Chapter 6 #2
“I never forced myself upon the lass.”
Aiden grabbed the torch from its bracket and made his way back to the granite slab entrance. “I do what I must to protect my clan.”
Niall put a hand on his shoulder, halting his progress. “Just be careful. We’ve lost everything but our honor. Do not sacrifice that in your attempt to regain what’s gone. It’s not worth it.”
“I’ll be the judge of that.”
* * *
Having gone without supper on the MacCurran’s instructions, Isabail’s belly growled repeatedly over the course of the evening.
Hungry and at a loss for something to do, she decided to seek an early sleep.
She and Muirne had just settled themselves on the lumpy straw mattress and shut their eyes when Beathag entered the room with a torch.
“You’re to come with me,” the MacCurran woman said.
As Muirne rolled off the pallet and stood, Beathag shook her head. “Not you; just the lady.”
Isabail pushed to her feet. “And where are we going?”
“The chief has given you quarters more suited to your station,” Beathag said, studying the floor with odd intensity.
“Then surely my maid should accompany me.”
“Nay. Now, come along.”
Muirne opened her mouth to argue, but Isabail waved her hand. “Rest your ankle. I’m sure all will be well. Seek me out in the morning.”
Still unhappy, Muirne nodded. “If you insist.”
Isabail followed Beathag across the inner close, stars winking at her from the indigo sky above.
The clouds had drifted away, leaving a crisp, cold night.
Beathag stopped before a roundhouse hung with a wooden door instead of the standard fur pelts.
A very simple door with no fancy pulls or hinges. She knocked.
“Come.”
Isabail’s heart stumbled. The voice that beckoned her inside belonged to MacCurran. She took a step back. “Why am I here?”
Beathag shrugged. “The chief demanded your presence.” She pushed the door open. “Ask your questions of him.”
Light poured out of the roundhouse, bathing Isabail’s cold feet in a golden glow.
Given the kiss they had recently shared, she was not at all certain she wanted to be alone with the MacCurran.
He had a rather taxing effect on her willpower.
But more than light reached her from the chief’s room.
Her stomach growled at the savory scents of venison broth and fresh bread.
He had refused her supper . . . but perhaps he’d changed his mind?
“In,” Beathag prodded.
Still uncertain, Isabail caught Beathag’s eyes and arched a questioning brow. The other woman’s initial request had been for her to sleep elsewhere for the night. Surely she didn’t mean here.
Beathag returned her stare for a moment, then looked away. “Ask your questions of the chief,” she repeated. Then she gave Isabail a light push.
Despite the prompting, Isabail was seriously contemplating running back to Muirne. Even the promise of a warm meal was not enough to coax her into MacCurran’s chamber. But the man himself stole her choice away. He appeared at the door, latched a big hand onto her arm, and dragged her into the room.
Then he shut the door with a decisive snap.
Isabail’s mouth went dry.
His size never failed to make her heart pound. He towered over her, his broad shoulders blocking her view of everything. Everything, that is, except the tawny skin visible at the neck of his tunic and the barest suggestion of hair.
“This is an inappropriate time to seek an audience,” she said weakly.
“You think a man willing to kidnap you concerns himself with what others think appropriate?” His hold on her arm gentled, his thumb brushing over her chemise-clad skin in a manner that set all of Isabail’s senses atingle.
It was a dangerous feeling—because rather than pulling away, Isabail swayed on her feet, tempted to lean in to his touch. “I must return to my chamber. Whatever you wished to discuss can wait until morning.”
“No.”
She swallowed thickly. “I will not stay.”
“Aye, you will.” He tugged her sharply, and she fell against his chest. That solid, divinely warm chest that blotted out the room. “You will because I say you will.”
Isabail’s head swam, intoxicated by the masculine scent of his skin and the feel of his ropy muscles beneath her hands.
It seemed impossible that such a frightening wall of man could spark desire within her—but the proof was in her heartbeat and her unsteady breath.
True, she had admired his handsomeness when she’d first spotted him in the orchard at Lochurkie several days ago—had even asked the captain of her guard, the unfortunate Sir Robert, if he was acquainted with him.
But that was before he attacked her carriage—and before she’d stood next to him.
The only man she’d ever met of a similar stature had been her father.
Andrew, her late husband, had been a mere four inches taller than she.
MacCurran’s hand trailed slowly up her body, sending shivers rippling through her.
So large . . . and yet so gentle. When he reached the nape of her neck, he lifted the thick braid that Muirne had only just plaited and unwound the gold cord that secured it.
Isabail knew she should pull away—make some attempt to stop him—but the tiny thrills that shot through her scalp as he played with her hair ran all the way to her toes.
No man had threaded his fingers through her hair in many a year—and God help her, it felt good.
She let him have his way.
When he had completely unbraided her hair and spread her tresses over her shoulders with a mild grunt of approval, he paused. “Are you hungry?”
“That’s a foolish question,” she grumbled, casting an eye at the brazier in the middle of the room. Next to it lay two bowls of broth, the brown juices thick and floating with chunks of meat. “I’ve not had supper.”
He crossed his arms over his chest. “I’ll trade food for information.”
That was cruel. Isabail had no intention of revealing the names of the five men she knew had laid their pallets under Lochurkie’s roof that night.
Not after he’d made such a pointed observation regarding what she’d learned about the MacCurran encampment.
He would never release her. The risk of her telling someone what she knew was too great.
“I will not,” she said. “I prefer to go without.”
“Suit yourself.”
Isabail thought that was the end of it, and she turned to leave.
But he did not allow her to depart. Instead, he swept her off her feet, carried her across the room, and tossed her onto the mattress.
No bed frame here, either. But there was a wealth of blankets and furs, and the mattress was stuffed with feathers not straw.
Despite the comforts, Isabail immediately rolled, intent on fleeing.
She didn’t get far.
MacCurran followed her onto the mattress, and his arm latched around her waist.
Isabail shrieked. Heart pounding in her chest, she flailed in a desperate attempt to get free. But her efforts were for naught. His arm was a steel band. He tugged her back against his body, his hold ruthless and uncompromising. One leg over hers, and she was effectively trapped.
“Sleep,” he said gruffly.
Isabail lay there, wide-eyed and uncertain.
No rape, no beating. Just slow, deep breaths and a firm hold.
What should she do? His large body was curled around hers, his heat seeping through her shift.
She could continue to struggle, but judging from her lack of success thus far, the chances of breaking free appeared small.
She could scream, but who would come running?
Or, she could wait for him to fall asleep.
“I sleep with one eye open,” he murmured into her hair. “I’ll fetch you back if you attempt to leave.”
Those words should have frightened her. They labeled her a prisoner. Instead, his lazy voice settled her frantic heartbeat.
She studied the arm hooked around her waist. Roped with well-defined sinews and covered in a sprinkle of crisp hairs, it was as much a weapon as the man’s fine sword.
If he accosted her in the middle of the night, could she rely on him to be as honorable as he’d promised to be?
To release her at a push of her hand and roll away?
Or was she a fool to place her faith in him?
It hardly seemed possible that her heart could have softened so quickly for this man.
Two days ago, she’d been convinced he’d killed her brother and a host of other people. What was it about him that convinced her he was trustworthy? Was it his story of a man in black? The fact that he had a brother and a mother? The adoring faces of his kinsmen? Really, even utter cads had family.
Isabail sighed heavily.
Nay, it was none of those things. It was this. The warmth and the steadiness. The feeling that as long as she remained in his arms, she was safe. He’d held her precisely this way the entire journey from Lochurkie, never failing her. Never taking advantage.
She closed her eyes.
She’d fallen asleep once before in his arms. She could surely do it again.
* * *
Aiden awoke.
He stared at the thatching, wondering what had stirred him from his sleep.
But the hut and the rest of the ruined broch were silent—only the faint crackle of coals in the brazier broke the midnight calm.
The soft scent of Isabail Grant filled his nose, and he tightened his arms, drawing her closer.
As he did so, her feet came in contact with his shins, and he sucked in a sharp breath.
Ye gods.
Her feet were like icicles. She was curled up in his arms like a wee pine martin in its nest, but without a blanket, she couldn’t stay warm.
He was a fool. Why hadn’t he thought of that?
Gently easing away from her, he sat up and snatched several blankets from the end of the bed.
He tucked them around her, making certain every inch of flesh was covered.
Then, cradling her weight, he lay back on the mattress.