The Raven's Moon by Susan King Read Free Book Online

say the moon is green cheese." He eyed the unconscious reiver critically. "A rope may do for now, but when he comes around—"
    "He will have our necks when he finds out who we are," Mairi said. Christie nodded, his blue eyes wide. She folded the damp paper and tucked it inside her doublet. "Why would the king's council send a kinsman of Alec Scott to be a deputy here? I do not understand any of it."
    "My kinsmen say the Scottish council is desperate for Border officers. There are so many feuds and ties of kinship and so much reiving done that the council cannot find many honest men, so they appoint whoever is willing to act as warden or deputy. I would not be a warden, myself. The pay is dreadful."
    "And so are the risks. For now, we must keep this Rowan Scott here until he heals." She looked down at the handsome head resting in her lap. "Help me take his jack off. Easy, lad. Gentle now, watch his head." Carefully she and Christie removed the vest and the damp doublet and shirt beneath.
    "Give us your own shirt, now, Devil's Christie," she said with a quick, sweet smile as she held out a hand.
    "Ah, Mairi," Christie moaned.
    "Would you have him die of the chill? I will not be accused of murder, even of a Scott."
    Christie muttered but took off his doublet and shirt, tossing it to her. He dressed in the doublet, shoving back his long blond hair, which fell sleekly over his shoulders.
    Mairi pulled the warm linen folds over Rowan Scott's head and lifted his heavy, limp arms into the sleeves. Then she tucked her cloak up to his chin.
    "He will not have my breeks," Christie said.
    "He will not," she agreed. "Give me your nether stockings."
    With a low growl, Christie sat and pulled off his boots, threw his knitted hose at her, and yanked his boots back on.
    "My thanks," she said, as she and Christie drew the body-warmed hose over Scott's bare feet. "Go, now, to Jennet's house, and bring back whatever she will spare."
    Christie stood. "Perhaps I should stay here while you ride out. I can fight him off if he wakes."
    "He will not be fighting anyone soon," she said. "Go charm your sister—or see her temper if she learns why we want the supplies. Tell her how beautiful her new son is."
    "Easy task," Christie said, smiling. "He's a fine laddie. Jennet says he looks like me when I was wee."
    "Hurry then. I'll be safe here. This one will dream for a while yet. We'll tie his hands and feet before he ever wakes."
    Christie nodded and left, closing the door behind him. She heard his footsteps scrape up the steps and fade. After that she heard only the muffled, steady rainfall.
    Mairi looked down at the man stretched out on the stone floor, his head and shoulders resting against her thigh. Leaning back and shifting her hips to get comfortable, she watched him in the flickering light of the candle flame.
    His features were lean and well-balanced, a blend of strength and softness, the jaw and chin firmly angled, the nose bold, the brow high and smooth. A delicate curve to his upper lip lent a vulnerability to such masculine features. He had, in short, a strong, interesting beauty.
    Mairi could imagine stubbornness, temper, pride, intelligence in his supposedly notorious character. But she could sense hurt in his features too. Kindness as well, somehow—or perhaps she imagined that. Wanted that to be there, in such a fine looking man. A pity that he was a Scott, after all, and a man who might be out to ruin Iain.
    Scanning the long, firm length of his body, she recalled the strong athletic grace he had when he had swung his sword in the bog. If not for the mud and the rain, and the lucky, wild swing of her pistol, she and Christie would be dead now.
    Instead, he lay like a babe in her arms. She touched his cool cheek, feeling the rasp of his beard.
    He breathed out a low groan.
    Startled, she gasped, then relaxed. She gently touched his head, his damp curls like soft threads of black silk.
    A Scott, and yet, for all the ill feeling she could