Chapter Nine
Blake waited impatiently outside the inn.
How bloody long could it possibly take the woman to buy a gown? Even where he was standing, he could see a half dozen vendors selling clothing of some type or other.
Maybe, he reasoned, this was what he got for abducting a laird’s daughter. She did seem awfully sensitive to matters of clothing, what with the rash she’d gotten from a perfectly serviceable dress. It wasn’t like the doxy from the outpost had been covered in those angry red patches.
Aye, that had to be it.
The idea that she might have run did not even properly cross his mind. After the warning he’d given her, she would have to be stupid to try any such thing. And he might not know much about Katrina MacAllan, but he sensed that she wasn’t stupid.
Or, at least he had thought so.
The moment she strolled back into his line of sight, he had reason to question that judgment.
“What on earth have ye done?” he hissed as she approached the place where Cagar was tied to a post, enjoying a well-deserved meal.
Blake knew his eyes were wide, his expression one of shock—like he was some sort of unblooded boy, not the most feared warrior in the Highlands.
“Why in God’s name would ye buy breeches? ”
Katrina lifted her chin. At some point while she was gone, she’d splashed water over her face and retied the plait in her hair.
Her absolutely absurd choice in clothing aside, it was the most put-together he had seen her yet, at least up close.
Previously, she’d been hidden in shadow, covered in mud and blood, shabbily dressed, or some combination of all three.
She was a handsome woman, he conceded. He didn’t waste time or energy on women, but he could admit that.
She had strong features, strong enough that words like pretty or sweet didn’t seem to apply.
But there was… a pleasing set to her face.
The strong brows suited her, as did those observant hazel eyes and the stubborn curve of her lower lip.
She looked capable. Clever. Confident.
And damn him if those things didn’t bring a bright bloom of beauty to her face.
She lifted her chin, her eyes narrow.
“I thought they were the most practical thing to wear, if I’m to be kidnapped and dragged through the forest and forced to sleep on the ground, would ye nae say?
Or perhaps ye would like to try continuing our wee adventure while wearing a frock.
I’m sure someone in the market could rustle up—” She gave him an up-and-down look that was not very flattering at all—“something that fits ye” She shrugged a shoulder. “A tent, perhaps?”
He did not let his lips quiver or his throat catch. But goddamn him if he didn’t like that smart mouth of hers.
Of course, none of that mattered. He would turn her over to Laird MacFarlane after he used her to lure out Lennox. That was his role.
But surely it wasn’t required that his duty be unpleasant, was it?
“It doesnae matter,” he said, though he suspected that his own self-control would face significantly more testing with her in just a pair of thin breeches than with layers of petticoats and skirts between them as they rode in the saddle together. “It’s time we go.”
He was surprised when she shook her head; of all the times and places that she could have chosen to defy him, this was a bizarre one.
But she didn’t try to run.
Instead, she tilted her head toward the inn.
“Can we nae stop for a drink, at least?” she asked, her expression a great deal more innocent than the one she’d worn when she was mocking him. The wide eyes and pleading look didn’t suit her nearly as much as the devilishness. “We havenae had a proper meal in days.”
“I bought supplies while ye were dithering over your wardrobe,” he said scathingly. “We can eat while we ride.”
Katrina shook her head again. He could have sworn that she had been frightened of him at one point in this misadventure.
“A hot meal,” she said. “Besides…” Her fingers wandered over to the sleeve that now concealed the healing slice on her arm.
It was getting better, but it was not yet healed entirely.
He hated that he knew that. He hated that it bothered him.
“My arm aches. I need a rest and something strong to drink. To ease the pain, ye ken.”
He should deny her. They should keep moving.
But he found himself relenting, instead.
“Fine,” he said. “One drink. Let’s go.”
The market had been crowded and busy enough that nobody had paid Katrina much notice, but the moment she crossed into the tavern, she realized that the breeches… might have been a mistake.
Men were openly staring. One went so far as to shake his friend, then point. One whistled.
On instinct, she hunched a little closer to the Bloodhound, as though he were the kind of man who might protect her instead of, say, abducting her and using her as bait to try to kidnap her friends in turn.
When she glanced in his direction, all she saw was an expression that very clearly read, I told ye so.
That was fine. It was good. It strengthened her resolve to do what had to be done.
She threw back her shoulders and lifted her chin.
“I will fetch the drinks,” she announced grandly, pretending that she did not feel uncomfortable, that she could not feel the stares aimed at her legs, the curve of her hip, her buttocks.
MacFarlane snickered. “One pair of breeches and ye are brave then, eh, lass?”
She ignored him and held out her hand.
He looked at it. “What?”
“I will need coin to purchase the drinks,” she informed him tartly. “Seeing as I am a prisoner and therefore without funds of my own.”
He raised a brow. “And what happened to the purse that I gave ye nary an hour ago?”
With a smile that she didn’t quite feel, she gestured grandly at her new clothing. The smile came a bit more easily when his expression fell into slack-jawed surprise.
“Ye paid the entire thing?” he asked. “Woman, have ye no sense? How much do ye think is a proper—”
“I didnae ask,” she interrupted. “He was just such a verra kind fellow. Unlike some people I could mention.” She gave him a pointed look. “I thought he deserved it.”
It was extremely enjoyable to watch him struggle between looking angry, impressed, and amused. Finally, he gave up on all three, sighed, and dug into his sporran for some coins.
“This is just enough for two drinks,” he said. “This time, ye should feel free to spend all of it.”
She snatched the coins out of his hand. She thought she might have even heard a chuckle as she wove through the crowd toward the bar.
But certainly not. The Bloodhound wasn’t the laughing type.
She made it to the counter, which was crowded with both local villagers and marketgoers, now finished with their day’s shopping and either determined to spend what coin they had remaining or what coin they had earned at the local tavern.
Some, she saw immediately, had spent it more freely than others.
“Cormac, are ye seein’ what I’m seein’?” A middle-aged man with impressively bushy eyebrows stumbled into her space. “This fella is a lassie!”
The man with the eyebrows was drunk, his words slurring and his tongue tripping over itself. He looked about as sober as a priest compared to Cormac, who could barely focus his eyes on her. When he finally managed it after several long seconds, his face twisted into a grin.
“Oi,” he agreed. “She’s got tits.”
Katrina sucked in a breath at his crudeness, shrinking back against the bar.
She tried to turn away, tried to signal for the barmaid, but the woman was too distracted by the dozens of customers vying for her attention. Eyebrows grabbed her arm. He wasn’t holding very tightly, but his fingers were hot and damp and made her want to shrink away.
“I’m just trying to buy some ale,” she said tersely.
“Ye dinnae need ale,” Eyebrows told her. When he leaned in, she could smell on his breath just how much ale he had already consumed. “Ye have us to keep ye warm, is that nae right, Cormac?”
“That is right, Peter,” Cormac slurred. “We are good at-at sh-at sharin’, too.”
He hiccuped his way through his words.
“Let go of me right now,” she said, her voice shaking slightly. “I’m nae here alone, and ye will regret it.”
The two men roared with laughter as though this was the funniest thing they’d ever heard.
“Aye, for sure,” Peter agreed. “No man would let his lass out lookin’ like that. Nay, lassie, all ye’ve got is us for tonight.”
Katrina opened her mouth—to protest, to scream; she didn’t even know herself—but she never got there before another voice interrupted.
“That,” said the Bloodhound, “is where ye would be wrong.”
Over the past few days, Katrina had seen the way that nearly everyone seemed to instinctively shy away from Blake MacFarlane.
It wasn’t that she assumed that everyone across the countryside recognized him—though some likely did, given his reputation—more that some primal instinct warned them that this man was a predator through and through.
Either Cormac and Peter lacked that instinct or they had dulled it through their copious drinking because they did not look adequately frightened.
“Ye dinnae need to fuss, mate,” Cormac said, waggling those eyebrows. “Lass like this, surely she’s got plenty to go around.”
Katrina gasped, but the sound was drowned out by the sickening crunch of Blake’s fist breaking Cormac’s nose.
Blood flew through the air, spattering across the front of Katrina’s new shirt as Cormac spun from the force of the blow.
The man let out a wet cry as his hands went to his face and he collapsed to the ground.
Peter had just enough time to put up his fists, but only because Blake wasn’t rushing. Katrina could see it in his movements, the controlled rage behind his attack, as though he could not afford to let himself off the leash.
It wasn’t a fair fight. It wouldn’t have been a fair fight even if there had been a hundred Peters, all armed to the teeth.
Still, it was impressive how easily Blake sent the man to the ground, blood from his mouth spilling across the ale-drenched boards of the tavern.
Blake looked down at the sprawled bodies for one second longer, as if trying to decide whether they were worth a second blow. After a second, he huffed out a breath and turned to Katrina.
His hand, knuckles pink from the brutal justice he had administered, reached up. And then, his touch as gentle as his blows had been rough, he used the pad of his thumb to wipe across her cheekbone. When he pulled his hand away, there was a smudge of blood. Cormac’s, it must have been.
He tilted her chin up, inspecting her face for any other marks.
Katrina fought for breath, feeling more trapped under his piercing regard than she had when the two men had cornered her. Unlike then, however, she didn’t feel like she should pull away.
A possessive, predatory satisfaction crossed his expression when he saw there was no further blood marring her face. For a second, the tavern disappeared, and he was the only thing in the world.
Then he blinked, and the mesmerizing power of those blue eyes was interrupted. He grabbed her arm and yanked her out of the tavern, his touch as rough as it had ever been.
And still, she was not afraid.