by Emma Prince
“I do not know,” she answered honestly.
That drew forth another barrage of muttered curses. He glanced out the open window. So, that was how he’d appeared in the chamber without even a squeak of rusty hinges or a creaking floorboard.
Mayhap he was contemplating his escape, gauging the angle of the moon or the rising of the tide below. Clearly, she was not what he’d been looking for when he’d infiltrated Stalcaire Tower.
A chill raced over her flesh as a new realization hit her. Aye, he wasn’t there for her—but he was looking for her brother. And judging by the dagger that had come a hair’s width from slicing her throat, he meant to kill him.
“You will not find Andrew here,” she said, raising her voice in an attempt to sound brave. “Nor will I help you.”
The man’s head jerked around, and he fixed her once more with those cold eyes, so pale as to be almost colorless. But now a new light filled them, making them appear to glitter with some evolving plan.
“Nay, lass. I think ye will.”
As he stepped forward, Ailsa shrank into the bed’s headboard. Oh God. She’d just taunted the Devil himself, practically daring him to prove her wrong.
The hand with the dagger moved, but instead of bringing the blade to her neck once more, the man slid it into his boot. Faster than she could dart away, the hand shot out and clamped around her arm.
“Get up. Get dressed.”
As easily as plucking a ripe plum from a tree, the Devil lifted her from the bed. Ailsa staggered as he set her on her feet. To her stunned confusion, he waited a moment for her to gain her footing, then released her arm.
She quickly took him in with wide eyes. He towered over her by more than a head, and the rest of him matched his sizeable height. His broad shoulders blocked out most of the chamber behind him.
Even through his wool tunic, she could tell that his breadth came from hard, honed muscle rather than fat. In fact, every inch of him was all lean strength—thick arms, trim waist, long, powerful legs braced wide.
Though his accent bore the unmistakable bur of the Highlands, he wore no clan colors over the simple tunic and trews. Nay, though his visage was terrifying, he gave no clue as to who he was or what he intended.
And he wanted her to put clothes on? Surely he didn’t mean to assail her, then.
On trembling legs, she crossed to the armoire and opened its wooden doors.
“What do you mean to do with me?” she whispered.
When he didn’t answer, she glanced over her shoulder to find his gaze riveted to her. She looked down at herself.
Her thin linen chemise covered most of her skin, but the moonlight cast shadows across her body that revealed every curve and contour. She might as well have been naked, for all that her figure was clearly delineated.
And the way the intruder was looking at her… Mayhap she had been too hasty in assuming she was safe from his notice.
Ailsa hurriedly pulled a gown from the armoire and yanked it on. Some instinct told her to select a heavy cloak and sturdy boots from the back of the armoire as well.
She turned back to him, ready to ask again what he was about, but before she could speak, he took her arm once more and pulled her toward the window.
There, stepping into a shaft of moonlight, she got her first good look at his face. The hard angles of his jaw and cheekbones might have been chiseled from granite. Those calculating, icy eyes looked almost silver in the pale glow cast by the moon. His hair appeared more copper than dark auburn now.
He peered out, contemplating the distance to the ground, or mayhap the water below. Then he took hold of a rope that he must have lashed to the roof somehow and tested it with a tug.
Ailsa swallowed hard. Did he mean to make her descend on that rope with him?
But abruptly, he stepped back from the window, frowning.
“Nay, I dinnae need to sneak,” he muttered to himself. “No’ anymore.”
He pulled her toward the chamber door instead.
“Who else is in the tower?” he demanded curtly, reaching for the dagger in his boot once more.
Panic spiked in her veins. “I will not help you hurt any—”
“Ye misunderstand,” he interrupted, his voice impatient. “I willnae harm any innocent here, so long as they—or ye—dinnae stand in my way. But if I am caught unawares, I’ll act on instinct. That willnae end well for anyone we cross.”
Ailsa searched for deception in his words, but she didn’t detect any. Besides, she had little choice but to trust that he truly wouldn’t hurt the others in the tower.
“A few servants,” she said reluctantly at last. “The old steward, Nolan, and his wife, Mira. And a lad, Thom.”
He gave her a brusque nod before pushing open the chamber door and tugging her along after him. They made their way down the spiral staircase on silent feet.
A fleeting impulse to resist him crossed her mind, but she thought of his warning—dinnae stand in my way. He could have killed her by now, but he hadn’t. Mayhap if she cooperated, he would let her and the servants go once he’d made his escape.
At the bottom of the stairs, he angled them both so that their backs were to the closest wall, then edged toward the tower doors. All the while, he scanned the empty, quiet great hall with a restless gaze.
When he reached the doors, he gave them a shove with his shoulder. The squealing of the hinges and the groan of the sea-swollen wooden door against its frame shattered the muffled silence.
Ailsa sucked in a breath, and the man’s hand tightened on her arm.
“My lady? Is that ye?”
Her heart sank like an anchor, even as her pulse spiked wildly with fear. Nay, Nolan! Stay away!
But it was too late. The flickering of a torch lapped at the great hall’s stone walls, drawing rapidly closer.
“Please,” she breathed, pinning the intruder with desperate eyes. “Keep your word. Do not harm him.”
Before he could respond, Nolan trotted into the great hall, his white hair in a disheveled tuft around his head. When his gaze landed on Ailsa and the intruder, he skidded to a halt. His rheumy blue eyes rounded.
Quickly recovering, Nolan took a step forward, lifting the torch as if to use it as a weapon.
“Dinnae,” the man said sharply, letting his dagger catch the light with a subtle twist of his hand.
The blade drew Nolan’s gaze, and he reluctantly froze.
“Andrew Murray is yer master, aye?”
Nolan nodded slowly, glancing between Ailsa and the intruder.
“I have a message for him.”
As he spoke, he nudged the tower’s double doors all the way open and began backing out, pulling Ailsa along with him. Cold, salty night air swirled around her. She could hear the rising tide slapping against the island’s rocky edges behind her.
Nolan cautiously stepped forward, following them outside, but leaving a dozen paces between them. “What is that?”
“If ye see him, tell him I want to meet him.” Their boots clopped on the wooden dock and he drew her backward from the tower.
“Whom shall I tell him he is meeting?”
Nolan was stalling, but it was no use.
“My name doesnae matter,” the man replied brusquely. “All Murray needs to ken is to be at his keep in Tullibardine in a fortnight’s time.”
“And what does Lady Ailsa have to do with this?” Nolan demanded.
“Naught,” the man murmured, lowering one foot into the small rowboat tied to the dock. “Except if Murray wants to see his sister alive again, he’ll come.”
Just as Ailsa sucked in a breath, the intruder wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her into the boat beside him. With a hard shove, he sent the boat out into the dark waters surrounding the tower.
Ailsa struggled against the man’s hold, but even if she could have broken free and jumped overboard, her heavy dress and cloak would have pulled her underwater immediately.
She watched as Nolan ru
shed forward to the end of the dock, but he, too, seemed to think better of diving in after them. The gap between the boat and the island was widening rapidly, aided by the swiftly rising tide. Even a strong swimmer couldn’t catch them. Nolan would be forced to wait for low tide to slog to land and retrieve the rowboat.
And by then, there was no telling where she would be.
Ailsa sank down into the boat’s hull, her gaze fixed on the diminishing light from Nolan’s uplifted torch.
Mayhap her fear-addled mind had misjudged the entire situation from the moment the intruder had appeared over her. Or mayhap she was just a fool. Either way, only now did she realize he wasn’t just using her to make his escape from the tower.
She was at this demon’s mercy, and he had no intention of releasing her.
Nay, instead he meant to draw her brother to his death—using her as bait.
Chapter Five
It wasn’t until dawn lightened the sky from charcoal to heather gray that Domnall realized he’d made a rather grave miscalculation in taking the lass.
He’d reined his horse to a halt beside a stream to give them all a chance to rest. Once he’d swung out of the saddle, he plucked the lass down after him. Now, in the warming light of the breaking day, he looked his fill at her, and cursed himself for a blighted fool.
She was far too bonny.
Dangerously bonny.
Her honey-colored hair was drawn back in a plain braid from the night before. Golden wisps had come loose to halo a flawless, heart-shaped face. Her eyes, which he’d thought as dark as mahogany in the shadows of the bedchamber, were actually a soft, velvety brown that called to mind a silent, watchful doe.
Her rosebud mouth was slack with fatigue from the grueling pace he’d set all night. In fact, her whole slight frame seemed ready to crumple to the forest floor.
She looked small and wilted before him, but her petite form belied the curves that had been pressed against Domnall all damn night. Curves that were now burned into his mind for what would undoubtedly be a long while. Her soft hip had been wedged between his legs where she’d sat across his lap, and that bottom perched on his thigh—
Bloody hell. Aye, she was dangerous—a dangerous distraction from what needed doing.
But even if he managed to lure Murray out using the lass, it would mean a fortnight of living in close quarters with her. Traveling with her in tow. Riding with her.
Sleeping with her.
Unwelcome images flooded him at that. He cursed himself silently for conjuring such temptations. But of course, he wouldn’t be able to avoid sleep altogether for a fortnight.
Which raised another problem. How was he supposed to keep her from fleeing the moment he shut his eyes? He could tie her up, but something about the exhausted, frightened lass made that option seem even more barbaric than he was already behaving.
Still, she was his greatest weapon against Murray now. If he wielded her properly, he could have Murray running to him, instead of having to chase the bastard over the other half of Scotland for another month
Nay, he couldn’t risk losing her. He would merely have to steel himself for the ruthlessness needed until Murray was his. And extinguish his sympathy for what the lass would have to endure along the way.
Belatedly, he realized his hands had lingered on the lass’s trim waist. He jerked them away as if she were a hot coal, then pointed to a dense shrub nearby.
“Ye have to the count of one hundred to see to yer needs. Dinnae think for a moment that I cannae track ye down and recapture ye if ye use that time to run.”
She actually flinched at the harsh crack to his voice. Good. Let her fear him. Mayhap it would keep her in line for the next fortnight.
As she hurried behind the shrub, Domnall cautiously took up his horse’s reins and guided him toward the stream. He gave the animal a long tether so that he could drink, but made sure he would be several paces away so that he couldn’t take a chunk out of the lass.
By the time she emerged, Domnall had refilled his waterskin and managed to remove a few bannocks and dried meat from his saddlebags with only one attempted kick from the horse.
Murray’s sister—Ailsa—wobbled toward the stream and lowered herself, letting the water run over her hands before cupping some and lifting it to her mouth.
Domnall’s gaze drifted to the hem of her gown, which peeked out from under her gray wool cloak. The deep crimson material was far too fine to drag in the mud, as it did now. The rich color brought out the rosiness in her cheeks and lips, and by contrast made her skin appear as pale and luscious as cream.
She looked like a sparkling ruby dropped amongst the dead leaves and mud-covered moss. She didn’t belong here—not in a dense corner of the Trossachs, nor in the middle of his revenge plot.
Damn him. He was doing it again. If he wasn’t careful, he might slip and lose focus. If that slip caused Murray to slither out of his grasp… Nay, there was no way in hell he would let a pretty lass distract him from extracting his vengeance.
“What were ye doing at Stalcaire Tower?” he demanded gruffly.
She paused in her drinking and lifted those gentle, guileless eyes toward him.
“My brother sent me there.”
“Why?” His gaze flicked over her. “Ye are unmarried, are ye no’?”
She swallowed. “Aye.”
“Why arenae ye under the care of yer parents, then?”
“They are dead.”
An awkward silence fell over them for a moment as the lass clearly fought for composure, and Domnall silently berated himself for being a tactless arse.
“Andrew is my only family now,” she said softly at last.
Shite.
For the first time since he’d learned the name of the man who’d betrayed the loyalist army and slain Bhaltair, a twinge of guilt pinched his gut. Nay, damn it. Dinnae lose the clarity of this mission.
Yet despite his own warning, he couldn’t resist prodding. “Why did he send ye to Stalcaire, then?”
Her gaze fluttered away, and soft color bloomed over her face. “That doesn’t matter, does it?”
She was right. It didn’t matter. But against his better judgment, he was intrigued. What did the lass conceal? And why the hell did it matter to him?
“What is your name?” she asked abruptly.
He’d been careful not to share his identity with the old steward, Nolan. Though he wanted word of his scheme to spread far and wide—the better to reach Murray—if the MacAyre name was attached to the plot, he would endanger not only his own neck, but the safety of his clan.
Nay, if Balliol was looking for Domnall, Murray could never know the identity of the man who hunted him.
But when it came to the lass…
He could refuse to answer, or lie to her, but there was no need. His name would mean naught to her, nor could she use it against him.
“Domnall MacAyre.”
As he expected, no light of recognition flickered across her face.
“What do you want with my brother?”
“Why do ye sound like that?” he shot back.
She blinked, caught off-guard by his sudden change in subject. “Like what?”
“Like the English. Are ye no’ a Lowlander?”
Rising slowly from the bank of the stream, she pressed her damp hands against the sides of her cloak. “My tutor was English. She insisted that my Scottish accent made me sound coarse, and instructed me on how to speak properly.”
He grunted. “Lowlanders.”
“What does that mean?”
He stalked toward her. “It means ye lot would rather be English than Scottish. Ye talk like them. Ye dress like them. And ye fight for them under Balliol.”
“I do not fight for anyone,” she countered.
Her words landed. His step faltered.
He didn’t relish this business of involving women in warfare. In truth, even now he shuddered at the memory of just how close he’d come to slicing the lass’s
throat before realizing she wasn’t her brother.
He was a Highlander, which was to say he was a man of honor. He didn’t hurt women, children, or the defenseless.
Yet it was Murray who had first drawn innocents into this fight, meting out violence when none was needed. He’d slaughtered Bhaltair in the dead of night just to cover his own treachery. If Domnall had to follow Murray across that line in order to bring him to justice, so be it.
He hardened himself once more toward the lass. Aye, she was innocent, but she was also his enemy’s sister—a tool to wield against Murray, naught more.
“Ye have even adopted their style of noble titles,” he pressed on, pinning her with a withering glare. “I almost forgot, when I speak of yer vile brother, I am to refer to him as Sir Andrew Murray. Isnae that right, my lady?”
She had to crane her neck to maintain their locked gaze, but she didn’t back up, even when only a hand-span separated them.
This close, he could smell the soft aromas of honey and roses drifting from her hair and skin. The scents were sweet yet grounded, earthy in their depth and subtlety.
He’d detected the honey fragrance earlier in her chamber at Stalcaire Tower. Where had the roses come from? Had she placed a dab of rosewater at her throat before retiring to her bed last eve? Or mayhap she’d soaked in a bath with rose-infused soap?
He wordlessly cursed himself, jerking his mind away from such musings. That trail of thought undoubtedly led to madness.
“My father earned his title fighting for Robert the Bruce,” she said, her voice taut. “It is an honor to carry it on. But I wouldn’t expect a hedge-born ruffian like you to understand.”
“I am a Laird,” he snapped.
She stared at him, stunned. “You-you are?”
“Aye, I am. I lead my people in the ways of our ancestors, the ways generations of Scots have—with loyalty to clan and kin. We Highlanders are keeping Scotland’s traditions alive, while ye Lowlanders play at lords and ladies like the bloody English.”
“If you are a Laird, what on earth are you doing here?” she blurted. “Don’t you have responsibilities elsewhere? What of your people? Do they approve of you kidnapping women and hunting innocent men?”