The Rose and The Warrior Read Online Free Page A

his head. There was nothing more they could do this evening except get some sleep. Eric stared at him in frustration, then finally lay back and closed his eyes. Roarke adjusted his position on his stomach, contemplating their situation.
    Whatever the intentions of this ludicrous assemblage of outlaws, Roarke felt relatively certain that they did not plan to kill him and his men—at least not on purpose. They probably intended to keep him and his men prisoners for the night, then strip them of their belongings and send them limping back to their holding in the morning like the disgraced MacTiers before them.
    Roarke did not intend to let that happen.
    At the first opportunity he would overwhelm one of his captors and demand that the others release his men. Then he would take the whole damn lot of them prisoner and escort them back to Laird MacTier.
    His orders had been to crush the band and return with only the Falcon, but Roarke did not relish the idea of killing these men. Poor Lewis was little more than a stripling, and quivery old Magnus was far too ancient to merit slaying. Finlay was rough and brash, but these were qualities Roarke admired in a young warrior, so he hated to snuff them out. As for Colin, he was a hotheaded fool, and Roarke would cheerfully skewer him with his sword, if not for the fact that Colin was so fiercely protective of Melantha. It was clear the lad was in love with her. Roarke turned his head to study her, wondering if she could actually be interested in such a callow, posturing boy.
    She lay facing the fire, one arm pillowing her head, the other clutching her sword. Her ale-colored hair rippled over her in a tangled cape, and Roarke found himself imagining what it would be like to touch something so silky and fine. Firelight played across her skin, highlighting the chiseled contour of her cheek, the elegant curve of her nose, the feathery sweep of lashes against her eyes. She seemed impossibly vulnerable as she lay there, like a child who had fallen asleep and needed to be carried to bed.
    How had this strange girl forged such a formidable reputation as the Falcon, who was renowned for his clever and daring feats as he preyed upon those who crossed his path? Roarke thought of her galloping toward him through the woods, her sword raised high as she battled an opponent nearly twice her size. The courage she had demonstrated in that moment was impressive. Impressive and appallingly stupid. He had nearly lopped off her head.
    He shoved the thought from his mind and continued to study her. What had driven her to dally in such a dangerous game? Simple greed, or perhaps boredom? He recalled the intensity of her gaze when she learned he and his men were MacTiers. A terrible fury had shadowed those green-and-amber eyes, a bitter loathing that went far beyond mere contempt.
    Whatever her motivation for stealing, this was not a girl who was merely in search of pretty baubles for sport.
    A small moan escaped her lips. Roarke watched in fascination as her grip on her sword tightened and her jaw clenched.
    â€œ ’Tis all right, lass,” said Magnus, his voice low and soothing. “Ye’ve naught to fear, Melantha, everyone is safe. Go back to sleep.”
    She did not waken, but hesitated, evaluating his words.
    And then she sighed and curled her head protectively in toward her body, her thin hand still clutching the battered hilt of her sword.

C HAPTER 2

    Roarke wakened with a filthy curse.
    â€œHere, now, there’s no cause for foul language,” scolded Magnus. “If my fair Edwina were here, she’d make ye hold soap in yer mouth till ye vowed never to speak so again. And I warn ye, she’d not be swayed by yer uncommon size or the black look yer givin’ me now,” he added, chuckling.
    â€œAre you sure you didn’t get confused last night and stitch the head of that bloody arrow into me?” growled Roarke irritably.
    Magnus proudly held up the arrow he had