Free Heart's Thief (Highland Bodyguards, Book 2) by Emma Prince

his sword, which was strapped to the outside of one of the bags, and belted it around his waist. Though he would have liked to check the blade to make sure no moisture had gotten into the sheath, he imagined that doing so would only send the lass into a panic again.
    At last he turned to her, a scrap of his MacKay plaid in his hands. Crouching, he looped the strip of plaid over her injured shoulder and under her arm. As he tied off the sling, she watched him as a doe watches a wolf.
    Though he didn’t seek to terrorize her, it was good that she remembered their roles—they were enemies, and she was now his captive.
    He lifted her by her good elbow from the forest floor, then shook out his cloak, which had served as her bedroll.
    Wrapping his hands around her waist, he lifted her onto the saddle. As she settled herself, he spun his cloak around his shoulders despite its dampness.
    Damn . The material smelled of wet wool and ferns and soil, but also something soft and feminine. Was that the scent of the lass’s hair?
    “My name truly is Sabine, by the way.”
    He stilled at her quietly spoken words.
    “Sabine what?”
    Her good hand rose to her collarbone, where the thin chain around her neck disappeared into her bodice. “Just Sabine. I don’t have any other name.”
    He forced his mouth into a wolfish smile, making his eyes go hard for what he had to do next. “I am Colin MacKay. Pleasure to meet ye.”
    Just as the corners of her rosy mouth began to relax, he produced a short length of rope and began binding her good wrist to the saddle’s pommel.
    “What are you doing?” she gasped.
    “As I said, I cannae have ye attempting to slip away again,” he replied flatly.
    Outrage flared in her gaze, but she clamped her lips shut.
    Colin hoisted himself into the saddle behind her, his thighs sliding around hers and her bottom fitting snugly against his groin. That soft, feminine scent wafted to his nostrils again. Aye, it was definitely drifting from Sabine’s sable hair.
    It would take him a fortnight to reach Ireland, deliver his missive, and return to Lochmaben where he could hand Sabine over for the King’s judgement.
    Only a fortnight, he told himself as he spurred Ruith forward. He could get through one fortnight.

Chapter Nine
     
     
     
    Fabian carefully slipped another folded missive into one of the many stacks covering his desk.
    That particular pile was to be delivered to the Earl of Arundel. They contained quite lurid details about one of Arundel’s rival earls—something about a young male lover, as Fabian recalled overhearing.
    Arundel would no doubt use the letters to blackmail his rival. Fabian smiled to himself. There was something pure about the transaction. Arundel paid Fabian. Fabian produced the missives. Then the Earl’s rival paid Arundel. It was almost quaint in its simplicity.
    Of course, not all of Fabian’s dealings were quite so straightforward. This was the modern era, after all. Not everything could be solved by simply stealing a missive and selling its contents. Nay, these days, it was all so terribly complicated.
    Fabian pinched the bridge of his nose. Now not only did he have to maintain his network of pickpockets and missive lifters, but he also had to juggle the ones who dealt purely in information. Not every situation could be solved by stealing a letter, which meant that he had to train his underlings to read, to open missives while making sure the seal was unbroken, and to be able to memorize and report back to him.
    He looked across the sea of parchment before him. Even in these advanced times, he supposed he still fundamentally dealt in the simple reality of paper. He kept careful records of every favor owed him, every balance unmet, every promise whispered in gratitude or in fear.
    Hopefully with Robert the Bruce stationed in Lochmaben for the foreseeable future, he wouldn’t have to leave this convenient base of operations not far outside of Carlisle. It was always such