Chapter Nine #2
He kept the horse’s pace steady with the cattle as he rode close to a group of ten, grazing in the grass.
“That one,” he told her, keeping his voice soft near her ear and motioning with his chin to a large coo with a white patch between its eyes and on its chest, “is Fraya. We took her from the MacKintoshes eight years ago. At the time, she hated bein’ touched and would often cause a stampede by bellowin’ and sometimes even screamin’ if we went near her.
Finally, I separated her from the others and put her in a smaller enclosure, where she could still see the others.
Fer days I simply sat in the grass waitin’ fer her to graze near me. She refused to eat fer a se’nnight.”
From where she was perched on his lap, Ismay gazed at the coo. Her heart went out to the animal. Ismay understood how it felt to be so afraid that fighting back or even killing became the only option for escape. “Poor thing.”
“Aye,” the chief agreed behind her. “I feared she would starve herself to death. But on the day I had decided to leave her alone, she came near me and lowered her head to the grass. We became friends after that.”
He started walking the horse closer to Fraya, but the coo met them the rest of the way and rested her giant head in his lap—on top of Ismay’s thighs.
“Ye taught her to trust ye,” Ismay noted while he scratched the coo’s nose. “Not many would be so patient.”
“That is why she belongs here. With me.”
Ismay’s heart froze. With him? There was no with him. Nor would there be. She would not have another man make plans for her life. She would make her own. In a convent.
When she turned away, he took her hand and lifted it to the top of the coo’s head. “Let her know ye are her friend. She isna used to lasses.”
Ismay thought about pulling her hand away from him, but she wanted to pet the beast. Besides, he released her the instant she touched Fraya’s thick fur.
“Greetings, bonnie coo,” she practically sang, her smile wide. “I hope ye will accept me and never try to crush me under yer mighty hooves.”
Behind her, the Lochiel chuckled, making her belly flip before she turned to him. “What?”
“Is that how ye win her favor, lass? Move slowly, respectfully while fillin’ her with compliments?”
Her wide smile intact, she nodded. “Does she deserve less?”
“Mayhap more,” he countered with amusement lighting his poignant eyes.
After a little while getting to know some of the herd, he rode them back slowly to her horse.
“Ye have confidence, lass,” he told her. He’d moved back, away from her ear. But she still heard him. “Ye know yer worth.”
She shook her head. “I had no worth, Chie—Constantine. None, whatsoever before my father. He taught me that although I had no riches or noble title, I had worth to God and to others on this earth. One of them was him. I felt it every day in his presence.” Like she felt it in the chief’s.
“My father knew what I had become, and he didna care. He understood what my early years had done to me and let me decide if I wanted to marry or not.”
“What had ye become?” he asked.
“Hmm? What?”
“Ye said, he knew what ye had become and he didna care. What had ye become? Will ye tell me?”
She trusted him, did she not? He would be the only soul, besides her father, who knew of her crime.
“I became a murderer.” A sound in her head like a door slamming shut—or a guillotine coming down made her heart lurch. Did she just make a terrible error? She told him nothing else. Not the name of her victim. She could never tell him that.
He didn’t ask her what she meant or demand that she tell him everything. When they reached her horse, he helped her dismount.
She would have preferred to remain with him. Her head was still spinning from her confession when he set her feet on the ground. Her knees nearly buckled beneath her. He caught her and held her close against his chest while he stared into her wide eyes.
“Are ye feelin’ ill?” he asked, concern marring his dark brow.
“Nae,” she told him and righted herself. She took a tentative step away from him. When dizziness did not overcome her again, she made it to her horse.
But the chief stopped her when she fit her foot in the stirrup.
“Ride with me,” he commanded gently, while seizing her wrist.
Ismay’s heart thumped madly in her breast. That was what she wanted in the first place.
“If ye fall from yer horse, ye will be injured and stuck here longer. Ye dinna want that, do ye?”
Her heart slowed. “Nae,” she answered dully and returned to his horse. “Yer consideration of my desires is appreciated, Chief.”
He lifted her to his saddle, then leaped up behind her.
“What about Radiance?” she asked, trying to turn without falling or having to hold onto him.
“The men will get her.”
“I am fine, by the way,” she let him know when he flicked his reins and they began to move. “I was a bit shaken because I—” She stopped, unable to say it again.
“Because ye told me ye were a murderer?”
She stiffened and nodded. Now she really had to run away.
“I am certain whoever ye killed deserved it.”
Of course he would say such a thing. He was a soldier, a chief with many enemies, and a thief.
“I had never killed anyone before,” she cried, wanting to curl up in something soft, yet safe—like his arms. “I was just a child.”
His arm coiling her waist tightened just a bit. She fought not to panic while the warmth of his touch spread into her. She would tell him…she stopped. He was clever. How long would it take him before he figured out who it was she had killed?
“I prefer not to speak of it any longer.”
“Whatever ye wish, lass.”
She was quiet while they rode to the castle. She didn’t realize her back rested against him until it was time to dismount and she grew cold at their separation.
He walked her into the castle and then looked around. “I will have Bethia see to ye. Ye can rest and then freshen up fer supper.”
It was all he was going to say, proven when he turned on his heel and was ready to walk off with her stammering behind him.
“Will ye send fer me later?” she asked, hating herself for appearing so pathetic, always chasing after him.
He turned and stared at her for a moment, as if he were trying to decide something about her that made his brow dip over his eyes. Then, he nodded and left. “I will teach ye how to fight.”
“Hmm?” Did she hear him right? Why would he do something like that?
“If ye’re ever alone again, ye willna need me to save ye.”
Her brow dipped. He didn’t seem to notice and turned away.
She stared at his back growing smaller as he disappeared down one of the corridors.
What if she liked when he saved her? Where was he off to?
Had he grown weary of her? She couldn’t complain and she wouldn’t follow him.
He had spent the entire morning, making her smile, allowing her to weep freely for her father, bringing her into his herd—cautious in keeping her safe.
She smiled now, despite herself.
“I take it that the precious grin ye wear is evidence of a pleasant morning.”
Ismay turned to greet Hugh. Was he always just a moment away? “Aye,” she admitted with a slight blush.
His dark-green eyes dipped to the thistle in her hand. “Did ye pick such a thorny flower when there are others which will not cause ye pain?”
She held it up to study the thistle again.
She didn’t tell him the Lochiel had picked it for her.
She had a feeling the steward was not speaking of the Highland flora and anything other than that was none of his concern.
“Everyone wants to push their noses against those other flowers,” she told him, then looked up from the thistle.
“I much prefer the bloom that will prick yer nose if ye get too close.”
“Hugh,” Lewis, the owner of the inn, called out, approaching them. “Dinna ye have anythin’ better to do than follow the Lochiel’s bonnie guest around?”
“He leaves her alone in this shadowy fortress too often,” Hugh told him while wearing a friendly smile. “She should have an escort to her chambers.”
“The chief promised to send Bethia to me,” Ismay let him know.
“And in the meantime,” the steward gazed at her, “ye wait alone.”
He had a valid point. Ismay had no rebuttal, but Lewis did.
“Hugh,” he said in a slightly whiny voice, “ye know I dinna have the patience the Lochiel has. Ye are close to haviin’ me drag ye into the trainin’ yard and beatin’ some respect into ye.”
He sounded as if it was the last thing he wanted to do, but if he had to, he would, and he might even enjoy it. The choice was in Hugh’s hands.
At the threat, Ismay could not help but feel sorry for the steward. Lewis had a mad-in-the-head sort of look about him—as if it took all his control to stop himself from killing anyone he fought with.
Hugh was not so easily intimidated by him and moved a hair closer to her.
“That is enough.” Ismay put her hands between them and pushed gently. “Let whatever this is end now.”
“Fergive me, Lewis,” Hugh backed off.
Lewis smiled and pulled him against his chest—and out of the path of the Lochiel standing a few feet behind him. Ismay’s gaze found him at the same time she heard the innkeeper’s low warning to the steward.
“If I hear ye speak poorly of the Lochiel again, I will remove yer tongue.”
“Lewis,” the Lochiel called out, making his presence known. “There is a lass present.”
Lewis gave him a soft chuckle and looked at her. She retreated a step, guilty of disguising herself to appear as a lad when she first met them.
“Ye may go,” the Lochiel commanded his cousin softly.
Lewis did not pause, but bowed to her and then left, the heels of his boots clicking on the stone floor.
Hugh stood facing him.
“Stop temptin’ him to keep his word,” the Lochiel warned. “He will. Now, tell me,” he said as if everything before this very moment was forgotten, “have ye seen Bethia?”
Hugh shook his head. “No’ since this morning’”
Ismay heard a girl’s laughter and turned to see Joan restored to her position beside Lachlan.
Seeing them, Ismay looked up at the Lochiel and beamed at him. Only his order could have brought Joan back.
He shifted in his place and looked at the wrought iron wall sconces lighting the walls, then at the arched windows—anything but her. “Come,” he said, placing his hand on her back. “I will take ye to yer chambers.”
She was glad he had not abandoned her as Hugh had tried to convince her. He had looked for Bethia to tend to her, and not finding her, he’d returned to Ismay.
“Chief?”
“Aye, lass?”
Why did his voice have to send tremors through her veins, and quakes throughout her heart?
“I am sorry to be causing ye trouble.”
“What?” He stopped when they came to the stairs and turned to her. “Who told ye that ye were trouble?” He shot a murderous gaze to Hugh over his shoulder.
Ismay rested her fingers on his arm to capture his attention and veer it off slicing his blade across Hugh’s belly the way he had to the MacKintosh who had taken her from the inn.
“No one told me. It is obvious to my own eyes.”
“Ye are nae trouble to me, Miss Drummond. Even if ye were, ye are leavin’ soon. I havena fergotten. Have ye?”
The warmth in her gaze vanished and was replaced by a cold sheet of ice. “Nae. I havena fergotten, Lochiel. How could I when ye take every opportunity to remind me!”
They reached her door. She opened it, stepped inside, and slammed the door in his face.
Inside, with her back pressed to the cold wood, she squeezed her eyes shut. Why was she angry? Why was she hurt that he wanted to get rid of her—when it was the same thing she wanted?
She had to go. She had to leave him before—before she didn’t ever want to leave his side again.
Oh, Lord, help her, she mourned. ’Twas too late.