Page 66 of Promised to the Forbidden Laird

“Easy.” His voice was calm, trying not to challenge the animal or deepen her panic.

Roy caught the broken rope near the mare’s halter. She jerked away, nearly dragging him from his feet. He moved with her instead of resisting, turning his body so that her weight passed beside him.

“Easy, lass… easy.”

The mare’s eyes showed white. Foam darkened the bit at her mouth. Roy kept one hand upon the rope and lifted the other slowly toward her neck.

Donaldina scarcely breathed. The man who met Cormac’s sword with cold precision now stood beneath the striking range of a terrified horse without blade or armor. Every movement was deliberate. His shoulders remained loose, and his body angled away so that he did not appear to trap her.

The mare stamped. Roy murmured something Donaldina could not hear. The horse’s ears shifted toward him. Again, he spoke. The words mattered less than the voice and its steady roughness, patient and certain, asking for trust rather than demanding submission.

The mare’s hooves settled upon the ground. Roy stroked her neck once, then passed the rope to the stable hand who had finally reached them.

“Take her inside… slowly.”

Only then did he turn toward Iain. The boy had begun to cry. It was not the thin wail of a child seeking attention, but a broken, breathless sound dragged from true fear. He lay curled upon one side with dirt across his cheek, and one hand clutched against his chest.

Roy dropped to his knees beside him. “Dinnae move yet.”

“I’m hurt,” Iain sobbed.

“I ken.”

“Am I dying?”

Roy’s expression changed. The transformation was slight, but Donaldina saw it. Something within him tightened at the question, as though he heard those same words spoken by other voices in darker places.

“Nae,” he replied firmly. “Ye are frightened, and ye have taken a hard fall. That isnae the same thing.”

He placed one hand carefully behind the boy’s head and examined him. His fingers moved through the child’s hair, searching for blood or swelling with the ease of a man who had tended injuries too many times.

“Look at me,” Roy instructed.

Iain’s wet eyes found his.

“What is yer name?”

The boy’s mouth trembled. “Ye ken me name.”

“I dae. I wish tae see whether ye remember it.”

“Iain.”

“And where are ye?”

“At Dun Ard.”

“Good. How many fingers?”

Roy held up three.

Iain squinted through his tears. “Four.”

The other children gasped. Roy looked at his hand, then back at the boy.

“Three.”

A faint, watery laugh escaped Iain.