Page 8 of The Protector’s Promise

“But we are not near Camburg,” she pointed out. “It will take—”

“Just one more full day of riding. We are closer than you think.”

Marion knew enough of England to know Camburg was just below the border, but she’d lost track of where they were exactly. Now that the stone was within her reach, nothing guided her forward except . . . well, him.

“As for the stone, I have no intentions toward it. I know only that it belongs to me. It pulled me toward it, and I had no choice but to listen.”

Marion did not bother arguing with him. She knew exactly what he meant by that, even if he did not. They had ridden past the thicket of trees and now made their way through a wide-open field. She watched as the sun began to dip below the horizon.

“Why are there no other travelers? Where are we?”

“We’ve ventured off the main road.” Court pointed to their right. “Your companions are likely west of us, but they’ll eventually circle back as they approach Camburg.”

“We’re off the main road?”

“Aye, we have been for some time now.”

She looked down, and while there were few hoof marks beneath them, it appeared very much as if the road was well traveled.

“Have you ever left Ormonde?”

“Of course.” In fact, she had not, with the exception of this journey. She’d begged to visit Edinburgh many times, of course, but her parents had claimed it was much too dangerous given the possibility she was “Scotland’s chosen one.” Heaven and the saints above forbid anything should happen to her.

Then, when the mark appeared, they finally trusted her to know where to go and what to do . . . and here she was, the prisoner of some English knight intent on— “You’re planning an attack?”

If he was the opposing force, according to the priestess, he would be the one to throw Scotland into chaos if he kept the stone. Which meant Scotland would suffer so long as it remained in his hands. And according to the priestess, the suffering would begin within two moons of his possession of the stone.

His silence was all the answer she needed.

“Where?” she demanded. “When?”

Court stopped the horse and dismounted, reaching up for her. She pushed away his hand and followed him down without any assistance despite the size of his destrier. She followed Court and his massive black warhorse toward the sound of rushing water.

“Are we stopping for the night?” Since she sensed Court had no wish to harm her, Marion was not in a hurry to return to Camburg. Once there, they would part ways, and the stone would be locked away inside an English holding and lost to her. Until they arrived, she still had a chance.

“Aye,” he said, tying his mount to a nearby tree. Though not as thick as the forest they’d passed earlier in the day, this stretch of land would provide cover.

Finished with his task, Court walked toward her. “If you run,” he said, watching her intently, “you will only get yourself hurt. On the morrow—”

“I won’t run,” she said. “That stone you’re carrying is mine. And until I have it—”

He laughed, dimples forming on both cheeks. Though he must be at least twenty and eight, Court’s smile made him appear younger.

“You are laughing now, but I doubt I will amuse you later.”

“You are a tenacious little lass, aren’t you?”

“And you are a stubborn, arrogant boar.”

He took a step closer. “You know me well, it seems.”

“Your kind, aye.”

Taunting her captor would not help her accomplish her goal, but it seemed she couldn’t help it. Every time Marion opened her mouth, she was surprised at what came out of it. She’d never speak to her father this way, let alone any other man of rank. And yet . . . Court seemed almost pleased by her behavior.

Perhaps she shouldn’t be so surprised. Her nemesis was, after all, the worst kind of man.

An Englishman.