“To see how he’s doing … and to check on my horse.” She tossed her head defiantly and her hood blew off. Untamed raven black hair caught in the breeze.
She was lying. No doubt she was plotting with her lover. Hagan’s fingers curled over the reins. “Mayhap you would like to go riding.”
She glanced up at him sharply, to see if he was playing with her, but she saw no mockery in his gaze. His jaw was set harshly and his lips were blade-thin, but it seemed as if his offer was genuine. Her silly heart skipped a beat.
“I would love it, m’lord,” she said, her spirits soaring. She’d not ridden since her flight away from Prydd upon McBannon, and the thought of feeling the wind stream through her hair as a horse raced beneath her was too tempting to turn down. True, she’d come to the stables hoping to find Bjorn, to make him the offer of escape, but that could wait. Would it not be better to ride outside the castle gates, to see for herself the lay of the land, search the forests and hills and roads of Erbyn with her own eyes? She had traveled from Prydd on the main road, but if she and Leah and Bjorn were to escape, they would have to use other routes to avoid capture.
Muttering under his breath, Roy lumbered back to the stables, and within a few minutes, he returned with McBannon. The powerful horse was tugging on the lead, prancing and snorting, trying to rear.
Roy jerked hard on the reins, then danced quickly to escape a sharp kick. “Stop it,” he commanded the horse, then muttered, “Bloody devil.”
Bjorn, who was able to do some of the lighter chores, appeared in the doorway, and when his gaze touched hers, Sorcha couldn’t help but smile. “You are healing well,” she said as she took the reins from Roy and the stable master gave McBannon wide berth.
“Aye.” Bjorn returned her grin and touched the knotted string that still hung from his neck. “Some say I have you to thank.”
Sorcha felt Hagan’s gaze heavy on her shoulders. “ ’Twas God’s will,” she said. “You should thank Him.”
“I will,” Bjorn replied, but his blue-green eyes were filled with jest, and without words he told her he wasn’t a believer in the Christian God.
“Get back to work,” Roy ordered, and Bjorn slanted the stable master a hard glance before turning and disappearing into the stables.
“Let’s be off.” Hagan’s voice was hard.
Sorcha needed no more urging; she climbed onto McBannon’s broad back and lifted the reins. The stallion’s dark ears pricked forward in anticipation. With mincing steps he followed Hagan’s steed to the gate. Nostrils flared, pulling at the bit, McBannon was anxious to stretch his legs.
She managed to hold him into a light trot until they were through the gates, but then, with the black horse in the lead, McBannon took the bit between his teeth and stretched out, his long legs eating up the steamy earth, his muscles stretching and bunching in a smooth rhythm.
Sorcha had the urge to laugh. She felt free and wild and lighthearted.
“This way!” Hagan called over his shoulder as his own horse was running full out, galloping along the road until the path forked. Without hesitation, Hagan yanked on the reins and headed through the forest. Sorcha followed his lead, watching as the play of sunlight filtered through the leafless trees and pooled on the cold ground, causing mist to rise. The air was fresh and the forest silent except for the labored breathing of the horses and the occasional chirp of a winter bird.
Hagan pulled on the reins and his horse slowed. McBannon, sweating and blowing hard, fought the bit but gradually fell into step beside Hagan’s charger.
“Where are we going?” she finally asked as the road split yet again and Hagan turned north.
“Someplace quiet.”
“That could be anywhere.”
“Aye, it matters not, as long as we are away from Erbyn.”
“Tired of castle life already, m’lord?” she said, unable to keep the teasing lilt from her voice. “Ready for yet another battle?”
“War is noisy as well,” he said, frowning. “And bloody. A waste.”
She was surprised. “I thought men enjoyed the battle.”
He offered her a half smile, one filled with a newfound wisdom. “Young men spoil for fights. They thirst for blood and lust for women.”
“But you do not?” she asked, lifting a mocking dark brow, for she knew how lusty this man was.
He snorted and shook his head. “I’ve seen enough bloodshed. Enough pain.”
“Enough women?”
His lips curved and his eyes glinted. “Women are trouble. Sometimes only one woman is more trouble than she is worth.”
“But men—they are worth much?” she taunted as the horses continued to pull at their bits, anxious to run yet again.