Chapter 6 #3
He’d fully intended to enact his plan to seduce her tonight.
Bribe her with food, heat her blood with kisses, and then coax the names from her lips.
But he hadn’t expected her to look so goddamned beautiful with her hair unbound.
Or to enjoy his fingers threading through her silvery tresses.
The way she’d closed her eyes and given up a soft sigh had nearly unmanned him.
Truly, she’d had him as tongue-tied as a wee lad.
And then she had refused the food.
Stubborn vixen.
He rolled to his side, hugging Isabail close and doing his best to warm her chilled extremities.
She made a soft mewl of contentment and snuggled deeper into his arms. Somehow, he’d earned a small measure of her trust, and he was loath to toss away that precious gift.
If he followed through with his intent to seduce her and then betrayed her trust, there would be no going back. Her hatred would be well earned.
But how else was he to get the names?
He sighed.
Tomorrow would tell.
* * *
When Isabel awoke, she found herself swathed in furs and blankets, completely alone on the mattress.
The MacCurran had departed, though she had no idea when.
She peered under the covers. The delicate material of her chemise was intact, and her body felt well rested, not abused.
Perhaps her faith in him was not so careless after all.
Midstretch, she had a sudden thought.
Was she free to leave? She sat up and stared at the door. It was shut; did that suggest that she was imprisoned? Scrambling to her feet, she wrapped a blanket about her shoulders. There was only one way to find out.
Her feet made short work of the cold floor to the door. Hand on the iron latch, she pulled the door open. No one called halt. She peered out. Seeing nary a soul in sight, she lifted the hem of her shift and dashed across the close to the hut she’d originally been given.
Muirne greeted her with wide-eyed relief. “Oh, my lady, I feared for you the whole night.”
“I am fine,” Isabail assured her. “Is my gown dry?”
The maid nodded. “And I was able to retrieve one of your shifts. Offered up my recipe for honey bannocks in trade. Replace the one you’ve got on, and you’ll be fresh from tip to toe.” Muirne’s face fell. “Would that I could’ve protected you from that cur.”
“Fear not. I slept. That is all.”
Her maid arched a brow. “He did not force himself upon you?”
Isabail yanked her shift over her head, the chill of the morning air encouraging speed. “Nay.”
“Did ya give willingly, then?”
“I slept,” Isabail repeated. The look of skepticism on Muirne’s face almost coaxed a smile to Isabail’s lips. “Come,” she said. “Let us see what the cook is preparing to break the fast.”
“Nothing appetizing, I’ll wager.”
“He’s not a master of spices,” Isabail agreed, shoving her feet into her leather boots. “I miss the sumptuous fares of our dear cook at Lochurkie. No one has as deft a hand as he.”
They ducked under the furs hanging over the door and stepped into a brisk winter breeze. Raised voices drew them toward the central fire, where a group of warriors had gathered. Some poor soul had been dragged before the MacCurran, and the faces of the men were angry.
“Did he give his name?”
One of the warriors, a handsome lad garbed in various shades of green and carrying a beautifully carved ash-wood bow, shook his head. “Not before he swooned.”
“Fetch Niall’s healer,” MacCurran said, staring down at the body. “Fool must have stumbled upon a badger sett.”
Isabail caught a glimpse of the bloodied clothing amid the men’s legs.
None of the MacCurran men were tending to the fellow; they were simply letting him bleed all over the ground.
Highland brutes. She elbowed her way between them.
“If he’s bleeding, his wounds need immediate attention. Step aside.”
The men parted, letting her through.
Isabail avoided the MacCurran’s gaze as she gained the center of the group.
What do you say to a man with whom you had shared a bed but no wedding vows?
The flaxen-haired man on the ground was a more suitable target for her attentions—his back, arm, and hip were shredded by something with vicious teeth.
Isabail crouched and rolled the poor fellow over.
A gasp escaped her lips. “Daniel!”
His eyes flickered open, his expression dazed. “Lady Isabail?”
“Dear Lord, Daniel. What befell you?”
A large hand grasped her arm and hauled her upright. “You know this man?”
Isabail faced MacCurran, a flush rising in her cheeks. A vision of lying next to him clad only in her shift wreaked havoc with her thoughts. “Aye. Daniel de Lourdes. He was my brother’s most valued personal attendant.”
MacCurran frowned heavily. “So he was traveling with you to Edinburgh?”
“Make way, please,” said a female voice.
Isabail was jostled as the men around her moved aside. She barely noticed. Her gaze was held by the MacCurran’s. His eyes were a brilliant blue—a shade not unlike a robin’s egg—and she wondered why she hadn’t noticed before.
“Let’s have a look at you, then,” the female voice added.
“Nay!” Daniel protested weakly. “Do not touch me.”
Isabail broke off her connection with the MacCurran and glanced down. A woman with dark red hair was leaning over Daniel—red hair that Isabail immediately recognized. Reacting instinctively, she shoved the woman aside. “Get away from him, murderess!”
The woman landed on her rump on the ground, her long braid whipping into the air and her satchel spilling its contents.
Isabail kicked the pots and herbs, scattering them. “You’ll not touch him with your evil witchery!”
MacCurran’s hand clamped down on her arm again. “Enough.”
She whirled on him. “This woman killed my brother. Fed him poison and watched him die before her eyes. If you are as innocent as you claim, how is it she is welcome in your camp?”
Nausea rolled in Isabail’s belly, and her hand went to her stomach.
She’d actually begun to believe MacCurran’s protestations of innocence.
Had actually begun to consider the existence of his man in a black cloak.
But he was harboring the woman who had been tried and found guilty of John’s murder.
A woman found in possession of numerous poisons.
“The bailie declared her guilty,” she cried hoarsely. “She was sentenced to death by pit and would be dead now if you hadn’t freed her.”
“I did not poison John Grant,” Ana Bisset said quietly.
Isabail spun around. “Liar. You were the only one to give him food or drink that night. You gave him a tisane to rid him of head pain.”
“Willow bark tea does not kill a man,” Ana said.
“Unless it is laced with dwale.”
The healer’s face twisted. “I am sworn to heal. There was no poison in the tea.”
“And yet by the next morning, he was bedridden and delirious,” Isabail accused.
She had trusted this woman. Allowed her into their home, accepted her balms and unguents with innocent faith.
Only to be proven a poor judge of character.
“What justice is there in the world when my brother—as good a man as ever there was—lies cold in a grave while you—his murderess—walks freely about?”
Ana Bisset said nothing.
Isabail turned back to MacCurran, her heart a leaden lump in her chest. “I will see to Daniel’s care myself. Please arrange to have him moved to my hut and provide me with water and bandages.” A shudder ran through her. “I want fresh strips of linen. Nothing touched by this witch.”
MacCurran’s expression was unreadable. He returned her stare for a long moment—long enough to remind her that she had no authority in his domain. Then he nodded to Beathag. “Fetch her what she needs.” To his warriors, he simply waved a hand toward her roundhouse.
As Isabail made to follow the men carrying Daniel, MacCurran stepped into her path. “Do what you must. I’ll be along presently to question him.”
“He needs rest, not questions.”
MacCurran’s expression hardened. “The man succeeded in finding his way to my camp. If you think I intend to let that matter drop, you are mistaken.”
Isabail glared at him, but did not argue further.
Her time was better spent healing Daniel.
She had been gulled by MacCurran once, but she would not be so foolish again.
As soon as Daniel was well enough to talk, she would learn how he’d made his way here .
. . and then she’d do everything in her power to leave.