Chapter 2
The girl froze at the sound of his blade unsheathing.
Slowly, she turned toward him. Moonlight slid over her face, and for a moment, his breath stalled. Not out of admiration, though she was undeniably bonny, but out of recognition. This was Hunter’s bride.
Frederick’s description had been accurate: small and curvy, black hair, hazel eyes bright as firelight. And young. Far younger than he had expected.
Disapproval coiled tighter in his gut.
Another lass unfit for the burdens ahead.
He knew she was ill at the signing, but this young of a lass was not what he had expected and certainly not what Murdoch needed.
Her fingers clenched around her bundle, her knuckles white. She swallowed hard and lifted her chin. “I was merely…”
“Runnin’, lass. Ye were runnin’,” Maxwell gritted out, using his blade to point at the direction in which he saw her running not moments ago.
He started to close the distance, his stride unhurried but resolute.
“And quite poorly, at that. Ye are lucky the guards didnae have sharper eyes,” again he used the blade to point out the three guards just above her.
None of them looked down, even now as they conversed.
“I should speak with yer braither about that, in fact.”
Her head snapped up. “I wasnae running. I was…”
“Leaving,” he said impatiently, and the girl blanched.
“In the middle of the night. With nothin’ but the cloak on yer back and a sack full of anything but food,” he continued to brandish his blade at her, pointing at her thin cloak and pitiful sack that hung over her shoulder.
He felt his upper lip curl as he continued, “Foolish, at best.”
Her lips parted on a gasp of outrage, brows furrowing, and a fist dug into her hip. “I am nae foolish.”
“I see a lass. Outside the keep. With nay supplies, nay horse, and nay plan,” he said, his impatience growing quickly. “What would ye call it, then? A midnight stroll?”
She stiffened. “I have a plan.”
“I am sure ye did,” he murmured, unimpressed. “But whether it was good remains to be seen.”
She took a step back. He took two forward. Her eyes flickered toward the clearing, a hare cornered by a wolf, readying to bolt.
Maxwell sighed inwardly. Of all the messes Hunter could make, sending him a runaway bride on the very night of their betrothal was perhaps the most predictable.
“I daenae ken what me braither told ye,” he said. “But ye are his intended. Yet here ye are, scurrying about like a frightened rabbit.”
“Daenae call me that,” she snapped.
“A frightened rabbit?”
“I didnae ask or wish to be any man’s intended.”
“Ahh, I see. Well then, that makes the two of ye, I suppose,” he muttered.
Her eyes heated. “If yer braither doesnae wish to marry me, then I fail to see the problem.”
“The problem,” Maxwell growled, “is that yer safety becomes me responsibility the moment he takes yer hand. Running into the dark like this… It’s senseless.”
“I am nae yer responsibility,” she huffed.
He arched an eyebrow. “Nae yet, in the eyes of the Church, mayhap. But ye will be soon enough. The documents are already drafted. It is as good as done.”
She bristled. “I have nay intention of marrying a man who doesnae wish to marry me.”
“Then why leave without speaking to Frederick first?” he asked. “Or to yer maither? Or even to me?”
“Because none of ye would let me go,” she bit out. “I wanted—” She clamped her mouth shut.
Freedom. Choice. He saw it clearly in her eyes.
He exhaled, irritation prickling up his neck. “Running solves nothin’, lass. Ye daenae even have a plan.”
“I do,” she insisted.
“Oh, aye,” he said dryly. “Let me guess. Run until ye reach the border, then hope the wind carries ye the rest of the way?”
Her cheeks flushed a furious pink. “I would have figured out the rest.”
“Aye? When? Before or after I found ye?”
She lifted her chin stubbornly. “Ye assume I am helpless.”
“I assume ye are ill-prepared.” His gaze swept her from head to toe. “In addition to the list I have already started, I’m willing to bet that ye have nay weapon, and I doubt ye have ever spent a night alone on the road.”
“I could learn,” she said, though her voice held a traitorous tremor. “I could defend meself.”
Maxwell let out a humorless breath. “Is that so?”
“It is.”
He studied her for a long moment.
Stubborn. Reckless. Fire wrapped in softness. And far more trouble. Not at all what he had expected Hunter’s bride to be.
“Very well,” he said suddenly, pointing his blade at the space between them before twisting it back into the sheath.
She blinked. “What?”
“If ye can prove ye can protect yerself, I will let ye walk right out that gate.”
Her eyes widened. “Ye will?”
“Aye.”
She hesitated, suspicion flickering in her gaze. “What sort of proof?”
He shrugged, rolling his shoulders in a way that made his plaid shift. “Hit me.”
She gaped at him. “I beg yer pardon!”
“Hit me,” he repeated, his tone flat. “If ye can land a single blow, I will step aside and let ye run to whatever doom ye are after.”
Her outrage was immediate. “That is absurd!”
“Is it? Ye said ye can defend yerself. So, defend yerself.” He spread his feet, hands loose at his sides. “I willnae strike ye in return, of course. Just try to strike me. The brigands on the road at night willnae care if ye are a lady. Their attacks will land, indiscriminately.”
Her jaw clenched. “Fine.”
He bit back a smirk.
At least this will be over quickly.
She launched herself at him with an indignation that might have been impressive on someone taller.
Maxwell stepped aside, barely shifting his weight. She stumbled past him with a muffled sound of frustration, caught herself, and spun back.
“Stand still,” she demanded.
“Nay, I daenae think I will.”
Her eyes narrowed. She charged again, this time aiming for his arm. He caught her wrist with insulting ease and raised an eyebrow.
“Is this truly yer best? I would think Frederick might have taught ye better.”
She wrenched back, her small fingers twisting, but he did not loosen his grip. She glared up at him, her hazel eyes blazing with a mix of fury and something like fear. Not fear of him, but fear of failure.
He dropped her wrist at once. “Again,” he ordered.
She attacked with more thought this time, trying to slip around him, switching sides, grasping at his sleeve. His boots barely scuffed the packed earth as he pivoted, deflecting each attempt with a flick of his wrist or a shift of his shoulder.
Her breathing grew harsher, her steps less steady. Yet she kept coming at him.
He almost admired it. Almost.
“Ye arenae even trying,” she accused, panting lightly.
“Oh, I am trying,” he said. “I am trying nae to hurt ye.”
Color surged in her cheeks. “Ye think I am weak.”
“Hardly. I think ye are determined,” he said. “And far too proud for yer own good.”
She swung at him then, wild, frustrated, and utterly untrained. He caught her fist between his hands, his palms closing gently around her trembling fingers. The tremors startled him.
She froze, her chest rising and falling, her breath coming too quickly. Then her eyes filled. Not with fear, but with plain frustration and embarrassment.
Maxwell felt something in his chest lurch unpleasantly.
“Daenae cry,” he said, more gruffly than he had intended.
“I am nae crying,” she snapped, blinking furiously as tears betrayed her anyway. “I am simply tired. And angry. And…”
“Frustrated,” he said through gritted teeth.
She tugged her hand free. “Ye mock me.”
“I do nae.”
“Ye do,” she insisted. “Ye are enjoying this. Watching me struggle.”
“That isnae what I am doing.”
“Then what are ye doing?” she demanded, her voice thick with tears she clearly hated.
He exhaled sharply. He had not meant to make her cry. He had expected fire, not this.
“I am showing ye the truth,” he said. “The road ye meant to take tonight is far more dangerous than I am. If ye cannae best me, and I have nay intention of harming ye, then ye would have nay chance out there. Ye would be dead or wishing ye were by dawn.”
She stiffened at that. A small, wounded sound escaped her, quickly stifled.
He cursed under his breath and dragged a hand through his hair. He was armored for battle and hostility, not for this.
“I didnae mean it cruelly,” he muttered. “But ye must hear it plainly.”
Her lashes were wet, her cheeks blotchy with color. Yet her gaze sharpened, as if a new thought had struck her.
“Ye speak as if danger follows me clan, too,” she said slowly.
He stilled.
Her voice lowered. “Why would it matter to ye if I ran? Why does McNeill care whether McIntosh has its alliances or nae? Why…” she trailed off as realization dawned. Her lips parted slightly.
“Frederick didnae tell ye, then?” Maxwell murmured.
Her eyes rose, searching his face. “Tell me what?”
For a moment, he considered saying nothing. It was not his place. Frederick should have explained long before this night. The lass had every right to be furious.
And he could not bear the thought of being the cause of her tears a moment longer.
He drew a slow breath. “O’Douglas has been sniffing around both our borders.”
Fear flickered in her eyes. She undoubtedly knew his reputation, but he was nothing compared to the devastation that O’Douglas had caused these past years. One would have had to be living under a rock to not know it, or at least hear of it.
“Our lands lie nearest,” Maxwell continued. “He has been pushing farther each season. Testing our defenses. Raiding crofts. He wants more land, more power. And he kens that if he can pit our clans against one another, if he can make one vulnerable, he wins.”
She said nothing, so he pressed on.
“An alliance between McIntosh and McNeill makes the matter plain. Frederick stands with me and I with him, because of ye. Two clans. Two armies. And if O’Douglas dares test that bond, I will show him exactly why men learned long ago to fear me name.”
Her lips parted, but no sound came.