Elizabet Read online

  Cameron smiled at Broc’s unspoken praise, and the two of them shared a moment of kinship.

  “Anyway, I think Iain wishes to speak to ye.”

  That was the last thing Broc wished to hear.

  He couldn’t face him yet. Iain would know him for a liar and he couldn’t tell him the truth.

  “Tell him I will come to him later.”

  Cameron blinked, surprised by Broc’s response. He had never declined a summons from Iain before. He started again toward the storage and didn’t stop, refusing to look back into Cameron’s eyes. He didn’t wish to give explanations and didn’t want questions asked. He didn’t want to lie any more than he had to.

  Cameron didn’t follow. “Where are you going?”

  Broc didn’t answer. He picked up his pace, leaving Cameron to stare after him.

  * * *

  Iain MacKinnon stood with arms akimbo.

  His wife rose from the table to join him.

  He and Page had remained at table long after the breaking of their fast, discussing the news that had been delivered at first rising. And now he couldn’t believe what Cameron was telling him. He narrowed his eyes at the youth, disbelieving his ears. “You say he came and left again?”

  Cameron nodded, his expression apologetic.

  “And you told him I wished to speak with him?”

  “Aye, sir, I did.”

  Iain knew the boy still felt guilty about his dealings with Page’s lunatic father. And well he should. He’d nearly gotten his sister, little Constance, murdered by the madman and had endangered Page’s life—not to mention the death of poor Merry, Broc’s dog. In truth, there had been not a dry eye in the village at the sight of Broc burying his beloved companion. If Cameron knew what was good for him, he would tread warily for some time to come.

  “He said he would come to you later,” the youth added uncomfortably.

  Iain didn’t know what to say. He couldn’t imagine what circumstances would have Broc so preoccupied that he would deny Iain a few moments of his time.

  He wasn’t angry though he’d wished to speak with Broc about the murders to see if he’d heard anything at all. “I suppose whatever he’s doing is of utmost importance. I’ll talk to him when he returns. Thanks for the message, Cameron.”

  Cameron turned to go, and Iain turned to his wife.

  Her brows were knit, and she seemed to be thinking—he hoped not the same thing as he. The description that had been given of the murderer matched Broc in part, But Iain had dismissed the possibility. The slaying was far too brutal and far too cold-blooded to have been committed by Broc Ceannfhionn.

  They’d claimed the man had assaulted the party without provocation, leaping upon their mistress from the woodland and taking her at knife-point, threatening to ruthlessly slash her throat as he had her brother’s.

  Once Cameron was gone and they were alone, Page opened her mouth to speak but then said nothing at all.

  Iain felt he knew what she was thinking. “I’m certain he’s merely preoccupied,” he assured her.

  His wife nodded, though her expression remained full of concern. “Aye, I’m certain, as well.”

  He took her by the shoulders and held her firmly, gazing reassuringly into her eyes. “There is little to be concerned about, wife. Broc is not the man they are searching for.”

  “But Montgomerie swore to carve open the man’s throat...”

  Iain nodded with certainty. “And I canna blame him. The murderer deserves a judgment equal to the crime he committed.”

  “What if the murderer turns out to be one of our own? What then?”

  Iain sighed heavily. “Then, in truth, I will be forced to relinquish him to Montgomerie,” he said regretfully. “I cannot risk the amity of our clans—not even for Broc.”

  Page nodded but averted her gaze. “Aye, well… I’m certain Broc has had nothing to do with any of it, anyway.”

  Iain bent and kissed her on the cheek, not wanting her to worry. “As am I,” he agreed. His gentle wife had formed an attachment to Broc. He knew she would fret until they discovered the murderer’s true identity. As would he. No man among them was more beloved than Broc Ceannfhionn.

  In truth, Broc had never once considered his own interests above those of the clan, and though Page and Broc had not begun their acquaintance joyfully, Broc had been the first to stand up for Page when his men had scorned her. Till the day he died, Iain would remain grateful to Broc for that.

  His wife looked up at him, her beautiful eyes beseeching, “What do you intend to tell Montgomerie?” She worried at her lip, waiting for his response.

  “Naught for now,” he reassured her and winked, hoping to set her at ease, and he felt rather than heard her sigh.

  The worry lines vanished from her brow. She smiled and stood up on her tiptoes to kiss him tenderly upon the chin. A quiver raced down his spine, as ever it did at her merest touch. “Have I told you lately that I love you, Iain MacKinnon?”

  “Aye, my lovely wife.” He squeezed her gently. “Broc will be fine,” he said. “As for me... “ He pulled her into his arms. “I believe I need a moment of your time.”

  She laughed. “You are insatiable,” she told him, but that didn’t stop her from being the one to reach up and give him a kiss passionate enough to wipe everything else from his mind.

  Chapter 11

  Dust motes danced in the rays of sunlight that filtered in through the ramshackle roof.

  Even before Elizabet sought him, she knew Broc wasn’t there. Somehow, his presence filled a room, even in silence and his absence left it gloomier than death.

  He must have gone to speak with her brother, just as he’d promised. She was glad she didn’t have to face him first thing this morning.

  Last night, she had been angry with him, but the truth was that she had invited his ardor. No matter how she wished to look at it, the fault was her own. If she hadn’t first invited him to share her blanket, he would never have kissed her in the first place. She had practically thrown herself into his arms, and her cheeks flamed with the memory. And now he was gone, and she wouldn’t blame him if he never came back.

  What would she do if he refused to help her now? What if it were true that Tomas wanted her dead? Who would champion her if not Broc? Who would even believe her?

  Suddenly, everything had become so complicated.

  Rising, she stretched the sleep from her limbs, letting the blanket fall to the ground. Her gaze fell upon the threadbare cloth that lay heaped at her feet. He’d returned the blanket to her last night. The gesture moved her, though she told herself it did not. She bent to retrieve it and folded it thoughtfully, laying it upon the pallet, and then went to the door, pushing it open somewhat warily.

  The day was sunny and beautiful and a soft breeze tousled her hair as she stepped into the sunlight. She let the door close behind her.

  What harm could come of her stepping out for just a moment? She didn’t intend to go far.

  The forest was full of life. She could hear birds chirping in the trees and creatures scurrying as she passed. Out here, with the sun shining down on her, nothing seemed so terrible. When he returned, she would face Broc like a woman and not hide like a child.

  What was done was done, and there was no way to rescind her actions.

  Nor did she entirely wish to, if she could be honest with herself. In those moments with Broc she had felt more alive than she had ever felt in her life. In fact, this morning, everything seemed brighter, more vivid. Her senses were keener and her heart pounded with more vigor. She took a deep breath and savored a moment of sweet purity. This land was wild but truly beautiful. She could hardly fault the Scots for defending it so fiercely.

  She stopped and turned to consider the hovel with different eyes.

  It was a simple dwelling, and its owner must have been a simple person. Unlike those women she’d grown accustomed to at court, this woman had lived entirely without luxuries. There was no extravagant bed
upon which to lay her head at night. No kitchens, no corridors to be lost within, no gardens in which to brood. But she had been free—completely and utterly free!

  Had she been happy?

  Had Broc visited often?

  Did they love each other?

  Who was this man she had wed instead of Broc?

  Her head filled with questions.

  It was easier not to think about the bowman. She didn’t want to consider Tomas. Didn’t want to think that her stepmother wished her dead. What had she ever done to incur the woman’s wrath? Surely Broc must be mistaken. He’d misunderstood the bowman’s intent, was all. Tomas had merely been defending her—it had to be.

  She tried to recall the previous day’s events precisely. Her stepmother’s brother hadn’t been among her father’s men—not when John had fallen and Broc had whisked her away. So, then, where had he been? And why hadn’t he shown himself? What would he have to gain by her death?

  The question plagued her.

  Broc would return soon enough with news.

  In the meantime, she intended to take care of a few minor necessities. He couldn’t possibly miss her in the short time she would be gone.

  * * *

  Broc expected to find Elizabet still abed. Instead he returned to find her gone.

  He tried not to panic—for her sake, not his own. He knew they were out searching for her. What if the bowman found her first? He’d promised no harm would come to her, and he didn’t intend to fail her now.

  He barreled out of the hut, shoving the door open and calling her name frantically.

  He prayed to God. If they found her first, if they discovered his involvement, the clans would all be at war again. And Broc would be the man responsible for starting it. Was this how he repaid his debts to Iain? By starting a blood war worse than the MacLean-MacKinnon feud?

  “Elizabet!” he called, running through the forest. And then at once he saw her, hiding behind a bush. Her head popped up, and then she ducked once more.

  She was hiding from him. She obviously didn’t wish him to find her. Too bad. He had, and he certainly intended to drag her back to the hut where she would be safe.

  He ran and dove after her, determined to catch her. He hardly expected what happened next.

  Somehow, she seized hold of him, taking his arm and twisting his body in midair like some warrior woman. Dazed and confused, he landed with a thud upon his back.

  “Goodness woman,” he said, and groaned.

  Elizabet stood, arms akimbo, and glared down at him. “What were you doing?”

  He gave her a look of wounded pride. “That hurt,” he protested.

  It served him right.

  Elizabet raised a brow at him, unmoved by his little-boy pout. “I heard you the first time you called,” she assured him. “Didn’t it occur to you there might be a reason I didn’t answer you at once?”

  His confusion turned slowly to comprehension, and his gaze snapped to the place where she’d been stooped and then back to her. He seemed suddenly to realize what he’d interrupted, and his eyes widened. His cheeks began to color, and he rolled over onto his side, grunting in pain.

  “It serves you right.”

  He ought to be as mortified as she was! “I’m fine,” he said, rolling back toward her, holding his arm, nursing it, and looking sheepishly up at her.

  “More’s the pity.” How dare he look so beset when she had every right to chastise him?

  “It’s just that... I saw you were gone,” he explained, wincing as he tried to rise.

  “Am I a prisoner in that hovel? Can I not leave to attend to my own affairs when I must?”

  He merely looked at her, blinking, but didn’t reply.

  “Well?” she persisted, vexed with herself for noticing, once more, the color of his eyes—the deepest blue she’d ever spied. “Am I your prisoner?” she demanded to know.

  “Nay,” he replied somewhat grudgingly, holding her gaze. Some strange light glittered there in the depths of his eyes. Admiration, mayhap? “I merely worried, lass.”

  “Aye, well, I have been taking care of myself since the day I was born,” she informed him baldly. “I can certainly handle myself as long as it takes to—”

  He grinned suddenly. “Pee?”

  Elizabet’s face heated. He didn’t have to put it quite so crudely. “Let me see your arm,” she demanded, changing the subject.

  He offered it to her without question, though smiling still. His mistake.

  “Ouch,” he said when she seized it.

  She didn’t feel the least bit sorry for him.

  And she didn’t know how to remove his garment either. She wanted to be certain he hadn’t hurt himself. “Take off your... dress,” she commanded.

  He shrugged away from her. “Och, it’s not a dress, lass and I’m fine.”

  “Of course you are, because you’re a man and you’re invincible,” Elizabet argued. “Now, take it off, please.”

  When he didn’t comply quickly enough, she took matters into her own hands, tugging at the garment to loosen it. Upon closer inspection, it was almost as though he’d just rolled himself up in one big piece of woolen cloth, and she grew frustrated at once. Surely there had to be some way to remove only the top portion of his clothing. “Haven’t you people ever heard of needle and thread?”

  He gave her a beleaguered look and once more tried to shrug free of her. “I dinna wish ye to take it off. We people dinna run about showing our bottoms to strange lasses.”

  Elizabet’s cheeks warmed. “We are no longer quite strangers after last night,” she reminded him.

  “I beg to differ,” he said, his eyes narrowing. “I’ve never met any woman stranger than you. One minute you like me, trust me, the next you loathe me and want to break my arm.”

  Elizabet’s brows collided. “I never said I trusted you.”

  “Nay,” he agreed. “Ye didn’t.” And he returned her wounded glance.

  “I only wanted to be sure you weren’t injured.”

  “Aye, lass, but trust me when I say I’m fine. I wasna joking before. If I undo one fold of my breacan, the whole of it will come undone.”

  For an instant, Elizabet merely stood, eyes wide, her face awash with realization. “Well then, at least let me check your limbs,” she insisted, holding out her arms.

  He complied.

  Good heavens, he was large.

  His forearms were massive and beautifully carved—like some majestic Roman statue. His biceps seemed as solid as stone. Thin white scars covered his body—the most prominent a diagonal line connecting his elbow and his wrist. Glancing as quickly as possible along his legs, her throat caught and she could only stare in awe at the scars she found scattered there as well. He was a man made for war, there was no doubt.

  Her gaze lingered and then, gasping softly at her own brazenness, she spun about, impatiently waving a hand, her face as hot as Hades must be. “You’re fine. You were right.”

  He chuckled at her back. “Next time mayhap you’ll trust me.”

  “Mayhap,” she whispered as she gazed inquisitively at the pain she saw nestled in his eyes. Feeling suddenly uncomfortable with this momentary vulnerability, she poked him sharply in the chest. “Next time, respect my privacy! You scared the—”

  “Pee out o’ ye?”

  Elizabet gasped, turning to face him, her eyes wide with shock at his crudeness. “You have no manners at all!”

  “I never claimed to,” he answered, throwing her own words back at her. “I’m a Scots barbarian, remember? We people are uncouth.”

  Guilt pricked at her.

  “This all could have been avoided had you simply answered me,” he rebuked her.

  “I would have answered just as soon as I was finished—”

  “Peeing?”

  Elizabet tossed her hands upward. “Argh! I don’t have to listen to this.”

  He continued to rebuke her as she walked away, “For all I knew you could have b
een in danger and couldna call to me. I was merely trying to help.”

  “Well, I wasn’t in danger, as you can see.” Except of wetting her shoes. She wiggled her toes, horrified by the discovery that she had indeed wet her slippers.

  “Not this time.”

  The dampness on her feet renewed her ire.

  She heard him chuckle softly at her back. “I do not find this the least amusing, I assure you,” she said without turning.

  “What can I say?” he reasoned. “I’m a man. I’m easily amused.”

  Elizabet had no reply to that.

  How could he remain so blithe when she was in a fit of temper? If she had not witnessed firsthand his fury yesterday afternoon, she’d never have believed him capable of anger. It was that everlasting mirth in his eyes that made him appear so harmless. She didn’t have to look to know he was watching her.

  She started back in the direction from whence she’d come, contemplating her strange reaction to this man. Why did her heart beat so fast when he stared at her? And why was she so angry at him, despite the fact that he was only trying to help? So what if he’d kissed her, in truth. He’d left her alone last night when she’d asked him to, and she could hardly blame him for assuming she was willing when she’d blatantly invited him into her arms.

  He was a threat to her somehow; he left her feeling vulnerable. Because something about him made her yearn for more than the lonely life of a spinster.

  She decided it was best to ignore the feelings he evoked in her. She wanted her freedom. She didn’t need a man to tell her how and when to live her life.

  “You’re going the wrong way,” he declared, and the sound of his voice made her heart leap.

  Elizabet turned to look at him, growing flustered.

  He was doing it again—making her dizzy, muddling her mind with a simple glance. She was completely turned around. She studied the woods then turned again to meet his amused gaze.

  “Are you certain?”

  He nodded. “I know these woods well, Elizabet.”