from the men inside without any protest.
A trio moved with exaggerated sway of hip towards the dwelling, while the fourth dallied behind, her gait more hesitant. Something appeared familiar about her.
"Lord?" The young man got his attention. "I must ask if I may return to the keep. My wife is about to give birth our first babe and this…" he waved toward the empty field, "battle seems to be at a stall."
"Err," Conor tore his gaze from the woman who'd stopped outside the tent, the other whore s had gone into . She stood stifly, holding her hands over her mouth and nose while staring at two men carrying the newly bandaged clansman back to his own shelter. He looked at the youth before him . The lad looked to be no more than ten and four. " Did you say babe? How old are you?"
"I am soon to be twenty," the lad puffed out his chest. "Married almost two years now," he continued.
"Very well then," Conor scowled at the whore who followed after the injured man, instead of entering the tent. "Go see about your wife and babe. Tell Dugan to take you back when he leaves."
Alan bobbed his head, a wide smile splitting his face. "Thank you, my laird , thank you." He rushed off toward the tent Dugan and the women had entered.
Conor followed the fourth woman. Something struck him a s odd about her. Did the McNeil send a spy into the camp? If so, she was not very good, stood out right away.
He closed the distance between them, taking care not to make a sound. The oblivious woman peered into the tent where the men had deposited the wounded fighter. She toed a pebble as if in thought, and brushed her hair back from her face.
Conor’s brows lifted, and his mouth fell open. For an instant, he almost smiled, but then a heated rage raced through him. He stormed toward the woman. What the hell was she doing here?
Victoria peered into the tent, hoping the wounded male was not Conor. The man seemed a bit smaller than Conor , but surely there wasn't much to eat in the smelly place. The stench of sweat and rotting food was enough to curb anyone's appetite. The brightness of the day made it hard to make out the face of the man who groaned when the others placed him onto a rustic cot.
Maybe she could hide behind the tent, and once the men left, go inside to get a closer look. Victoria lifted her skirts, ready to take a step, when she was grabbed from behind and heaved upward. A brute threw her over his shoulder and dashed toward a tent, just opposite the one where possibly Conor lay hurt.
She kicked and pounded his back, not daring to cry out. She didn’t want to alert Conor, who could hurt himself further if he attempted to help her. When she slammed her elbow against the man’s side, the beast cursed . "Damn it, Victoria, stop hitting me."
"Conor?"
He did not reply. Perhaps she heard him wrong, could it be Conor that mishandled her in such a way? She hit him again.
With a swish of skirts, and limbs flailing she bounced onto a cot. "Don't you dare touch me, you cretin, I will alert The McDougall, who will have your head," Victoria informed her assailant, as she flung skirts aside to get a good look at her accoster .
Blue eyes blazed at her, his mouth in a tight line, a jaw muscle jerked. Conor's hand s fisted and loosened while he seemed to be waiting for something to happen. Victoria looked around the tent. They were alone and nothing in the shelter gave her cause to think of anything pending. The cot she sat upon was the only bed in the spacious shelter , so she contemplated this to be his alone .
She brushed her hair away from her made-up face, and wondered if her lip stain was smeared. "I must speak to you, it's very important."
Conor's mouth opened and closed, but no words came out. Instead he took a deep breath and squeezed his eyes shut.
"Are you all right?" Victoria leaned forward, not daring to move from the bunk. He didn't seem pleased at her presence.
"What are you doing here?" He opened his eyes and stared at her,
A trio moved with exaggerated sway of hip towards the dwelling, while the fourth dallied behind, her gait more hesitant. Something appeared familiar about her.
"Lord?" The young man got his attention. "I must ask if I may return to the keep. My wife is about to give birth our first babe and this…" he waved toward the empty field, "battle seems to be at a stall."
"Err," Conor tore his gaze from the woman who'd stopped outside the tent, the other whore s had gone into . She stood stifly, holding her hands over her mouth and nose while staring at two men carrying the newly bandaged clansman back to his own shelter. He looked at the youth before him . The lad looked to be no more than ten and four. " Did you say babe? How old are you?"
"I am soon to be twenty," the lad puffed out his chest. "Married almost two years now," he continued.
"Very well then," Conor scowled at the whore who followed after the injured man, instead of entering the tent. "Go see about your wife and babe. Tell Dugan to take you back when he leaves."
Alan bobbed his head, a wide smile splitting his face. "Thank you, my laird , thank you." He rushed off toward the tent Dugan and the women had entered.
Conor followed the fourth woman. Something struck him a s odd about her. Did the McNeil send a spy into the camp? If so, she was not very good, stood out right away.
He closed the distance between them, taking care not to make a sound. The oblivious woman peered into the tent where the men had deposited the wounded fighter. She toed a pebble as if in thought, and brushed her hair back from her face.
Conor’s brows lifted, and his mouth fell open. For an instant, he almost smiled, but then a heated rage raced through him. He stormed toward the woman. What the hell was she doing here?
Victoria peered into the tent, hoping the wounded male was not Conor. The man seemed a bit smaller than Conor , but surely there wasn't much to eat in the smelly place. The stench of sweat and rotting food was enough to curb anyone's appetite. The brightness of the day made it hard to make out the face of the man who groaned when the others placed him onto a rustic cot.
Maybe she could hide behind the tent, and once the men left, go inside to get a closer look. Victoria lifted her skirts, ready to take a step, when she was grabbed from behind and heaved upward. A brute threw her over his shoulder and dashed toward a tent, just opposite the one where possibly Conor lay hurt.
She kicked and pounded his back, not daring to cry out. She didn’t want to alert Conor, who could hurt himself further if he attempted to help her. When she slammed her elbow against the man’s side, the beast cursed . "Damn it, Victoria, stop hitting me."
"Conor?"
He did not reply. Perhaps she heard him wrong, could it be Conor that mishandled her in such a way? She hit him again.
With a swish of skirts, and limbs flailing she bounced onto a cot. "Don't you dare touch me, you cretin, I will alert The McDougall, who will have your head," Victoria informed her assailant, as she flung skirts aside to get a good look at her accoster .
Blue eyes blazed at her, his mouth in a tight line, a jaw muscle jerked. Conor's hand s fisted and loosened while he seemed to be waiting for something to happen. Victoria looked around the tent. They were alone and nothing in the shelter gave her cause to think of anything pending. The cot she sat upon was the only bed in the spacious shelter , so she contemplated this to be his alone .
She brushed her hair away from her made-up face, and wondered if her lip stain was smeared. "I must speak to you, it's very important."
Conor's mouth opened and closed, but no words came out. Instead he took a deep breath and squeezed his eyes shut.
"Are you all right?" Victoria leaned forward, not daring to move from the bunk. He didn't seem pleased at her presence.
"What are you doing here?" He opened his eyes and stared at her,
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