by D. K. Combs
“I would wake her up and question her,” Tomas said stoutly, crossing his arms over his chest. “She was like a demon! From hell—”
“Is that not where demons come from, dear Tomas?”
“That is beside the point! She injured the both of us, and I am quite certain that she—”
“Actually, it is the point,” Alec said indifferently. “Ye’ were redundant. Careless with yer words. Honestly, Tomas, you ken how I hate idle chit-chat.”
Tomas sighed. “This is no’ idle chit-chat, laird. This is the two of us discussing what is to be done with the female, and to find her motives for setting our forest on fire.” He sat on the bench adjacent to his laird’s in the great hall. They were not sitting near his throne, as they normally were, but in front of the crackling fire, on benches with cushions sewn by Tomas’s mother. They had been a gift to the laird for taking Tomas as a squire, and the cushions had lasted all of these years, on those two benches.
“Tis not our forest, Tomas. Tis the Callahan’s.” Alec gave his squire a dead-pan look.
“Will you stop with all of this proper shite yer trying to pull right now? This is a real concern! What if she’s an enemy of yers, sent here to gain our sympathy with her womanly wiles and her burned-to-death-family.”
“That is a tad extreme, do ye’ no’ think?” Alec sighed. “Tomas, listen to me. I ken what I plan to do with the woman, and that is all that matters.”
“What exactly do ye’ plan to do with her, then?” he asked with a hmph, arms crossing over his thin chest. Alec looked back to the fire and the hound put his head to the ground with a low sigh.
He was going to find out why the woman had set fire to the forest, first and foremost. Then he was going to find out who she had been running from—because it was more than obvious to him that she had not been running out of fear from the fire. If she had been the one to set it, she wouldn’t have fear of it harming her. She had been running from someone, and he was going to find out who.
Alec had always loved a little mystery to solve.
Blay rolled onto her side, yawning with a stretch at her lips—until her stomach found out that she was awake. With a gasp, she nearly threw herself off the bed as the gag turned into something much more than a simple rebellion—nay, it was an attack.
But she did not vomit. As she gagged mercilessly, a sort of pounding—nay, not a pounding. It was a battle, raging inside her head. It grew until she couldn’t breathe from it, until she was clutching her temples and crying.
What sort of monster created ale? She sobbed mentally. What kind of monster would condone this sort of aftermath? Mayhap it was God, forcing her to repent for her sins to the men in the forest. That’s what it was, she thought dreadfully, tears stinging her eyes. That’s exactly what it was.
First, nature had rebelled against her in the forest, and now God was teaching her the error of her ways. Mayhap if the ale hadn’t burnt so much…she did not know. Blay had never been drunk a day in her life, never even taken a sip of wine. After her marriage to Hagen, she had wanted nothing to do with it.
Last night, she’d been desperate. That was her only excuse…besides going insane from her chance of freedom. Blay rolled onto her back, panting.
“The spirits took the life out of ye’.” The deep voice made her muscles lock. Suddenly, her headache didn’t seem as horrible anymore.
Burning man was here to kill her.
“They take the life out of a lot of things, do they no’? Like the forest ye’ set fire to?” As his voice washed over her, she let her eyes close, a slow breath escaping her lips.
“If yer going to kill me for what I did, do it—but know that my father will do everything it takes to avenge me.” That was more than true. She may not be a model clanswoman, but her father’s warriors were like brothers to her—they would go to battle for whatever Burning man planned to do to her.
“Why would I kill ye’ for setting fire to the forest? Tis no’ even my la—ye’ think I’m the one ye’ were running from?” he mused. There was a shift several feet away from her bed, and then the large, hulking figure came closer to the bed.
In the early noon light that poured from the window, she saw that this man was not the Burning man. Burning man had been lithe and short—this man? Not so much. He towered over her, and even though her perception of him was distorted from her position on the bed, she knew that he would be at least a foot taller than her—and she was not a short woman by any means.
Blay had gotten her height from her father. Her mother was short, blonde, and petite, but Blay was…well, she was a woman in a warrior’s body, as her father would proudly say; though she couldn’t understand why. She was tall and thin, with only some muscle from handling her insane brother and bringing flour in for her mother—but that was it. Her hair was long and black, down to her waist, but it was normally braided—leaving it otherwise created too much work to manage it.
The craziness of her hair and her eyes were the only thing she could thank her mother for. Not that Blay was complaining, for she’d heard her aunt, the woman she had been named after, had had glorious black hair as well, but in this instance, she wished she had taken her father up on the subtle hints he’d been pressing—he had wanted her to join him for rigorous training, and not the petty self-defense squabbles that hadn’t done anything to protecting her.
She may not be able to protect herself physically, but she would protect herself mentally—and in whatever way she could. Blay let her face clear of emotion as she stared him dead in the eye.
“I do no’ ken what yer talking about, my lord—”
“Of course you do,” he said shortly, taking a step closer to the bed. “Yer hands are dirty, probably from falling or being dragged—and not sooty, so I canna assume that it was during the fire that this occurred. Added to that, if ye’ were the one to set it, ye’ would have been out of there before soot accumulated. Not only that, but I see a bruise forming on yer jaw—in the form of finger prints. A hand grasping ye’ and forcing ye’ to say something to them. Ye’ struggled, making them tighten their grip. The shoes are destroyed—which comes from more than just a gay little run in the forest. I’d say from use, but that whole garb yer wearing is a farse. Ye’ were walking for a long period of time before that—ah,” he murmured, as if he’d just come to a conclusion. “Ye’d been kidnapped.”
He paused, then frowned.
“I canna figure out why ye’ were drunk, though—or why ye’ would lie to me since you ken I am not the man who ye’ were running from.”
Blay stared at him, numb. Confused. How had he known that? The only thing she could manage to say was, “How do ye’ ken that I donna think yer…”
“The man yer running from? I saw the look in yer eyes when ye’ saw me. Most likely, I donna match his height or width. I’m large for a man, lass. Tis simple skills of deduction, so donna look so overwhelmed.”
He sat on the edge of the bed, staring her hard in the eye. It wasn’t just a stare, though. He was…studying her. Looking into her head. Finding things that she would never say or admit.
“Tell me why you were drunk.”
She blinked. That was not what she’d expected to hear. Mayhap some deep revelation that even she herself hadn’t known of herself, or what she ate the day before. Not an inquiry as to why she had been drunk.
“I donna need to explain myself to you, my lord. Now,” she said uneasily, pushing herself to her elbows. “I think it’s time that I return home…”
“Where is home?”
“Pardon?”
“Where is home for ye’? Where do ye’ come from, woman?” Now he was scowling in earnest. Before she could open her mouth to tell him off, he reached for her long braid. “Though dirty from yer…adventure, ye’ have some healthy hair. Thick. Shiny at places. Regular baths, much more than a common woman can attain.” He leaned in, sniffing the hair. “Smells of river water.”
Blay jerked away from him, heart pounding
.
“What is wrong with ye’?” she asked, yanking the tail end of her braid out of his hands to hold it safely against her chest.
“Nothing is wrong with me. Tis ye’ that there’s a problem.”
“How would ye’ know that?” she snapped. Blay didn’t give him time to answer before she was pushing aside the covers and throwing her feet over the edge of the bed—on the opposite side of him. She did not want to be near this strange man. Nay, she wanted to get home so she could warn her parents and let them know she was well.
“Ye’ might want to sit back dow—”
She ignored him, standing up quickly. She would no’ take any advice from him—
“Oh, dear,” she gasped, the pounding in her head returning with a fury. She lost sight of where she was and what she was doing, pain washing over her. Hands took her by the shoulder, redirecting her back onto the bed.
After moments of gasping for breath and trying to fight off the pain and disorientation, Blay cracked open an eye—and immediately regretted it. The man was now sitting on his haunches in front of her, eyes narrowed, lips pressed.
“Either yer a first time drunk, or too stubborn to listen to advice.”
“Donna go about doing that damn thing again—”
“I would have to say both. Ye’ have that look about yer mouth that says ye’ donna listen well to orders, and—”
“One can have a look about their mouth?” she asked incredulously.
“Aye. Of course. Ye’ have incredibly plump lips, but it is the way they press at the corners and the way yer lower lip stiffens. Aye, yer a stubborn one—and also too kind for yer own good.”
“Excuse me,” she broke in, “but kind is not something I’ve ever been called before.”
He rolled his eyes. “Please, my lady. Spare me the lies—I donna have time for them. I must figure out why ye’ set fire to the forest, and who ye’ were running from.” The man raised her a brow. “Unless ye’ want to save us both a moment and tell me why, without me having to make the conclusions.”
She pressed her lips, and he laughed. It was robust, triumphant, and entirely too handsome a sound for such a rude man as he.
“Stubborn lips. I told ye’.”
“Ye’ can stop making assumptions about me now, my lord. It’s quite rude—”
“They’re no’ assumptions, my lady. Simply facts about ye’ that I’ve noticed, coming up with a conclus—”
“Technicalities do no’ matter, my lord. It’s rude and uncalled for—”
“Well, ye’ are in my bed.”
That drew her up short. He watched her expectantly, still on his haunches, elbows braced on his knees, large hands clasped together. It was odd, seeing a man this monstrous, kneeling in front of her while he deduced her life from just her reactions.
And that was what he was doing. She was not as foolish as he was assuming she was.
“Then I had better get out of yer bed.”
He gave no reaction to hearing her, which left her wondering whether she was in his own bed, or in a bed of his that was in the castle. She ran her eyes over him again, then around the room.
It was lavish, furnished beautifully. Thick curtains, rushes freshly lain, a scented candle burning in the corner. This was not his personal bed, but this was his castle.
He was a chieftain.
“Now yer wondering what clan I’m chieftain of,” he said quietly.
Lord, he could stop reading her mind now! She didn’t dare say that though—he would take it as a challenge, a game. That’s all this was to him, she thought, clenching her hands. A game.
“I could honestly no’ care less what clan yer chieftain of.”
“Liar.” He pushed himself to his feet. The action came so suddenly that she reared back. The man began to pace in front of her, giving her an imperial look. He was silent once again, studying her.
“Liar? That’s all yer going to say?”
“Aye.”
“That’s—”
“Rude, I ken. Silent, woman. I’m thinking.” He stopped in the middle of his pacing, giving her a squinty look. “Are ye’ hungry? Thirsty?”
She shook her head automatically. She wouldn’t accept anything from this man…and her stomach would not let her keep it down. She would not bother to test it, either. It would make this situation so much worse if she vomited everywhere.
“Ah, yes. Yer still recovering from being drunk. Ye’ have yet to answer my question, my lady.”
“I plan on answering no questions of yers,” she said simply, folding her hands together in her lap.
“But of course ye’ do,” he said with a frown. “Ye’ want to leave here, do ye’ no’? Och, donna look so frightened. T’was not a threat—just a suggestion. Now that ye’ have me curious, I’ll no’ be letting ye’ go until I have answers.”
“So yer taking me captive.”
He nodded unashamedly. “Aye. Donna worry—there’s an easy way to get out of this situation.”
“Ye’ want me to tell ye’ everything I know.”
“Aye, of course. Will ye’?” He had the look of a man who had won. A cocky smile gracing his face, softening the rugged lines, making him look years younger, almost…handsome. Her heart quickened its pace. She tried to force herself to look away, but she couldn’t. “I knew ye’ would, my lady.”
That knocked her out of her stupor. That cockiness, put into words. He’d known she would? Blay wanted to laugh.
“Nay.”
The smile dropped from his face. Gone was the young, handsome man. The powerful chieftain, whose face appeared to have never known a smile, was back again. This was his game face, she thought, a small smile lifting her lips.
“I’m afraid I did no’ hear ye’ correctly. What did ye’ say?”
He had heard her perfectly well, she thought. With every ounce of strength she possessed, she pushed herself to her feet. Her stomach roiled, but only a tad. Her head…well, she was too focused on the insufferable man standing in front of her to notice any aches.
When she was standing in front of him, she took too much pleasure in the way his brows lowered in confusion, in the way his jaw ticked. He hadn’t anticipated her response.
“Did ye’ no’ say that I was a stubborn woman?” she asked, smile widening when his eyes narrowed on her. His gaze flickered to her lips, and a look she couldn’t describe passed over his face. It was gone so quickly that she almost didn’t see it.
The chieftain focused on her once again.
“As a proud, stubborn woman,” she said sweetly, “I’ll have to stick with my decision in no’ telling ye’ a single word.”
“Well, then.” His voice was like tumbling rocks, angry and cold.
He was not pleased with her decision, and she wasn’t surprised. Aye, it would be easy for her to reveal everything…but what fun would that be? Her family would be fine for the time being. The men had either died in the forest, or were too injured to carry out their plans. There was no immediate threat, so Blay was going to take her time dealing out something she suspected this man had never dealt with.
Insanity.
“Someone does no’ look pleased.” Alec stopped mid-step. Slowly turned around. Stared at his father. The old bastard was leaning against the wall, his one arm holding a piece of bread, a smug grin on his lips.
“Tomas told you about the woman.”
“Of course he did.”
“Aye, because he’s nothing but a little spy for ye’.” Alec sighed heavily, shaking his head. “Father, I donna have time for this talk.”
“I just need to ask ye’ one thing. Did ye’ do that thing that ye’ do to her?”
Alec looked at him.
The McGregor sighed. “Of course ye’ did. God forbid ye’ see a woman and not do that damn thing. Ye’ really need to work on that, lad. Yer going to have to take a wife someday, and yer no’ going to find one by doing that.”
“I have no intention of marrying this woman, fa
ther, so it does no’ matter if I do that ‘ damn thing’.”
“Yer no’ getting any younger, lad.”
“And ye’ can stop calling me lad. I’m the chieftain of this clan now, not some little boy running around and pretending to be a warrior.”
The McGregor looked at Alec solemnly. It was not often that a clan had both the influence of the old chieftain, and the new one. The status would have switched over to Alec when his father died, but a deadly battle had taken The McGregor’s use of his arm. On the day they would have amputated it, Alec challenged his father to a duel for the title of chieftain.
During that duel, he had not only beaten his father, but he’d taken his own father’s arm as well. The lost duel should have put his father to shame with the clan, but no one had expected him to live through the amputation. The fact that he had lived showed the clan people what a fighter he really was—but the duel had decided who was chieftain.
Now there they stood, The McGregor, and McGregor, staring each other down, the elder wanting grandsons and daughters, the younger wanting to be left in silence.
Their conversations of marriage were becoming inane. His father would have to realize that Alec had no intention of marrying, and never would. He’d sire a bastard and let the clan continue on that way. It wasn’t unheard of in these times.
“Do I at least get to meet the poor chit?” The McGregor asked.
“Nay.”
“Nay? Boy, she’s in my castle. I—”
“Father, I said nay. She’s no’ right in the head.”
“No’ right in the head…Alec, no one is right in the head according to ye’. I demand a feast be held tonight. I want to meet this woman.”
“She’s really no’ right in the head,” Alec insisted, believing that more than he needed air to breathe. “The woman is insane. She set a forest on fire—while drunk off her rocker—”
“Everyone makes mistakes when they’re deep in the cups,” The McGregor said, shrugging. “Tis no’ her fault she didn’t have control of her actions.”