“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
Fin 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 own sword 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 woman,” Catriona snapped from behind Fin.
“Aye, well, ye will be mine, lass, just as soon as we get matters sorted.”
“Nay, I will not.”
“Just ye wait until James and your father return, lassie. Then we’ll see.”
Having noted that Comyn had addressed them both as if they were inferiors, Fin said, “You would be wise to address her ladyship more courteously, sirrah.”
“I’ll address her as I please,” Comyn said, spreading his feet and extending his sword toward Fin. “Or d’ye think ye can make me speak doucely?”
“I think you had better not try me,” Fin said.
“Sakes, I’ve heard of ye, but now that I see ye, I’m thinking someone has already tried to teach ye your manners. It doesna look as if ye bested him.”
The smirk on his face spoke volumes. Fin hoped that if Catriona deduced the same thing from it that he did—that Comyn had shot the arrow himself or had ordered someone else to shoot it—she would keep silent.
It was always wiser, he believed, to let an enemy think that you knew less than he did until the time came to reveal his error. He suspected nonetheless that Comyn was the sort who always pretended to know more than he did.
Catriona remained quiet, and Fin held his tongue, too, to see what Comyn would say or do next. For a time, tense silence prevailed.
Comyn took two steps forward.
Then, from behind Fin, came a disturbance of pebbles and a low growl.
Catriona said, “How many men did you bring with you, Rory Comyn? Are they such cowards that they dare not show