The Rose and The Warrior by Karyn Monk Read Free Book Online Page B

courage runs thick as oatmeal in his veins, just as it did in yer father’s.”
    Melantha nodded.
    â€œWell, then, how about I clean that nasty nip on yer head?” he suggested brightly. “It seems to have stopped bleedin’, so I’m thinkin’ I can spare ye my stitches—though I’m happy to give ye a tuck or two if ye’d like.”
    â€œI’m fine, Magnus,” said Melantha, wholly uninterested in the state of her forehead.
    â€œYe’re not ridin’ home sportin’ a mess like that, or old MacKillon will have me hauled before the council demandin’ an explanation.” He dipped the frayed end of his plaid into the pouch of water Lewis deposited beside them. “First they’ll be wonderin’ why yer helmet wasn’t on yer head where it’s supposed to be.”
    Melantha winced as Magnus daubed at the dried blood. “I was hunting a deer. I only wear my helmet for raiding.”
    â€œSeems to me ye nearly bashed yer skull in, all the same,” Magnus observed. “Which suggests yer helmet should have been on yer head.”
    Melantha sighed. It was useless to argue. Ever since she had agreed to let Magnus be part of her band of thieves, the aged warrior had appointed himself Melantha’s guardian. Whether they were raiding sheep or attacking a party of unsuspecting travelers, Melantha could always be sure that Magnus was near, ready to fly to her rescue if he decided she needed him. Although often this resulted in his charging forward at inopportune moments, occasionally he actually did help her.
    His presence had certainly been beneficial when Roarke was about to cut her head off.
    â€œThere, now,” Magnus said, surveying his work with satisfaction. “If ye’re lucky, ye’ll not have a scar.”
    â€œI don’t care if it scars.”
    â€œNo, of course ye don’t.” Magnus chuckled, shaking his head. “That’s because ye’re too busy thinking of ways to rob MacTier to be concerned with yer own appearance. If yer father could see ye gallopin’ around the woods in leggings and chain mail, he’d be wonderin’ just what kind of wild lass he’d raised.”
    â€œHe’d be proud,” Lewis interjected loyally as he dropped an armful of grasses by Morvyn’s head. “Proud.”
    â€œWell, I suppose he might be at that,” allowed Magnus, his mouth curved in a reluctant smile. “There, now, ye’d best leave poor old Morvyn to rest and get some sleep yerself, lass. There’s naught more ye can do for him tonight.”
    â€œI have to keep wetting his bandage to keep the swelling down—but I’ll get some rest,” she promised quickly, seeing Magnus was about to argue.
    â€œSee that ye do. And eat somethin’,” he added sternly, “or I’ll open yer mouth and cram the food in for ye.” With that unlikely threat he went and stretched out by the fire.
    Roarke lay on his good side with his arms and legs bound, watching Melantha. Despite her assurances to Magnus, she did not eat. Instead she remained by her horse, crooning to him in a low, gentle voice as she squeezed cold water on his injured leg and tried to coax him to eat.
    The night deepened to a silver-flecked cape of black before she finally yielded to her weariness. Still, she did not find a place for herself beside the low flames of the fire. Instead she withdrew her sword and curled up beside Morvyn’s head, keeping one hand ready upon her weapon and the other lightly resting upon her horse’s neck.
    It was much later when Roarke finally spoke, sensing that she, like he, could not sleep. “Even if his leg is not broken, it is certain he is finished with riding,” he observed quietly.
    Silence stretched between them.
    â€œI know,” Melantha finally admitted, her voice barely a whisper.
    â€œThen why do you fight so hard to save him?”
    He