Chapter 9
By the time they reached Drynoch, Callum’s hand was bleeding again. His white cotton handkerchief was glued to his fingers with clots of fresh, dark red blood.
It hurt like the devil, too.
Rumors, lies, and exaggerations dogged the MacLeod sisters, just as Hamish had said, but one thing was certain: dirks, blades, or sharp objects of any kind were best kept out of their devious clutches.
It hadn’t been luck or chance guiding Freya’s hand when she’d sliced him open last night.
Chance wasn’t that kind, and no one was that lucky.
She’d known exactly what she was doing when she’d brought that blade down on his hand. She angled it just right to ensure the deadliest edge of it came down right across his knuckles.
The chit had damn near sliced his fingers off.
His digits remained miraculously intact, thankfully, but she’d reduced his hand to a pulpy mess of shredded flesh, and he was reminded of it with every twitch of the reins between his fingers.
Someone had taught her how to handle a dirk. Her father, most likely. He’d never encountered Rory MacLeod in the flesh, but if the rumors about him were true, then Rory wasn’t a man one wanted to tangle with. As for his daughters, they were every inch the vixens one would expect such a man to sire.
Only a fool risked turning his back on a MacLeod, unless he fancied having a dirk buried between his ribs. Even Freya, with those innocent green eyes and the gold threads in her hair that made her look like an angel, had turned out to be handy with a blade.
God only knew what other tricks she had tucked up her sleeve. One would never guess it to look at her, but the lass was full of surprises.
Awful things, surprises. He’d never understood why people were so fond of them. Surprises started as secrets, were fed on lies, and ended unpredictably. There was nothing enjoyable about that.
But if it hadn’t been for Freya’s bravery last night, they would never have made a clean escape from Dunvegan. They’d been in a tight spot last night—as tight a one as he’d ever been in—but the girl had kept her wits about her.
When he dragged her out from under that desk he’d braced himself for incoherent sobbing, at best, and at worst, dramatic swooning.
Neither had happened. She’d stabbed him with a dirk, yes, but if he’d been in her place, he would have done the same.
He understood that impulse to strike out, that animal instinct to survive. Respected it, even.
She remained calm afterward, too, even as a mob of enraged villagers tried to batter down the front door of her castle.
She’d done just as he’d told her to do, without a word of complaint.
She’d scampered up that courtyard wall without the least hesitation, then dropped down to the ground without a wince.
Then she’d scampered over that devil of a pathway above Loch Dunvegan as if she spent every day balanced on a cliff’s edge.
In half boots a size too large for her, no less.
But the tempting curves she was hiding under the shapeless dresses she wore? That was a less welcome surprise. There wasn’t a man alive who’d choose to ride with a cock stand, but after hours in the saddle with her sweetly rounded arse nestled between his thighs, his body had overruled his head.
She mumbled something in her sleep, turning her face into his neck, and he tightened his arms around her, settling her more firmly against his chest.
Not because he wanted her closer. He didn’t. He wasn’t some romantic hero, clasping his lady tenderly in his arms. He had needs just like any other man did, of course, and he saw to it those needs were satisfied, but there wasn’t any reason to linger over the business.
Tender caresses, endless kisses, sweet words, and displays of affection?
No.
He didn’t cuddle, damn it, and he wasn’t going to start with the lass who’d stabbed him, but given their situation, he had little choice in the matter.
He had to keep his arms around her if he didn’t want her tumbling off his horse.
He’d gone to too much trouble to get her out of Dunvegan to let her break her bloody neck now.
Hamish was already going to have his head, as it was.
Besides, it was cold and wet, the dampness seeping into his bones. The rain was still falling, and for all Freya MacLeod’s murderous tendencies, the warm, solid weight of her against his chest wasn’t entirely unpleasant.
She smelled like rain, and the woods, and something else, something sweet he couldn’t name. Vanilla, or honey? Not that he’d sniffed her, of course, but her head was tucked under his chin, and the wisps of red-gold hair that had escaped her braid were tickling his nostrils.
It wasn’t as if he wanted to smell her. He’d even tried breathing through his mouth, but as the night wore on, he gave up and let his chin rest against the top of her head.
After riding throughout the night, they’d at last reached Kyleakin. From here they’d cross Loch Alsh and leave the Isle of Skye behind. From the Kyle of Lochalsh on the other side, it was another three-day ride to Kildary.
If the journey went as well as he hoped, they’d arrive at Balnagown Castle before the end of the week.
And once they did, then what? Freya wasn’t going to appreciate being detained in Kildary for the next few weeks, and she wasn’t going to be the only one.
There would be no warm welcome awaiting her at Balnagown Castle.
What was he meant to do with her? Lock her in a bedchamber until he received word from Keir that the danger had passed, or until Hamish returned to Dunvegan?
He hadn’t any blessed idea, but there wasn’t a damned thing he could do about it.
He’d promised Hamish he’d keep her safe, and the safest place for Freya MacLeod was as far away from Dunvegan as he could get her.
Whether she’d ever be able to return to her home wasn’t for him to say. It would depend on whether Sorcha MacLeod had set that stable on fire. If she had, then God help her.
God help her, even if she hadn’t.
The villagers hadn’t been in a forgiving mood last night. If they caught either of the MacLeod sisters now, they’d fit their necks with a pair of nooses first and ask questions only after they swung.
But none of that was his concern. He’d sworn to protect her until Hamish returned from his travels, and not a single moment longer than that. He’d wash his hands of her at the first opportunity, and never spare her another thought once he had.
“Sorcha?” Freya twitched against him, and he tensed.
She hadn’t awoken, but sleep wasn’t any protection from the nightmares playing in her head, because a moment later she jerked again, whimpering.
“Quickly, Sorcha. Run … the woods? No, don’t—”
She broke off with a gasp, but there was such agony in that last word, such anguish that he tightened his arms around her instinctively, bracing his forearms against the sides of her body, so slight and vulnerable against him.
He didn’t trust her. She proven last night that she was a schemer and a liar, and a bit too handy with a blade for his com fort. She might be the least dangerous of the three MacLeod sisters, but that was like saying she was the least venomous of a nest of venomous snakes.
But no one deserved to go through a nightmare alone. So, he pressed her closer against his chest, praying she wouldn’t wake and produce a hidden dirk from within the voluminous folds of that ridiculous cloak she wore, and slash open the knuckles of his other hand.
There’s nothing wrong with a lass with a little spirit, eh?
Had it only been hours since Keir had asked him that? It seemed impossible, but not even a whole day had passed since he and Keir had stood in the doorway of Castle Cairncross and watched as Freya MacLeod disappeared into the trees.
Look at where all her spirit had gotten her.
Spirit could be a dangerous thing, for a woman. He needn’t look further than his own mother for proof of that.
Spirit could get a woman cast out of her clan. Or burned at the stake.
The lady in his arms was a witch, by some people’s reckoning. A dangerous creature, clever and cunning, with the power to summon the wind and thunder, and able to conjure rain and lightning with a magical flick of her slender fingers.
Pure absurdity. As clever as Freya MacLeod undoubtedly was, she was no witch. But neither was she the harmless chit she appeared to be.
An hour passed, then another. Freya shuddered in his arms, another whimper falling from her lips, but then sleep took her again and she burrowed into him the way a terrified child might after suffering through a nightmare.
But she was no child, and he was no one’s savior. If the last twenty-nine years of his life hadn’t proved much, they had proved that. He couldn’t even save himself.
What had Hamish been thinking, asking him to watch over the MacLeod sisters? Keir, yes. It made sense to ask Keir. But him?
No. Love must have driven Hamish into temporary madness.
Freya didn’t stir again, but lay quietly against him, her long, dark golden eyelashes resting against cheeks as pale as the flickering rays of white sunlight just peeking through the clouds.
Her nightmares had passed, but they’d return soon enough.
For now, it was best if she slept.
There was no peace awaiting Freya MacLeod once she opened her eyes.
The night was too dark. If it hadn’t been so dark, she would have found her way back to Castle Cairncross by now.
Back to Sorcha.
It was what she told herself as the distance between her and her home grew by inches and ells, by falls, furlongs, and miles.
If the darkness hadn’t been so impenetrable, the night so cold, the stars so absent, she would have fled Callum Ross’s protection.
She’d be like Sorcha’s sparrowhawks, soaring over the land, steady and unafraid, her talons at the ready and her sharp, yellow predator’s gaze fixed on her castle’s turret.