Chapter 9 #2
Forcing herself to focus on the game, Meg reached across the board and nervously adjusted some of the ebony pieces that Elizabeth had been setting up.
Alex stopped her, circling her wrist with his strong fingers.
Startled by the heat of his touch and the sensation rippling through her, Meg looked up into his face to see an amused glint in his blue eyes.
“They’re fine. I don’t think it’s necessary for the pieces to all face precisely the same direction. ”
Meg cheeks fired; she hadn’t even realized what she’d been doing.
Her penchant for orderliness was a great source of amusement to her mother and Elizabeth, and now, apparently, to Alex.
But his smile could stop her heart. She responded with one of her own, realizing that she liked his teasing.
Liked the fact that he noticed the small things about her.
“After you,” he said, releasing her wrist and motioning to the ivory pieces set out before her.
She took a deep breath and studied the board intently.
Though she was confident in her abilities, only a fool would dismiss an opponent without ascertaining something of his skill, so Meg paid close attention to his defense of her opening bishop’s attack.
After the first few moves, however, she relaxed.
He was not a novice player but was also not a very sophisticated one, using a rather plebeian defense strategy against her attack.
She’d already captured one of his pawns, and one of his bishops was in jeopardy. This shouldn’t take too long.
He moved a pawn, and Meg noticed how his large, battle-scarred hands dwarfed the carved chess pieces. She remembered exactly how gentle those callused warrior’s fingers could be.
“You received a message from your father yesterday?” he asked, breaking her trance.
“How did you know about that?”
“Your mother told me last night.” He saw the look on her face and explained, “I saw a man following you and didn’t realize he was one of your father’s captains.”
Meg repressed a flicker of unease. Thomas Mackinnon had arrived yesterday with the missive from her father.
Ever since she’d refused his suit, she’d felt uncomfortable around the man, but thankfully he would be returning to Skye right away.
“Bishop—” She lifted her gaze, taking the piece.
“Is that why you asked my mother to check on me?”
He nodded, and warmth spread over her. It was somehow comforting to realize that he was watching out for her. But why was he? “Do you still believe that the attack was not random?”
“There’s always the possibility that it wasn’t,” he said, moving a pawn. “Until the men are caught, I would advise exercising caution. Better to be vigilant and safe than careless and sorry.”
She tried to smother her growing excitement—he’d just left his knight vulnerable.
This would be a quick game indeed. “Knight,” she said, capturing the piece.
She broke her concentration on the game long enough to appraise his expression.
She still didn’t see why anyone would want to harm her, but she trusted his judgment.
“I suppose you are right. I will be careful.”
“Good.”
They played in companionable silence for a few minutes, and Meg was surprised by how natural it seemed.
She could almost imagine countless evenings spent relaxing before the fire across a chessboard from Alex.
For a moment the sensation was so real, she felt a pang of longing when it faded.
But Alex was hardly a man to stay near the hearth.
He was too much of a warrior. A fighter.
Though for a man who’d spent his life on battlefields, she had to admit that Alex demonstrated an unusual ability to adapt to his surroundings.
Never would she have imagined the fierce outlaw who’d rescued her in the forest relaxing across a chessboard from her at Holyrood House.
But never did she doubt that he was the same man.
The comfort of her surroundings, however, was short-lived. She could feel his eyes on her, lingering on her mouth.
“About last night—”
“I’m sorry,” she blurted out, mortified color heating her cheeks. Meg, who was usually so direct herself, couldn’t believe he’d brought it up without preamble.
Dear God, she hoped Elizabeth wasn’t listening. She couldn’t bear to look at him. “I didn’t mean to hurt you,” she said in a low voice brimming with embarrassment. “I wasn’t thinking, I was frightened, I simply reacted—”
“The fault was mine.” He looked into her eyes. “You need say nothing more. I assure you that it will not happen again.”
Something twisted in her chest. It was what she wanted, wasn’t it?
The truth was that she wasn’t sure anymore.
Alex moved his knight. Meg knit her brows. That was an odd move.
He leaned back in his chair a little, studying her. “I hope the news from home was not troubling.”
Meg shook her head. “There are some matters that needed my attention, and my father wanted to know whether we would be returning in a couple of weeks as we’d intended.” In other words, her father wished to know whether Meg had chosen a husband.
Alex understood. “Are you ready to return home, then? Have you made your decision?” he asked quietly.
Meg fidgeted with a pawn, betraying her discomfort with his bluntness. She peeked up at him, looking for some indication that her answer mattered. But his face was infuriatingly blank. “I thought I had.”
He stared at her, mute, his jaw set in a firm line.
He looked as though he wanted to say something, but instead he studied the chessboard, allowing the thick waves of his golden hair to fall forward, shielding his expression.
She wanted to brush his hair to the side and force him to say something. Instead, he captured her knight.
Meg frowned, surprised to have missed that particular threat.
She studied the board, suddenly having the feeling that she had missed more than just the chess move.
Why did she have the feeling that she was being played?
That Alex was far shrewder than he had let on?
She decided to put her theory to the test. “My father sought my advice about a tacksman who would like to pay a portion of his rents this year in barley instead of oats.” Realizing her rook was vulnerable, she moved to protect it. “I told him it didn’t matter.”
“You should have told him no,” Alex countered offhandedly. “It was a wet winter. Oats will fetch a higher price at market this year.”
Which was exactly, in fact, what she’d told her father.
His quick analysis impressed her. Alex took another piece, and Meg frowned.
She studied the board, but it took her a moment to realize what she was seeing.
Either it was a coincidence or he’d utilized a brilliant strategy that she’d never seen before. In a few moves, he could have her.
“Is something wrong?” he asked.
Meg swallowed. “No.” She moved her piece, and he immediately moved his knight into position.
“Check,” he said.
Meg moved to protect her king. Alex MacLeod was no novice, but she was not worried. She’d been suitably cautioned, but not outmaneuvered.
“Where did you learn to play chess?” she asked.
He thought for a moment, probably searching for just the right words that would tell her as little as possible.
“Initially, I learned from my brother, Rory. We played together most evenings while growing up—too tired from our training to do anything else.” He paused, clearly debating whether to say more.
“And I played with my men for months when I was a reluctant ‘guest’ of the MacDonalds some years back. Of course, they would hardly give prisoners use of a chess set, but we managed to play thousands of games scratched out in the dirt.” He lowered his voice so much that she barely heard him add, “I would have gone mad otherwise.”
Sensing that he had just shared something important, and personal, Meg asked carefully, “Why were you imprisoned, Alex?”
His face darkened. She thought he was not going to answer, but after a few moments he spoke.
“About four years ago, I was on the losing side of the battle now known as ‘the Corrie of the Foray.’ Many of my kinsmen were killed that day. I suppose I was one of the lucky ones. I survived, but only to be imprisoned in the dungeon of Dunscaith Castle.” His voice sounded hollow, utterly devoid of emotion.
“I’ve heard of it, of course, it was the last great clan battle fought on Skye. I just didn’t realize you …” She stopped when she noticed how hard his hands were gripping the arms of his chair. “How long were you imprisoned?”
“Three months.”
Meg sensed that there was more, much more, but that he would not speak of it. At least not with her. But her disappointment turned to horror when she remembered something that had been needling her since the masque, something else that he had refused to answer.
“Alex?”
He turned and met her gaze. Their eyes held, and something strange passed between them, almost an understanding. He knew where her questions were heading.
Please let me be wrong this time, Meg prayed. But Dunscaith was a MacDonald stronghold.
Her voice was hesitant. “Alex,” she said, and paused. “Is … that how you know Dougal MacDonald?”
His face darkened at the name. From the bright intensity of his eyes and the tautness of his mouth, she knew the answer before he replied.
“Yes.”
Her heart dropped to her stomach with dreadful comprehension.
Unknowingly, she’d allowed herself to be wooed by his jailer.
No wonder he had seemed so upset to see her with Dougal.
Meg thought back to the scene he’d witnessed.
Dougal MacDonald had touched her. Yet another misfire in her inexperienced attempts to play the games of court.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.