Cameron had guessed they might be, a few rods from her house yet protected from view by a small hill covered with heather. Rory spied them sitting as if the sun was out just for them, smiling at each other. Duncan sat with his legs bent before him, but the lady rested with her legs angled to the side, letting her black skirt hide her long limbs, except for a peep of her colorful moccasins. They were talking. Talking! Damnation. The huge mercenary wasn’t supposed to open his mouth with words. He was supposed to be a brute who would mumble and grunt and disgrace himself to the lady. The wind carried much of their conversation to him. “Truly?” Duncan said while smiling down at Lady Fleur. “How’d ye take the dirk from the lad?” She shrugged. “I didn’t really think he’d use it, but it pissed me off, er, I got mad that he’d even try. I reacted before I thought through what I was doing, and” —she snapped her fingers— “like that I had his little knife.” Duncan grimaced and leaned away from the lady.
