning blue eyes too big for her face. She appeared, to Austin, timid and insipid, a watery version of Fiona's vibrant countenance.

Aye, she was attractive, right bonny indeed. But she was nae Fiona, lacking the most striking element that Fiona possessed, a fire in her gaze.

While Fiona stole repeated glances at the young woman who hovered near her husband, Austin frowned with conjecture, his mind churning, searching for the cause of Fiona's unexpected absorption with the pale woman.

It crashed upon him rather suddenly and not without a great internal snicker of disbelief.

Did Fiona's fascination with the woman stem from her practical need to don breeches and lead an army? Did she—or did she imagine—that she'd sacrificed her own femininity for the cause? Was this something she struggled with often, the sight of a woman unburdened by war igniting a longing in her?

While Austin scoffed at the very idea, he could not deny the evidence before him, how many times Fiona cast her gaze at the woman, not only at her petite face and shiny hair but at her léine and, he was certain, at the soft hands the woman worried in the folds of her skirt.

Did she yearn for the simple grace of a woman's life, unencumbered by the harsh demands of battle?

Frankly, he was stunned by how much the very idea troubled him. It hadn't occurred to him before that Fiona might feel any less appealing for her lack of traditional feminine garb.

To him, she was undeniably desirable. Her strength and determination only added to her allure. The fire in her eyes, the way she stood tall and unyielding even in the face of astonishing adversity—these were the things that drew him to her. The dirt and grime, the breeches and battle scars, they were all part of the warrior she had become. But now, seeing that flicker of longing in her eyes, he realized there was more to her than just the fierce leader. There was a woman beneath the armor, a woman who might miss the simple joys of femininity.

Nonplussed by this idea, as it was utterly new to him, Austin contemplated Fiona, whose attention was now focused on the smithy, having donned thick leather gloves. Several blades of straw clung to her disheveled hair. Austin plucked one and then another away, dropping them to the floor of the shed.

He didn't draw the straw from her hair to make her more presentable in front of the woman who was, but with some intention to advise Fiona that he was looking at her and focused on her. When she lifted her green eyes to him, Austin purposefully held her gaze, his own probing and purposefully intense.

She really does nae have any idea, he mused, that indeed she was magnificent.

"Sit, please," Edgar advised. "And, miss, if ye would, remove the bandage."

Fiona nodded while Austin sat, bracing his feet in front of him. By now, he was accustomed to having to move his hand to accommodate Fiona's motions. She made quick work removing the linen she'd wrapped around his arm last night. Austin grimaced at the amount of blood drenching the fabric as Fiona dropped it to the floor. Almost every inch of the linen was soaked through with crimson. Cauterization was indeed necessary.

Her small task complete, Fiona moved to stand directly in front of Austin, her chest at eye-level.

Wearing heavy leather gloves now, Edgar paused before removing the cautery iron from the embers.

He cleared his throat and suggested, "It...um, might serve ye better....lass, do ye mind sitting on his lap? Simply to keep him still, ye ken?" He was quick to clarify.

Though mildly amused by the man's flustered speech, Austin was more interested in Fionas' reaction. He actually smirked, wondering if she would commit to such an audacious suggestion.

The grin proved to be as powerful as a gauntlet. Fiona scowled at him, perhaps for daring to imagine she was not up to the challenge, and promptly, as bold as you please, straddled his thighs. Several pounds of iron and two of their hands sat between them.

Austin's grin widened with untimely delight.

Fiona quickly put him in his place. "I dinna ken ye'll be smiling in another minute."

Reminded of what was to come, Austin's smile vanished instantly.

Fiona further surprised him by taking his face in her small hands. "Look at me," she instructed, her voice steady as a chief. "Dinna scream. Nae matter what, ye canna scream."

His heart raced but he nodded, his gaze locking with hers. With his free hand, he clutched at the back of her tunic, anchoring himself to her.

When the red-hot poker seared against his skin, he felt a surge of agony rip through him, threatening to tear a scream from his throat. He clenched his teeth, fighting to contain the primal urge to howl in anguish.

"Nae!" Edgar's hiss sliced through the air like a blade. "Hush!" His command was sharp, but Austin hadn't yet succumbed to the torment with a sound.

Austin's mouth was open, his teeth bared, a monstrous scream stuck at the back of his throat. His entire body vibrated with the effort to hold back the primal roar building within him. Fiona's eyes widened, whether in horror at his torment or fear of discovery if he howled, he couldn't tell.

Desperation etched her features as she bent forward, her lips meeting his in an anxious attempt to stifle any outcry. He stiffened at her touch, the agony of the cauterization temporarily forgotten amidst the shock of her unexpected kiss. As her lips pressed against his, he felt a surge of warmth course through him, the pain and shock suddenly negligent in the heat of the moment. He became acutely aware of her presence, of every place where their bodies touched, of the brush of her fingers against the skin of his neck.

Instinct and desire surged within him, propelling him to respond to her kiss. But just as he moved to deepen the kiss, Fiona pulled away, her sudden retreat jolting him back to reality.

Simultaneously, Edgar removed the hot iron from his burnt flesh, the searing pain of the cauterization flooding back with renewed intensity. Gasping for breath, he watched as Fiona withdrew from him, her eyes wide with a mix of surprise and uncertainty.

Nae! he pleaded internally. Do it again, the hot iron and the kiss!

Austin's face was still contorted in agony, his features twisted with pain, but as their eyes met, a flicker of something else passed between them, confusion underscored by awareness.

Fiona gulped down a swallow, her green eyes intense and mere inches from his.

An internal smile tugged at him. His brave, beautiful Fiona.

Edgar's voice broke the spell cast over them.

"Let's get those shackles off ye."

Her cheeks pinkening, Fiona dipped her gaze and awkwardly removed herself from his lap, staring at the waiting Edgar at his workbench and not at Austin.

He saw stars, he was sure, but couldn't say if the unexpected kiss or the red-hot iron had manufactured them. Rising he moved with Fiona to the workbench, where Edgar arranged Austin's shackled wrist first upon the anvil.

Edgar set to work, carefully employing a hammer and chisel, tapping with precise, controlled force to avoid injuring them. The sound of metal striking metal reverberated through the forge, but the blacksmith's skilled hands worked quickly.

Intrigued not by the promise of release from their chains, but by Fiona's wholly astonishing kiss, Austin studied her intently, and quite frankly, through a new and appreciative lens.

Fiona's gaze flickered on and off him, her cheeks growing redder by the second.

Austin continued to stare at her, still under a cloud of bewilderment for the very unconventional method she'd employed to quiet him. He wasn't arguing against it—oh nae!—but rather found himself wishing he had other profusely bleeding wounds that required cauterization.

With a last, decisive blow, the shackles fell away from Austin's wrist and Fiona's replaced his on the anvil. She gave all her attention to Edgar's work and none to Austin now.

Fiona's wrist was liberated in short order and then the spare cuff and bracket were finally removed from Fiona's other wrist.

She rubbed her sore and chafed wrist, relief brightening her expression.

She turned a broad and bonny smile of clear relief upon him.

"We are free."