Chapter Seven #2
“Thank ye fer the clothes—and my feet especially thank ye fer the shoes.” She offered him a smile. He didn’t return it. “What are ye doing here, Chief?”
He drew in a deep breath and seemed to compose himself. Had he not been composed before that? And had it been because of her?
“I left the castle to bathe.”
“Aye, ye asked Lachlan to guard my door.”
“Aye.”
Her smile remained despite his best effort to contain his.
“I just returned,” he continued, “and I wanted to make certain ye were well.”
“Would Lachlan no’ have told ye if I wasna well?” she asked gently, enjoying the effect her teasing was having on him.
“He told me,” he confessed. “But I wanted to see fer myself.”
“Why, Lochiel? Do ye fancy me?”
He finally smiled, but it was more like he was mocking her. And then he spoke, and proved that he was. “Nae, lass. I’m nae fool.”
Her heart palpitated. What? “What are ye saying? That ye would be a fool for fancying me?”
“Correct,” he claimed dispassionately. “I want nae part of my heart or any other part of me with another woman. Once was enough.”
“Good.” She sounded convincing, but she didn’t feel it. Did he still love his deceased wife? If he did, why did it make Ismay feel like being sick? “Now that that is settled, let us go eat.”
Instead of pausing to let him offer his arm, she walked past him and into the front sitting room that made up the rest of her chambers.
She slowed her steps only after he rushed in front of her and reached for the front door to open it for her.
“Did ye sleep well?” he asked as she reached him and stepped out.
She cut her glance to him. “Did ye chase away my unpleasant dreams too?”
“What kind of protector would I be,” he answered, “if I didna chase away everything that troubled ye?”
Was that humor she saw in the deep-russet hue of his gaze?
She looked away and laughed softly. She felt childishly giddy.
She had no idea why, save that for the first time in too long, she was not burdened with thoughts of how to stay safe while traveling alone or what she would eat. It was all because of a man. A chief.
“Why did those men come to the inn and attack?” she asked him to chase the butterflies from her belly.
He sobered quickly enough. Regret passed through Ismay momentarily. But it didn’t remain. She had no desire to discover what made the Lochiel smile. What business was it of hers?
“They were MacKintoshes. We raided their cattle the day you and I met at the tavern.”
“Why do ye do it?” she asked. “Why do ye steal other clans’ cattle? Dinna they need to eat just as the Camerons do?”
“That is no’ my concern, Miss Drummond,” he drawled. “’Tis the concern of their chief. We have a duty to our kin. I will keep mine safe and well fed. Besides I dinna steal from the poor. We have a different reason fer raidin’ the Mackintoshes.”
“Oh,” she lifted her brow at him. “What reason is that?”
“A feud.”
Her belly sank. The same kind of feud his kin the MacDonalds had with the MacPhersons because of her father rescuing the killer of the Clan Chief MacDonald of Glencoe. It was the one feud her father had spoken of. “What kind of feud?”
“Once, long ago,” he told her, “the lands of Lochaber were held by the MacKintoshes. After decades of neglect toward the land, and defeat in their battles against my kinsmen, we took hold of the Lochaber region and never let go, winning even the approval of the king. Still, it wasna enough for the MacKintoshes. They tried many times to take the land back and have kept the old feud alive. Which is fine with the Camerons. We live to battle and raid.”
“And rob travelers on the road,” Ismay added, needing more reason to resist him—hate him.
“Only the ones who ride in ornate carriages, foolish enough to take shortcuts through a forest. They deserve it. The rich send men off to battle because their pride has been wounded. Because of them, men—many of my own friends, have died on battlefields with no one to mourn for them.”
Ismay looked up at him while they descended the stairs. Aye, this was who he was—all sorrow and loss covered in impenetrable armor. But it was not completely impenetrable, was it?
“What if ye get caught?” she asked softly, part of her hoping he never did.
“Lochaber is a refuge fer cattle raiders and thieves, like myself. As long as I dinna leave the region, I willna hang.”
Hang? At the terrible thought of it, one of her feet tripped over the other and she began to tumble down the last four steps.
The chief’s arms around her and pulling her close, stopped her.
For the space of a torturous breath, she remained still, not even blinking her eyes that were staring into his.
He was vitally warm pressed against her.
She had thought he might be cold, like his gazes sometimes were.
She could feel the lean muscles in his arms, like steel from which nothing could snatch her away.
They both teetered on the edge of a step and Ismay closed her eyes, expecting to fall with him.
But he was well-balanced and righted them before they fell.
When the torturous moment passed, and she was safe once again, he let her go and continued to the last step as if nothing just happened. As if he hadn’t turned her world on its axis and made her heart leap.
But his rejection was not too unbearable. In fact, she silently thanked him for stopping her from making an even bigger fool of herself by gushing and blushing over his closeness.
She stepped off the last step and practically into his arms, but he stepped back, out of her way.
She smiled, since her tongue felt as if it were stuck to the roof of her mouth, making it difficult to speak. What was this Highland chief doing to her? How was she allowing it? Did she have control over it?
They entered the Great Hall in silence. The Lochiel didn’t return the smiles or playful jeering of some of his men when they saw them together.
Ismay was about to blush and look away when she noted more than half of the rest of his cousins, both male and female, wore stunned expressions at seeing their Lochiel enter the Hall for breakfast with his guest.
He brought her to one of the more crowded tables in the center of the Hall and motioned for Geoffry to give up his seat for her. Geoffry left before she could stop him. She wanted no special treatment.
When the Lochiel sat at the head of the table in a large chair to her direct right, the others all stared, not a word uttered by one of them.
What was so odd about his behavior? Ismay wondered.
What did Bethia mean when she called him such a man?
She should have asked instead of getting defensive on his behalf.
Why would she defend him anyway? He protected her and saved her from the man who had taken her from the inn and no doubt would have done unthinkable things to her if she didn’t kill him first.
The Lochiel had put himself between her and danger on every occasion.
She was grateful. She slid her gaze to him and almost sighed out loud.
His hair dried over his shoulders, turning in large, damp waves around his face.
He pushed them away, but they returned, insistent on flirting around his cheek and softening the chiseled cut of his jaw.
She swallowed, watching his lips close around his spoon.
He lifted his gaze from his bowl and looked right at her.
She coughed into her hand and died twice in her head at being caught admiring his mouth.
“Lass,” he said, sounding neither cold nor warm. “Eat.”
She was not hungry. For the first time in a month, she was not hungry. But she dipped her spoon into the bowl of porridge set before her.
“Miss Drummond?” Sitting across from her, Lachlan spoke, watching her while she ate. “Ye look verra bonnie this morn.”
She heard a sound to her right. The Lochiel had set down his spoon. She cast him a quick glance to find him staring at Lachlan.
“Thank ye fer keeping watch at my door,” she told him, ignoring his compliment.
She was not unused to hearing such things about how she looked.
Chief MacDonald had spoken of her beauty often, even as a child.
Chief MacRae had told her she was like the sun rising in winter.
Words meant little and usually were offered at a price.
Beside her, she sensed rather than saw the chief pick up his cup—for she refused to glance at him again. What had that glare directed at Lachlan been about? The chief had said nothing. Was he angry at his cousin or not? And if he was angry, did it mean he was jealous? Jealous of what?
She chanced another look at him, and this time, he was the one caught looking at her.
He didn’t cough into his hand as she had. He did not appear mortified at all.
Rather, he stood to his feet and raked his diamond-hard gaze on the others.
“Perhaps my orders were no’ clear. Miss Drummond is here under my protection. That means ye will speak to her with respect and ye willna try to win her favor. Is that understood?”
The men around him all nodded. Some regarded her as if she was something other than a lass, something other than human. She caught a few of the female inhabitants looking at her with envy narrowing their eyes.
She wanted to crawl under the table. But she was afraid that even under the heavy wood, she would feel the irresistible pull to take the shelter he offered and hide behind his strong shoulders.
She did not hide, either beneath the table or behind his back, but she did keep her gaze lowered to her bowl.
His broad, scarred fingers filled her vision when he held his hand out to her. “Come with me.”
She was not hungry anyway. She went with him, but she did not accept the hand he offered. It was best not to touch a man. She watched him take an apple from a bowl by the doors and followed him out.
“Where are we going?” she asked, weaving with him through the halls.
“Ye are goin’ to the sewin’ chambers. The other women will join shortly.”
She shook her head. “I want to go with ye.”
His rich sable gaze warmed on her. “’Tis best if ye get to know—”
“What will ye be doing?” she insisted.
“I will be in the hills watchin’ fer any signs of weather, game, or potential trouble comin’ from across the glen. If all is well, I will sharpen my dirk and claymore”—she began to speak, but he spoke over her—“in silence.”
“I will keep silent,” she promised, eyes wide with hope. “I would much rather walk in the hills and sit in the peaceful quiet while ye sharpen yer weapons.”
He looked like he was about to deny her request, so she clutched his arm. “Please. ’Tis better than me following ye, is it no’?” she added when he still looked about to refuse.
“Miss Drummond,” he said with the slightest hint of amusement softening his expression, “are ye threatenin’ me?”
“I simply want to go with ye, Lochiel.”
“Why?” he asked, appearing sincerely perplexed. “Ye will need to be quiet or ye will chase away game, or give away my position, even in the mists.”
“My appreciation of ye dwindles knowing ye regard me as a woman who canna keep her mouth shut.”
“Perfect.” He stopped at a set of doors and opened them to a large sewing chamber. Bright sunlight streamed in from the six high, pointed windows onto a dozen embroidery stands. “Then let us go our separate ways today.”
She stared after him as he strode away. Truly, he was an unfriendly oaf. She stood at the open doors deciding whether to go inside and embroidery something beautiful for her fa—She had not picked up a needle since her father died.
She looked down the hall in the direction the Lochiel had taken, and then took off after him.