Of Gifts and the Goddess

Chapter 5

5

With her arms free and buried in Brave’s fur, she felt a moment of stillness, as she always did when touching one of the animals she cared for. Brave, too, relaxed against her, glad he wasn’t being scolded for not staying put. The smell of the roasted rabbit got the better of him, and he moved his nose closer to the cloth lying on the ground. Anne felt his need, picked up the stringy meat, and fed it to Brave. She was so relieved that none of them were hurt in the capture that she forgot to watch for the man. It wasn’t until Brave had swallowed his fourth piece of meat that a shadow blocked out the light from the fire. Brave was licking the juices from Anne’s fingers as her eyes traveled from the ground up the full height of Duncan O’Connor.

His boots were of soft leather, looking worn and comfortable, protecting his legs up to his knees. His breeches encased his thighs, which were rather large, Anne noticed. Her eyes continued their journey, taking in his belt, pouch, and sword around his waist, up to the wall of his chest that had felt heavenly for that brief moment when his arm had wrapped around her in the darkened forest and pressed her back up against him. The broad shoulders gave way to a muscular neck, a square jaw covered in several days’ growth of beard, full lips, a straight nose, wide set gray eyes fringed by dark lashes underneath dark slashes of brows, up to a wide, creased forehead, and finally to the thick inkiness of his hair that fell around his face and disappeared behind his back. She dragged her eyes back to the crease in his forehead, then down to the brows that had drawn together. When she reached his eyes, there was a heat there she hadn’t noticed earlier.

“The meat is for you, not… Brave.”

“I have always fed him.”

“He carries more weight than you. Seems you take care of him more than yourself,” he said accusingly.

“It is my fate to care for those around me. Especially Brave and Friend.”

“Friend?”

Anne cast her eyes to where their ponies were tethered. Friend, being an Alpha female, had pushed away the other horses so she had the clump of grass at the base of the tree all to herself.

Duncan followed her line of sight and saw the Buckskin mare. She was taller than the other mountain horses with dark legs, mane and tail, and a honey-colored body with heavy bones and a pretty face. The McClearys rode without saddles, so the only mark on Friend’s back was where Anne’s thighs had clamped. Duncan glanced back at Anne’s legs encased in leather breeches and thought about them clamped around his waist…

Where had that thought come from? She was a McCleary, his sworn enemy since the murder of his brother. That thought brought back the heat of his anger, tinged with something else. Something he didn’t recognize.

“Why do you feed Brave?” Duncan asked.

“Because he cannot hunt for himself.”

“Why can he not hunt for himself?”

“Because he is lame.”

“Why is he lame?”

“Because he was injured.”

Duncan felt like he was pulling information from her. She would offer nothing besides the most basic answer to his questions. He was used to verbal sparring with his tutors when he was younger and often winning a discussion or offering a point of view they had not considered. Arguing with his brother rarely had brought him any satisfaction, as Seamus seldom had the ability to articulate his frustrations of not having his way. Duncan had not often conversed with his father, who had become silent and sullen after the death of his mother.

Duncan growled with frustration. “How did he become injured?”

Anne didn’t answer.

“Please,” Duncan said in a softened voice. He knew he had to change his tactics if he was to get any information from Anne.

“He was inside a hut when it was set afire. He tried to wake up a child inside the hut. His person. The child was dead.” Anne had a faraway look in her eyes, as if she looked into the past.

“Did you rescue him from a hut your clan had set fire to?” Duncan tried to keep the anger out of his voice, but failed.

Anne glanced up at him, reliving the morning five years earlier.

She found the dog fiercely guarding a dead child. The charred remains of the small structure had collapsed on him, permanently injuring his hind leg and burning the hair and skin from his back and hips. She remembered reaching for him in the blackened rubble, and the dog snarling at her out of pain and loss. It had taken her several minutes to soothe the dog’s fears. As she wrapped her hands around the pup, he only whimpered in pain. She used her soft voice to reassure him that she meant no harm, tucked him under her cloak, and hurried to the forest clearing where she was to meet Stephen. She had done what she could to heal him. Most of his hair had grown back, but he remained unable to move quick enough to catch rabbits. Her tutoring of medicinal herbs was cut short when most of her clan, including Elyse, their healer, was killed that day.

The loss and betrayal from the battle burned in her gut and showed in her eyes as she answered, “Nay. Yours.”