Free Highland Master by Amanda Scott Page B

“I need to watch Boreas, so I can command him if need be.”
    She was pleased when he did not question her or ignore her request as many men would have. He just shifted his left hand to her right shoulder and eased past her, pressing into what, on him, was waist-high shrubbery.
    His body brushed against hers, so near that he pressed the sheathed dirk she wore under her skirt into her hip and thigh. Only after he had moved ahead did she see that he had drawn his own dirk. His sword remained in its sling.
    Boreas blocked the path, his head still high.
    Snapping her fingers twice, Catriona watched the dog shift body and head until both aligned with the direction of the disturbing scent.
    When Fin glanced back at her, lifting an eyebrow, she murmured, “Whatever he senses is directly ahead of him.”
    “Man or beast?”
    “I cannot say for sure, but human, I think. Were it a wolf or a deer, he would show excitement rather than wariness. He looks much as he did yestermorn, with you, although he showed more intensity then because of the blood. Likely one man, or more, lurks ahead. Were they in the open, fishing or the like, Boreas would not be so wary. His behavior indicates that he is curious but also protective.”
    “So he does not trust me to protect you. Is that it?”
    “He is not thinking about
you
, only of what lies ahead of him, and of me.”
    “Then we’d best find out what it is,” Fin said.
    As she watched him stride toward the dog, Catriona reached through the right-hand fitchet in her kirtle to grip the handle of her dirk. Their apples, in a small cloth sack with its long end wrapped around her linked girdle, were out of her way.
    Boreas had not moved. But as Fin neared him, Catriona put two fingers to her mouth and gave a low whistle. At the signal, the dog began loping up the hill, ranging back and forth and barking deeply.
    If archers lay in wait there, they might shoot. But the weaving dog made a poor target for any man concealed in woodland or shrubbery.
    Fin made a better one.
    She was about to shout that he should beware when a man stepped out of the shrubbery. Pulling off his cap to reveal thick, curly red hair, he shouted, “Call off yon blasted dog, lass! ’Tis only me!”

Chapter 5
     
    F in glanced back at Catriona, who looked annoyed.
    When she eased her hand free of the slit in the yellow kirtle, he wondered if she carried a weapon. He had not considered that possibility, but it would help explain her confidence the previous day when she’d had only Boreas for company.
    She did not speak as they watched the redheaded man bound down the hill toward them, leaping over bushes as he made his way to the track.
    “Who is that?” Fin asked.
    “Rory Comyn,” she replied, her eyes never leaving the other man. “Boreas,” she said then so quietly that Fin barely heard her, “to me.”
    The dog loped back. Just before it reached her, she made a sweeping gesture with her right hand. Stopping, the dog turned, fixing its gaze on Rory Comyn.
    “Stop there,” Fin said when the man reached the track ten feet ahead of him.
    Comyn snatched his sword from the sling on his back and held it at the ready, snapping, “Who
are
ye, and where d’ye think ye be taking her ladyship?”
    Fin watched every move but did not reach for his ownsword and held his dirk low. A fold of his plaid hid it from the other man.
    Comyn was some inches shorter than Fin was, although he was as broad across the shoulders and thicker at the waist. He wore a green and blue plaid, kilted at his waist with a wide leather belt, and rawhide boots to his knees. He held his sword steady. His dirk remained sheathed at his waist.
    In reply to his question, Fin said quietly, “They call me ‘Fin of the Battles.’ ”
    Comyn’s eyebrows shot upward, suggesting that he recognized the name. But he said with a cocky grin, “Do they now? Do they also give ye leave to take liberties with other men’s women?”
    “I am
no
man’s