Chapter 14 #2
Sure enough, the wicked glint returned to his eyes. “There are other ways to be gone from here.”
He swept her bedchamber with an assessing glance, then fixed his gaze on her. “You shun adornments and coin. A locked chest in my quarters at Baldoon contains a treasure I suspect will hold more appeal for you.”
“That I doubt.” Isolde folded her arms and waited.
He leaned forward. “Lint scraped from the robe of St. Columba.”
Isolde blinked. “Is that so?”
“True as I’m chained to your bed.”
“That is remarkable.” The most outrageous lie I have ever heard.
She started to tell him just what she thought of such relics, but the night wind blowing off the sea strengthened then, and the gusts rattled the window shutters. As she waited, he misunderstood her silence, for he leaned even closer, a hawk spreading its wings to swoop in for the kill.
“That is no’ all,” he said, his tone more than a little triumphant.
“The knob on the hilt of my father’s sword contains the dried blood of the Loch Ness beastie.
One of my ancestors fought the creature, though she escaped, swimming away with only a scratch.
Still, the blood specks are powerful, my late da’s sword charmed and invincible. ”
Isolde laughed.
She couldn’t help herself. The laughter started deep in her belly and bubbled upward until she couldn’t contain it. Indeed, her eyes watered and her ribs hurt.
The MacLean flushed a deep red.
She smiled. How could she not? The gods knew she’d had little reason to do so of late and it felt good. Pleasing warmth even blossomed in her chest.
“There is nothing amusing in such relics.” He scowled at her. “Great men put much faith in their powers. Think what your clan could do with such treasures.”
“I can imagine.” Isolde let her smile deepen. “And we shall leave it at that.”
“Aye, well!” He slapped the table. “Did you know there is a faery knoll near Baldoon? ’Tis said that-”
“My good sir,” Isolde cut him off. “I do believe you have faulty hearing. I have said your freedom cannot be bought. Splendor and riches do not impress me. Neither do boasts of holy relics and other fabled oddities such as dried flecks of loch monster blood.” She paused to dab at the corners of her eyes with her napkin.
“Not even if I believed them to be real, which I do not.
“Further…” This time she leaned forward. “You do not strike me as a man to rely on faeries.”
“At the moment, sweeting, I will do whate’er I must.”
She sat back, her gaze locked on his. “I shall beg forgiveness of the old ones if my next words offend them, but I vow, Laird MacLean, were you truly in possession of such wonders, the late Edward Longshanks of England would have sent his armies decades ago to seize them. Perhaps even our own late great Robert the Bruce would have appeared at your castle gate?”
To her astonishment, his anger appeared to ebb away. Even the hard glint in his eyes softened. For a long moment, he studied her in silence. Then a corner of his mouth hitched up.
“You have a quick wit,” he said. “Under different circumstances, I would appreciate such spirit. As is…” His smile flashed. “Might I convince you a horde of roaming monks once sought to steal Baldoon’s collection of prized relics?”
“You may say what you wish.” Isolde stiffened, annoyed because his attempt at sincere-sounding humor made her heart flutter. The sensation was just as surprising and pleasurable as the tingling warmth he’d caused between her legs.
She sat up straighter, worried such tingles would return. “I will not believe thieving holy men ply these waters nor will I fall for any other of your tall tales.”
“And if they are engaging?” he asked softly.
She tried to ignore the soothing quality his voice took on when he spoke in such low, gentle tones. He should have the harsh and gravelly voice of a stone troll. As is, he was luring her in with the magic of his beautiful voice.
It was a trick she couldn’t allow herself to fall for.
And if you already have?
Fearing that was so, she placed her hands, palms down, on the table. “You can recite the entirety of supposed treasures and concoct enough grand-sounding sagas to claim yourself a master storyteller, and you would still not impress me.”
Just please stop looking at me as you are now and cease speaking in such a seductive manner or I will run screaming from the room. And the gods pity me for I do not know where I could go.
“What a shame.”
Her eyes widened and for a moment, she wondered if she’d spoken aloud.
“Nae.” She shook her head. “The shame will be if you continue with such belligerence. I shall already face great difficulties to convince my council not to execute you.”
“Nothing they can do would be a worse torment than being bound to your bed each night.” His gaze lowered to her half-undone bodice. “Most especially if you pursue your reason for having me brought to you.”
Embarrassment and something else, something much more disturbing, washed over her. Uncomfortable beneath his perusal, she tore off a piece of crusty brown bread and popped it into her mouth.
She noticed a familiar bitter taste at once and snatched her cup, washing down the bread with a generous gulp of ale.
“Stale bread?” The MacLean cocked a brow, his eyes sparking with amusement.
“Nae, of course not.”
“You didnae like it.”
“It’s very good.” Or, rather it was. Somehow it now tastes of Devorgilla’s anti-attraction potion.
The MacLean folded his arms, eyeing her suspiciously. “I dinnae believe you.”
“Then don’t.” She reached for another piece, forcing herself to eat it. “Dunmuir has one of the finest kitchens in the Isles,” she said, helping herself to a nicely crisped frog leg. Unfortunately, one bite proved her worst fears…
The crone had not only slipped a flagon of the anti-attraction potion onto the dinner tray, she’d also used her foray into Dunmuir’s kitchens to douse the food with the bitter-tasting brew.
Now she knew why Bodo slept so peacefully rather than begging for treats. He’d surely smelled the tincture-laced food the moment Rory brought the platter into the room.
“No’ wanting your Cook’s frog legs either, my lady?”
“Not just now.” Isolde placed the delicacy on the thick-slabbed trencher without a further bite.
“You intrigue me.” He angled his head, studying her. “You ate heartily last night. Has your appetite abandoned you?”
“Cook seems to have used a heavy hand with the spices,” she improvised, glancing away.
Anywhere but at him.
She’d had enough of his glinting eyes and slow smiles. Just sharing a table with him, even breathing the same air, proved too much to bear.
He was, simply put, a beast.
“Surely the bread is no’ overly spiced?” he prodded, his innocent tone not fooling her.
“I do not have an appetite this night.” She kept her gaze on the hearth fire. “Please indulge your own.”
“Perhaps I shall.”
The way he’d said the words made her glance back at him. He looked guileless, but then she glimpsed a flash of white that disappeared so quickly she might have been mistaken. But she didn’t think so. He’d quirked a smile, revealing his pleasure in bedeviling her.
Heat bloomed on her neck and cheeks. “Shall what?”
This time he smiled for sure. A corner of his mouth kicked up and then the smile spread until he was almost grinning.
“Slake my appetite,” he said. “It has been overlong since I’ve indulged.” He began piling frog legs onto his trencher. “Total satiety should prove most restorative.”
She gave him a fuming look, but then recalled the anti-attraction potion. All her carefully drawn plans would collapse if he ate the tincture-steeped food.
“Wait!” She grabbed his wrist just before he bit into a frog leg. “Those are spoiled. I would not see you ill.”
“Spoiled?” He shook free of her grasp. Holding the frog leg between two fingers, he peered at it. The delicacy was well larded and nicely crisped.
He looked back at her, his smile returning. “Fair lady, I do not believe you.”