Free The Raven's Moon by Susan King Page A

they appeared again.
    He had not seen the girl lately, though he remembered her soft touch, her dulcet voice, her kindness. He had slept like a babe in her arms, that first night.
    And felt the fool for doing so. He should have wrung her pretty neck for putting him here, in this condition.
    He stood again, growing restless, prowling the chamber, running his fingers over the stone blocks that formed the walls. A means of escape was not yet clear, but he would find a way.
    Rattling the door ring in his hand, he yanked. Rust powdered into his hand, but the lock refused to give.
    "D'you want something?" The lad's reedy voice came to him through the thick oak of the old door.
    Hearing the door bar slide free and the latch rattle as the key was inserted, Rowan stepped back. When the door swung open, he saw Christie's head poking inside.
    "Are you well, Master Scott?" he asked. "Mairi would be angry wi' me if you took bad again."
    "I'm fine," Rowan said.
    Christie stepped inside, holding a silver-barreled gun in his hand. Rowan tilted a dubious brow at the weapon.
    "Pardon." Christie sounded embarrassed. "Mairi would not let me bind your limbs because you had such a crackpate. But I ken your reputation well."
    "Best be cautious," Rowan said easily. "You know of the Blackdrummond Scotts? Would I know your kin?"
    "They call me Devil's Christie. My Da was—"
    "You're Devil Davy Armstrong's lad!" Rowan grinned.
    Christie straightened proudly, and Rowan saw the resemblance to the lad's father in the long face and ash-blond hair. But Christie's blue eyes were his mother's. Rowan remembered that handsome redheaded lass fondly.
    "Devil Davy was a brave, fine man. I was sorry to hear of his death."
    "Kerrs took him down. My da was proud to ride wi' you and your kin, Blackdrummond. Said so to my mother, he did."
    "He'd be proud of you, lad," Rowan said. "You and the lass are riding bold, indeed, to go out on the highway as you did." He narrowed his eyes. "Do your kin ride wi' you and Mairi?"
    "Just us alone."
    "This Highland Mairi, is she your cousin?"
    "My sister is wed to Mairi's brother." Christie looked flustered, as if he realized that he had said too much.
    Rowan nodded slowly. He could easily overpower the lanky boy, but the weapon, an older matchlock style, was trained quite steadily on him. And Christie looked at him with almost reverence. Rowan respected that weapon and the lad's admiration. He might need that loyalty someday.
    "Put down the pistol, lad," he said. "I will not attack you. I assume this is an honorable confinement for ransom?"
    Christie shoved the gun into his belt. "Not, uh, quite."
    "Then why do you two ride the highway after dark?"
    "Christie, do not answer him," a lovely lilting voice said as the door shoved wide. Mairi entered the room.
    "Good afternoon." Rowan crossed his arms and leaned a shoulder against the wall. The girl wore a plain gown of blue-gray wool with a plaid over her shoulders—a change from the black doublet and hose she had worn before.
    Her gray eyes darted toward him and a pink blush stained her cheeks. He noticed her dark hair, braided loosely and slung over one shoulder, had a silky gloss. He wondered why that detail caught his attention. Pretty. Very pretty. Reason enough.
    "I will watch the prisoner now," she told Christie. "Go home to your sister. Reivers visited last night. Heckie's Bairns."
    Christie started. "Did they harm Jennet or—"
    "She's fine." Mairi gave him a little shove toward the door. "But they took gear and animals. They took your horse."
    "By hell! Sneakbait thieves!" the lad shouted, stomping out of the room and up the steps. "Those leeches will pay wi' their hides! That was Devil Davy Armstrong's horse!"
    "He sounds like his father," Rowan remarked as the furor faded.
    Mairi shut the door. "You knew Davy?"
    "I did. I recall his bairns too, a wee blond laddie and a redheaded girl. Jennet?" He smiled. "Is Jennet Armstrong the fine cook I should thank—or is that