Beloved Stranger Read Online Free Page B

take the border reivers long to find whatever was valuable.
    To the poor, anything was of value.
    The moon was visible this night, though sometimes shaded by clouds drifting across the sky. The smoke had disappeared, but the acrid scent remained.
    Magnus picked his way through the dead, prancing nervously at the smell. He was well trained, but horses didn’t like the smell of blood, nor did they want to step on the dead.
    Kimbra had memorized landmarks. The place where the cart had stopped. Her own journey through the dead. Several of the bodies near the spot where she’d found the Scot were gone. They must have been of importance or they, too, would have remained here like so many others.
    Had her Scotsman been found? Or if he hadn’t, was he still alive?
    She dismounted and led the horse to the silent clump of trees. Below it was a stream she had not noticed the night before.
    She saw the outline of bodies down there as well.
    In the light of the moon, she found the place where she’d left the Scotsman. Kimbra knelt and brushed off the leaves and dirt.
    He moved and opened his eyes. He looked startled, then apprehensive as his gaze focused on her, on her clothes. He tried to sit up but fell back with a moan.
    A streak of emotion ran through Kimbra. He was alive!
    “’Tis only me,” she said. “The one who found you last eve. I left the water.”
    His face relaxed slightly. “You . . . came back.”
    “Aye. I said I would.”
    “Thirsty.”
    She glanced around him and found the flagon. It was empty. He would have to wait.
    “Later,” she said and put an arm under his shoulder. “Can you sit?”
    He didn’t answer, merely tried with her help to raise himself. A groan escaped his lips, yet she felt the determination in him. He fell back, then tried again.
    “I have a horse and a litter. But you have to help me,” she said to him. “I cannot get you on it myself.”
    With a grunt, he managed to heave himself to a sitting position, though she knew by his harsh breathing that every slight movement was agonizing. She handed him Will’s clothes. They would be too large for him, but they were certainly safer than the plaid and shirt he wore.
    She used her dagger to cut the plaid from his body.
    He held out his hand, stopping her.
    “I am English,” she said, careful of her speech. “My husband’s family is English. You must also be English. The plaid says otherwise.”
    He stared at her for a moment, then nodded.
    “Why?” he asked suddenly. “Why . . . are you doing this?”
    She couldn’t answer, because she wasn’t altogether sure herself. “Does it matter?”
    “Nay,” he said. “I am . . . grateful.”
    She continued to cut the cloth, even as she saw him struggle to stay in a sitting position. Each time he moved to try to assist her, pain flicked across his face. A low involuntary moan came from deep in his throat.
    “Who are you?” she asked as she continued to work.
    There was no answer.
    “Your name?” she said again, this time more sharply.
    She saw a bewildered look settle in his face. “I do not know, mistress. I canna remember. You said I was a Scot. I donna remember that, either.”
    Her heart sank. He was addled. How could she get a ransom or reward if she knew not who he was?
    He spoke well. His clothes, speech, and manner all bespoke of rank and nobility. But she would need his name.
    She remembered the jeweled crest that had fastened the plaid. Should she mention it? No, he would want it back. She surely deserved something for her trouble, and he was a noble. He probably had many such baubles in Scotland.
    She decided not to mention it for now.
    As for not remembering, he could be lying. But the confusion in his eyes belied that.
    She should leave him here and keep the crest. She knew she would not, though. In this field of death, one survived. Surely God had had a hand in that. There was also something vulnerable about him.
    She ignored his nakedness once the plaid and shirt was