THT | 2

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"If I were 'The Lion'," the leader growled mockingly, "donna think I’d hesitate to cut yer throat for that."

Blaine visibly paled, but her haughty stance stayed the same. Saeran wanted to grab her sister by her throat and shove her face into a puddle of mud. How could her sister be so bold and offensive to men she knew wouldn't think twice about lopping off their heads?

"I—I apologize for my sister's conduct," Saeran said, forcing the words past trembling lips. "The ride has been long and tiresome. She is weary from travel."

The leader continued to stare down Blaine until finally, he passed a gruff look to Saeran. Her shoulders dropped with the weight of her relief. No blood would be shed tonight. She knew from seeing the look in his eyes. He was offended, but there was also a charisma to him that told her he wouldn’t kill without being physically provoked.

"Ewen, take the lass ahead. We should reach the village by the morrow."

Saeran watched a burly, red-haired man grab her sister's reigns. Blaine was unusually quiet when he began leading her away, riding at a steady gallop.

"Gods Blood, is the lass always so discourteous?" the leader grunted, swinging himself onto the saddle. The irony of his comment was not lost on her.

The men stared down at her expectantly, and Saeran came to a realization that made her palms sweat. They were all on their horses. The only one who had yet to mount their beast was Saeran.

"She is weary from travel," she repeated numbly, coming to yet another horrifying realization.

She would have to ride with these men. All nineteen of these dauntingly large men. Not only that, but she was expected to act as one of them. Saeran stared at the mare, mouth drying. She would also have to mount the horse—with experience she didn't have.

Oh, if only her mother could see her now.

She would be appalled.

Lady Sinclair had never understood her daughter's fascination with books and numbers, preferring what Blaine did—court, fashion, and dances. To see her daughter going against the grain even more, by riding a horse, and shamelessly dressed in trews...the shock of it would have made her mother faint dead away.

Her father, however, would have been amused. The memory of her father's smile was the only thing that gave her the courage to go through with the most embarrassing situation she had ever been put in.

Mounting a horse.

"Hurry up, lad. We have a ways to go. A storm's comin'."

"Aye," she muttered absently, wringing her hands. Saeran shook herself. She couldn’t be weak in front of them. With that thought in mind, she began her first attempt--ever--at mounting a horse. The men had grabbed...the men had grabbed their horses here...and put their foot here...As she tried to mimic the mounting process she’d seen, she somehow managed to do it completely wrong. Completely and utterly wrong.

Her fingers slipped from around the beast’s mane and she found herself falling to the ground. She landed on her butt with an umph. Several of the men snorted and her face burned with humiliation.

She'd like to see their first try at this! She bet they fared worse than her! They had probably been skinny lads with not a single bit of control over their bodies, whereas she was a woman with grace and composure.

Grace and composure that was starting to crumble around her. She was a lad now. She had to act like one, sound like one, and be one. Swallowing down the tears and cursing her sister for this wretched idea of hers, Saeran pulled herself together and tried again—only to land right on her butt.

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