Chapter 2 #2
The battle erupted and ended in the span of a breath. MacLeod’s sword work was brutal, precise, final. English blood soaked the forest floor before his warriors could join the slaughter.
Moyra couldn’t tear her gaze away. He moved through the carnage like a Highland god of war—massive, deadly, beautiful in his violence. When he’d called her “mine,” her pulse had quickened.
“Lass.” His voice was gentler now as he approached her trembling form. A few drops of English blood spattered his cheek, but his eyes held concern rather than the cold fury she’d seen moments before. “Are ye hurt?”
She shook her head, not trusting her voice. The near miss had shaken her more than she cared to admit, and the sight of him covered in the blood of men who had died protecting her—or capturing her, she wasn’t entirely sure which—left her feeling strangely unsteady.
“Good.” He sheathed his sword with practiced ease. “Now, suppose ye tell me who ye really are, since it’s clear ye lied about being no one of importance. English soldiers dinnae risk their lives fer just ay lass.”
Moyra lifted her chin, some of her spirit returning now that the immediate danger had passed. “And suppose ye tell me why a MacLeod raids English castles instead of tending tae his own lands.”
His mouth curved in what might have been a smile. “Clever lass. But ye’re avoiding the question.”
“As are ye.”
They stared at each other in the flickering torchlight, and Moyra became acutely aware of how he towered over her, how the breadth of his shoulders blocked out everything else.
There was something magnetic about him, something that made her pulse quicken despite every rational thought screaming at her to be afraid.
“I’ll make ye a bargain,” he said finally. “Truth fer truth. I’ll tell ye why I’m here if ye tell me who ye are.”
“And if I refuse?”
“Then ye’ll come with me anyway, but the journey will be far less pleasant fer both of us.”
There was steel beneath the silk of his voice, and Moyra had no doubt he meant every word. She was completely at his mercy, alone and defenseless in the aftermath of battle. But something in his grey eyes suggested he wasn’t quite the monster her father had painted him to be.
“Yer word that ye’ll answer truthfully?” she asked.
“Me word as Laird of Clan MacLeod.”
She studied his face, searching for any hint of deception. What she found was rock-solid certainty. It did something strange to her breathing. “Very well. I am Moyra MacKenzie, daughter of Laird Keith MacKenzie.”
The change in his expression was immediate and profound. His eyes hardened to chips of winter steel, and his jaw clenched as if he were physically restraining himself from violence. “MacKenzie,” he repeated, the name falling from his lips like a curse.
“Aye. And now yer turn, Laird MacLeod. Why are ye here?”
For a long moment, she thought he might refuse to honor their bargain. Then his mouth curved in a smile that held no warmth whatsoever. “I came tae retrieve proof of a betrayal—evidence that Arundel was behind an attack that cost me family dearly. Documents that will see him answer fer his crimes.”
“And did ye find what ye sought?”
“Oh, aye. I found far more than I bargained fer.” His gaze traveled over her face with new intensity. “Keith MacKenzie’s daughter, hidden away in an English dungeon. Now why would a Highland laird send his own flesh and blood tae such a fate?”
The question hit too close to the heart of her shame and betrayal.
“He didnae send me here,” she said sharply, lifting her chin.
“Me faither sent me tae the priory fer protection. We were attacked on the road—English soldiers. They killed our guards and brought me tae this place.” Her voice wavered slightly.
“He daesnae even ken where I am. The rest’s none of yer concern. ”
“I’m afraid it is now, lass. Ye see, ye’re coming with me back tae the Highlands.”
“I am nae!”
“Ye are.” He stepped closer, and she caught that intoxicating scent of leather and steel again. “Like it or nae, Moyra MacKenzie, ye’re now under me protection.”
“I never asked fer yer protection!”
“And yet ye have it. The question is whether ye’ll accept it gracefully, or if I’ll need tae carry ye kicking and screaming all the way back tae Castle MacLeod.”
From the set of his shoulders and the implacable expression on his scarred face, Moyra realized he was completely serious. This Highland giant intended to take her into the heart of enemy territory, for reasons she couldn’t begin to fathom.
“Why?” she whispered, hating how small her voice sounded. “Why would ye want Keith MacKenzie’s daughter under yer roof?”
His smile this time was sharp as a blade. “Because, Lady Moyra, yer faither wants something that belongs tae me. And now...”
He reached out to trace one finger along her cheek, the touch gentle despite the calluses that marked his warrior’s hands. The simple contact sent fire racing along her nerve endings in ways that left her breathless and confused.
“Now I have something that belongs tae him.”