Chapter 2
Nora’s heart pounded as if it was trying to leap out of her chest. She could feel each beat fluttering against her ribs.
This was a terrible idea, she thought frantically, resisting the urge to turn tail and flee, plunging into the crowd. With her nondescript green healer’s cloak, she could probably melt away.
Would anyone come after me?
The answer presented itself at once. Laird Bryden would. He’d come barging after her, furious and panicked. It was too late to back out now. If either of them changed their mind, that was it. No more treaty. No more peace.
The chance to change her mind had come and gone.
She glanced at the man across from her, trying again to find her bearings.
He didn’t make sense. That thought in itself didn’t make sense.
Up close, he was just as tall and imposing as she’d expected. More, even. He hadn’t bothered to dress up, not like most of the other people at the festival. He wore a loose, almost translucent shirt, which she was trying not to look at.
If she looked too hard, she might see the pinkish tinge of his skin beneath.
And then there was a kilt and a pair of well-worn boots.
No sword at his hip, of course, but she could easily imagine him with one.
He watched her with the intent stare of a wolf watching its next meal, and she felt the urge to shrink back like the frightened sheep he’d said that she wasn’t.
He wore a wooden mask, probably padded on the inside with felt or wool to make it comfortable. It was a simple piece, tied at the back with ribbon. Beneath it, dark eyes flashed out, so dark she thought they might be completely black.
As if amused at her scrutiny, his mouth curved into a slow half-smile.
“Making a study of me, eh, lass?”
“I’m lookin’ at ye, if that’s what ye mean,” she shot back. “Would ye prefer I didnae? Giving me orders already—now that would be a bad start.”
Stop it, she screamed at herself in her head. Ye have to impress him. If he calls this whole thing off, nae only will the peace treaty never happen, but ye will never have the chance to search for Margaret. Take nay risks. Swallow yer pride, fool, if only for a little while.
He only chuckled, shaking his head. “Ye ken, it’s nae wise to speak so sharply to a laird, lassie. Some men might take offence.”
“Are ye the kind of man who takes offence at the thoughtless words of a simple lass?” Nora responded at once, wincing at her own description of herself as a simple lass. Judging by the way he pursed his lips, the comment didn’t sit well with him.
“Nay, I am nae,” he answered brusquely. “But ye daenae ken that, do ye? Have a care, Nora Lane. Me keep is nae like the home ye are used to. There are dangers there which ye have nae yet imagined. I would tread lightly, if I were ye.”
She could not repress a shiver at his words and glanced sideways to see if Laird Bryden had heard.
He hadn’t, apparently, on account of being deep in conversation with the woman Laird MacColl had provided. Her name was Skye, Nora recalled with an effort. Perhaps they might have been friends in another situation.
Or perhaps nae, she thought, when Skye’s gaze skipped over her, her expression inward-looking.
“I hope we willnae leave before we’ve enjoyed the festivities,” she said, smiling up at Laird Bryden. “Do ye care to dance? I love dancin’.”
“I daenae love it,” Evander responded. “But I can dance, if ye would like it?” he added through gritted teeth.
Skye beamed. “Aye, I’d like that very much.”
It was all show, of course, Nora guessed that. But who knew, perhaps Skye and Evander would become friends.
“I daenae care to dance,” Laird MacColl said heavily. “In fact, I would like to return now, if ye agree.”
Nora swallowed thickly, turning to face him. He was watching her carefully.
“I am ready,” she heard herself say. “I’ll leave when ye are ready to go.”
“Good,” he answered briskly, turning away. “I’ll bid goodbye to yer laird, and if the fates allow, we’ll meet here this time next year. Did ye bring yer things?”
Nora wordlessly held up her leather knapsack, which carried her limited clothes, spare boots, a few books, and, of course, her herbs and medicines.
Laird MacColl blinked, taken aback.
“What, is that all ye have?”
“What else is there for me to have?” she responded defensively.
“I daenae ken. Fancy gowns. Jewels. Trinkets. Do ye mean to say that cloak is the only one ye have?”
She tugged self-consciously at her cloak. “Well… well, aye.”
He grunted and turned away. In a few brief words, he said his goodbyes to Evander and his cousin. Laird Bryden glanced briefly at Nora, eyebrows flickering with an unspoken question. She nodded firmly, and he returned the gesture, turning back to Skye.
That was that, then. Laird MacColl placed a firm hand on the small of Nora’s back.
She wasn’t expecting that, and the touch took her by surprise.
His hand, large and warm, seemed to burn right through her clothing and onto her bare skin.
She could almost trace the outline of it.
Why was his hand so warm? Not sweaty or damp, just hot.
Tingles spread across her spine. Healers, of course, spent their days touching others and avoiding being touched themselves.
What would it feel like if his hand slid up her spine to the nape of her neck?
If he touched her side, perhaps curling around to cup her hip, or…
Shut up, she hissed at herself. Are ye goin’ mad? Daenae think of him touchin’ ye at all. Why do ye want him to touch ye?
Her brain steadily refused to offer any answers.
He easily pushed her off the podium and back onto solid ground. It wasn’t a shove, but there was no chance she would resist him. That thought sent a spark of unease through her stomach, mixed with... with something else, something she couldn’t quite identify.
It seemed wise to put that thought aside.
Without the thick canvas walls of the three-sided tent, the wind raked at her, tugging at her hair and ruffling her gown.
The MacColl men had prepared a path from them, grimly pushing festival-goers out of the way.
The path snaked around the tent toward the forest, and she spotted a group of horses all clustered together, guarded by more MacColls.
“I brought a horse for ye, I assumed ye wouldnae have one,” Laird MacColl said briskly, his gaze fixed ahead of him. It’s a good few hours’ ride back to the Keep. Ye can ride well, I take it?”
“Of course,” she responded, insulted that he might think otherwise.
He grunted in response, glancing down at her. He did a double-take and frowned.
“The mask. Might as well take it off.”
She paused. Did he mean for her to take off her mask, or…
The answer came shortly. He reached up to the ribbons of his own mask, deftly unlacing it and tugging the wood away from his eyes.
They weren’t black, she could see now in the light.
They were brown, a dark peat-brown, the color of a burn running right beneath an overhanging tree, the water brackish and deep.
The same color as his mask, in fact. He had heavy, dark brows curling over his eyes.
Those brows flickered as she watched them.
“Now ye,” he added, and before she could say or do anything, he reached forward, tugging once at the knot at the back of her head.
It came loose immediately, flopping forward and away from her face.
He snatched it up, tossing the fabric back at her.
She caught it reflexively, trying not to flinch under the sensation of his eyes raking over her.
He made no effort to hide how intently he was looking at her, inspecting her.
To her annoyance, a blush crept over her cheeks, warm and prickling. He would notice that too, no doubt. There wasn’t too much she could do about her blushes; she’d learned that.
His eyes dropped lower, inspecting her mouth.
The scar.
Nora’s hand twitched, wanting to press over her mouth, wanting to cover it. But that was foolish. There’s no way he could have missed it, the sharp line which started right above her top lip and raked down across her mouth, coming to a pointed stop halfway down her chin.
Laird MacColl blinked, his brows knitting together. Suddenly, so quickly that it made her jump, he turned away.
“Ye said ye can ride?” he demanded shortly, striding off toward the horses. Two horses had already been taken out of the group, led by a groom each, and some of the soldiers were busily preparing to mount up and follow.
“Aye, I already told ye,” she answered, missing a beat, and hurried after him.
“Good. Ye can mount up yerself?”
“Aye,” she responded, more piqued this time. It was the scar. He’d seen it and disliked it.
Why should that matter? Pointed out a small voice at the back of her head. This isnae a love match. It shouldnae be a love match, because ye will be partin’ ways in a year, maybe sooner.
Even so, he was meant to be a fearsome laird, a seasoned warrior. A man who wasn’t supposed to be scarred by anything. And now here he was, repulsed by a little scar? Ridiculous.
It’s for the best, she reminded herself. Do ye want him to like ye? Nay. Nay, ye do nae. Nae in the slightest. His affection and attention will only bring ye harm.
If she kept telling herself that, the thought would suddenly become comfortable, she was sure of it. Perseverance. That was the key here.
They reached the horses. The huge, black stallion with flashing eyes and a glossy mane was quite clearly for Laird MacColl. He slung himself up without a hint of difficulty, and the monstrous beast pranced underneath him. He paused, glancing down at Nora, and lifted his eyebrows.
“Fetch a mountin’ block for the lady,” he ordered.
“Nay need,” she replied immediately, before she could waste time worrying about whether she actually needed it or not.