Chapter Four Murieall
The words hung between us like a physical thing, the heat of them burning my cheeks despite the damp chill of my clothes.
One month in his bed. That was his price.
I stared at Munro Ross, with his wine-stained tunic and unkempt beard, and disgust rose, but my desperation quickly smothered it.
I needed him to break my curse, though he didn’t yet know it.
My life’s carefully laid plans had crumbled to dust, and this broken, drunken laird was my only hope of rebuilding them.
I drew a steadying breath, feeling the weight of all I had risked coming here.
My brother would be frantic, as would my parents.
And I still had to travel to Liam after this.
Imagining more nights in the dark woods alone, listening for any strange sounds, made a sob rise in my throat as well as gooseflesh pepper my arms. Yet it was easy to make a choice when only one led back to the future I had mapped out for myself.
“Fine,” I said, lifting my chin and meeting his gaze directly.
“I’ll share yer bed.” I expected to see triumph flash in his eyes, but he looked more wary than anything.
That gave me the courage to add what I’d intended.
“But nae yer body,” I said, my voice growing more confident with each word I spoke.
My innocence was for Liam. “Ye’ll have my presence, nae my submission. ”
His eyebrows rose, and the wariness on his face gave way to what appeared to be grudging respect, but it was there and gone so quickly I might have imagined it.
“Bold,” he said, leaning forward in his chair, his gaze sharpening as he studied me anew. “Most women would slap my face and storm off.”
I had the oddest feeling that was the reaction he’d been hoping for. “I’m nae most women, Laird Munro,” I replied. His right-hand man shifted uncomfortably, his gaze flicking between us as if watching the uncertain outcome of a dangerous wager.
“That much is apparent,” he said dryly. “If ye’re to share my bed, ye may as well call me Munro, and I’ll need ye to tell me exactly what ye require protection from. Should I expect an army of warriors to come looking for ye? Will protecting ye drag me into a war?”
I hesitated, the carefully prepared explanation I’d rehearsed during my journey suddenly seeming woefully inadequate. The truth was impossible—he would think me as mad as everyone else did. But a lie might unravel with time.
“A witch’s magic,” I said finally, and winced internally at how I sounded.
His laugh confirmed my fears, a harsh bark of sound that echoed in the empty hall.
“Magic? Ye expect me to believe in such childish nonsense? Next ye’ll be telling me ye fear the faeries will steal ye away.
” He shook his head, bringing his goblet to his lips once more.
“If ye wish for my protection, ye’ll need a better tale than that. ”
The voices stirred then, as if summoned by my anxiety, a low murmur at first, like the distant rumble of thunder before a storm.
Bernard poisoned the well. Ye must tell his son before more die.
The bairn is nae Graeme’s. Tell him the truth.
I pressed my lips together, willing the voices to quiet, but they only grew louder, more insistent. My head began to throb with the effort of containing them, of appearing normal before these men who held my fate in their hands.
“The witch Morgana cursed me,” I persisted, clinging to a half-truth. “She’s powerful and vengeful. I need a haven until I can break her curse.”
“Morgana,” James said suddenly, his voice sharp with recognition. “The witch of the Dark Woods? There are tales of her, even this far north.”
Munro cast a glance at his companion, clearly irritated by his intervention. “Tales told to frighten children and fools,” he said dismissively. He turned his gaze back to me, his eyes narrowing. “If this witch is so fearsome, why did ye nae travel with a guard? And where were ye travelling to?”
“I lost my brother, as I said. He was taking me to a convent,” I added, praying my voice didn’t betray my lie. “We became separated in a storm, and I can nae return to my home, as my parents cast me out.”
“Why would yer own parents cast ye out?” he demanded.
Beside him, James began to cough. Suddenly, Munro flushed and nodded as if James had silently reminded him of something.
“Verra well,” he said finally, setting his goblet down with deliberate care.
“I’ll provide ye shelter and protection for one month.
Ye’ll share my bed each night, though I’ll nae force myself upon ye.
” A mocking smile curved his lips. “I do nae lack for willing women, so ye do nae need to fret that I’ll be taking ye unwilling now. ”
The relief that flooded me was so intense I nearly swayed on my feet.
“Thank ye, Munro,” I said, feeling strange about using his given name, but he was right that using titles after striking such a coarse bargain was odd.
He waved a dismissive hand as his gaze traveled over me once more, lingering on my damp hair and then moving to my travel-stained cloak.
“I’ll have a servant show ye to chambers where ye can refresh yerself.
Tonight, ye’ll come to my bed clean and rested.
” He lifted his goblet again in a mocking toast. “Let us begin our bargain properly.”
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak further as the voices swelled once more, pressing against the inside of my skull like prisoners against the bars of their cell. I had one month to find a way to fulfill the witch’s task to break my curse and reclaim my carefully ordered life.
I had to. There was no other path left for me.