Chapter Ten
Violence roared in Blake’s blood.
He wanted to go back and finish what he had started. He wanted to punch and punch and punch until those men’s faces were little more than hot, bloody pulp. He wanted to see their teeth fall out like rain. He wanted to break each and every finger that they had even considered putting on his quarry.
He wanted them dead, destroyed in a way that the entirety of Scotland would buzz with the news that Katrina MacAllan was under the Bloodhound’s protection—and woe betide anyone who dared to cross him.
But it wasn’t safe or smart to draw attention to himself now. And…
And he didn’t want Katrina to be frightened of him.
No matter how foolish that was. No matter that he needed her to be frightened of him. No matter that he’d done everything he could to make her frightened.
As he dragged her back around the corner of the tavern toward the stables, though, she didn’t look frightened. She looked furious.
“Let go of me,” she cried, yanking her arm from his grasp, then turning around and using the other hand to slap him square across the face.
It was a good slap. Fast enough that he barely even saw it coming. Landed solidly, leaving his face stinging.
He growled his approval on pure instinct.
The wee wildcat should learn how to use her claws.
“Why did ye do that?” she demanded. Her color was high, big round apples of redness on her cheeks visible even in the dim torchlight of the evening.
“I dinnae need some-some man to decide what is best for me. Not again,” she added, almost as an afterthought, and Blake felt a new surge of rage at the idea that someone else had dared try to control what was his.
He grabbed her again, this time seizing both of her arms.
“Listen to me, Katrina,” he growled, pulling her close enough that he could peer directly into her face.
Her eyes were wide, but her mouth didn’t lose that stubborn pout.
“If someone dares to harm ye, I will hurt them tenfold. If someone threatens ye, I will make them regret their very birth. Ye are mine to protect. I willnae be stopped. And if ye try to stop me, I already told ye—I will hunt ye to the ends of the earth if that is what it takes. Do ye hear me, lass?”
She shook her head, prepared to deny him, but he would not be denied. He hauled her closer until her hands pressed against his chest, her hips flush against his. He could see the racing pulse where it thrummed in her neck.
He wanted to touch it, this sign that she was alive and safe and here and his.
“Blake…” she breathed, and the sound of his given name in her mouth made his hands clench reflexively around her arms.
And she winced. Winced, in true pain.
His hands released her even before his mind realized what he was doing.
“I hurt ye,” he said, horrified.
She shook her head, but it was more like she was shaking off a fog than denying what he’d said.
“It’s the cut on my arm,” she said, cradling the wounded limb to her chest. “It’s opened again. It’s fine.”
But that wasn’t fine. She was bleeding, and that wasn’t fine, because—
Because it could leave a trail for enemies to follow. Because he couldn’t have her fainting. Because he had a mission, a duty to complete.
Aye. That was why it made sense to stop for the night, even if it put them behind the schedule that he longed to keep.
“Enough,” he said. “We’ll take a room at the inn.”
She reared back, startled. “What? Nay. It’s fine. I–”
“Would ye stop arguing?” he snapped. She was the one wounded, but he felt strangely raw, like he had scraped off a layer of his own skin somewhere along the journey of the past few days. It was ridiculous. “We are going inside.”
He pulled her behind him, refusing to let her break free. But he made certain that it was her uninjured arm that he held. And he was careful not to hold her hard enough to hurt.
Katrina grumbled all the way up to the room, mostly to hide the fact that she still felt… shaken by Blake’s declaration.
If someone dares to harm ye, I will hurt them tenfold. If someone threatens ye, I will make them regret their very birth. Ye are mine to protect. I willnae be stopped.
It was because of his desire to capture Kenna and Arran. She knew that it was about them. It wasn’t really about her.
But he’d been so intense when he’d said it. He’d looked at her like…
Like it was really about her.
And she could not deny, as she dabbed gently at the weeping wound on her arm, that she would enjoy having a real bed, even if she only got to enjoy it for a few hours.
She dropped the damp scrap of linen to the side of the ewer and reached carefully into her pocket, where the packet from Arran was still secure.
She’d peeked at it as soon as Blake left the room to ask for the water she was now using.
Poppy seeds were alongside the valerian—more than enough to make a grown man sleep heavily for hours.
She would do it.
She would.
But it didn’t feel as easy now that he’d protected her.
When he came back into the room, she pulled her hand from her pocket and began re-wrapping a length of bandage around her arm.
“Wait,” he said, approaching her. She watched him through the dingy, warped looking glass as he came up behind her and laid down a poultice. “I asked the cook for this. She said it’s her best one.”
Oddly touched, Katrina lifted it and gave a cautious sniff. Calendula. It would help with the inflammation. Comfrey, to help her skin mend itself. Garlic, which would smell wretchedly strong, but which would stop the wound from festering.
“Thank ye,” she said, applying the paste to the torn skin of her arm before securing it with a bandage.
He just grunted in response and she rolled her eyes. God forbid that he treat her kindly for more than a moment.
Her fingers went back to the packet of sleeping herbs, this time touching them through the fabric of her pocket.
“I brought food,” Blake said, setting down a tray. It was simple fare, but smelled good enough. There was stew, bread, and—Katrina’s breath caught—two pints of ale. The thick, dark kind that would perfectly obscure the taste of the herbs in her pocket.
Now, the only thing she needed was a distraction.
“What can ye tell me about Brodie MacFarlane?” she asked, half out of true curiosity, half because she suspected that it would rattle him.
Indeed, it did. He blinked, looking as destabilized as she had ever seen him.
“What?” he asked.
She shrugged and busied herself unwinding her hair from her plait. It would be nice to comb it out and she wanted a reason not to look directly at him.
“Brodie MacFarlane,” she repeated. “Surely ye have heard of him. He’s the heir to your clan.”
“I ken who Brodie MacFarlane is,” he snapped. “What I dinnae ken is why ye have any reason to be asking about him.”
She peeked at him through the curtain of her hair. His blue eyes were sparking again, and it sent a strange thrill through her.
Distraction, she reminded herself. She needed him distracted.
“Well, I thought that perhaps I should ken something about the man that I am due to marry,” she said with a forced casual tone.
She was glad that she looked, or else she might have missed the way the Bloodhound went very still, his non-reaction much, much louder than any reaction might have been.
“Ye are what?” he asked in a very careful tone.
She tried to sound uncaring when she laughed, but it came out more bitter than she intended.
“I thought ye were the fearsome right arm of your laird,” she taunted. “But apparently he doesnae tell ye everything. Mayhap that’s even why he calls ye the Bloodhound. Because, to him, ye are little more than a dog that fetches when his master orders it.”
She knew, in a distant sort of way, that it was foolish of her to taunt this dangerous, powerful man. But maybe she was tired of being clever. Maybe she just needed to take something back from all these men who thought they could control her.
When he stood and slammed his fist onto the table, making the dishware rattle ominously, however, his anger did not precisely seem to be aimed at her.
“This isnae a laughing matter.” He moved around the table, his movements slow and deadly. “Brodie isnae the kind of man ye trifle with.”
He grabbed her chin, his grip rough and commanding as he forced her to look deep into his eyes.
“Do ye think that I am dangerous, lass?” He didn’t wait for her answer. “Brodie is a different kind of snake entirely. That smart tongue of yours? Brodie will either tame it… or cut it out of ye entirely.”
Her mouth went dry at the seriousness in his tone. This wasn’t the first time that Blake had intentionally tried to frighten her… but something about the way he talked about Brodie, rather than the danger he posed himself, shook her far more deeply than any of his other threats had done.
She cleared her throat but found that it didn’t help.
“Can I-Water, please?” she asked, casting her eyes away from his, even though he still held her chin in that unrelenting grip.
His fingers remained for a few more moments, then he released her.
“Aye,” he said, a strange mix of satisfaction and regret in his voice. “Of course. Here.”
When he turned to fetch the waterskin, she dropped the poppy and valerian mixture in his ale, swirling the tankard quickly to make the herbs absorb. Despite her earlier misgivings, her movements were assured. She did not hesitate.
Not with the threat of Brodie hanging over her head. She already had feared marriage to the MacFarlane heir, but anyone who made the Bloodhound look that serious… That was not a man she could bear to be bound to for the rest of her days.
Besides, Kenna and Arran needed her to escape, if only because their dear, foolish loyalty meant that they wouldn’t leave her behind.
There was no sign of what she had done by the time Blake turned back around to offer her the waterskin. She took a deep draught, letting the cool liquid soothe her throat, which was suddenly scratchy and sore.
Blake watched her with his usual intensity.
She dropped her gaze away from his. He had that way of watching that made her sure that he could see all the way down to her bones, her secrets laid bare, her heart revealed.
That might have been less uncomfortable if she wasn’t trying to betray him.
It’s not a betrayal, she told herself sternly. Ye cannae betray someone who has abducted ye.
“Let’s eat,” he said, regarding her with his inscrutable eyes.
She nodded, not trusting her voice.
They sat. They ate. The stew was good, but she barely tasted it, too aware of Blake’s untouched tankard of ale.
“What’s got under your skin, lass?” he asked eventually. “Ye are squirming as though ye’ve got a snake in your seat.”
Katrina had to clench every single muscle in her body to stop herself from looking at his dozed tankard. Frantically, she wracked her mind for an excuse, her gaze ultimately landing on her own clenched fist.
“Can ye teach me how to hit?” she asked on impulse. As soon as she said it, she knew that it was a good request. She was sick and tired of being so defenseless. She was tired of her world being controlled by men just because they had strength and power and she didn’t.
“Hit?” he echoed. “Like ye want to learn to punch someone?”
“Aye,” she said, warming to the idea. “So I can defend myself.”
She tried not to hold her breath as his fingers wandered to his tankard, a smirk crossing his lips.
“Lass,” he drawled, clearly enjoying himself, “are ye asking me for a favor?”
Suddenly, the idea seemed less good.
When he wasn’t being scary, the Bloodhound was annoying. She wished she could spread that little rumor around the Highlands. Imagine how it might affect his reputation if everyone knew that he was so bloody irksome.
But she needed him distracted, and she would benefit from the lesson, so she swallowed her pride.
“Aye,” she said. “Fine. Will ye help me?”
His smirk widened. “Are ye saying that ye need me, lass?”
She rolled her eyes. His hand was still on his drink, but he still hadn’t lifted it to his lips.
“I suppose,” she said, though her reluctance didn’t seem to have any effect on his grin.
“Ask me nice,” he crooned. “Use my name.”
This time, her breath caught a little. His smirk was still there, but there was the tiniest crack in it, like the request was real.
She breathed slowly, in and out.
“Blake,” she said, and those blue eyes grew hotter at the sound, “will ye teach me how to punch? Properly?”
He looked at her for a long moment.
“Nay,” he said.
She sat bolt upright in her seat. “What? Ye made me ask, but ye still willnae—”
“Ye dinnae need to learn to punch, Katrina,” he said, and she understood why he wanted to hear her say his name.
It sent a caress down her spine. “If ye find yourself in a battle of fists with a trained warrior, ye have already lost. That is why ye have to use your greatest weapon before it gets to that point.”
The smile he gave her then wasn’t mischievous, and it wasn’t cruel. It was genuine. Almost tender.
“It’s your mind, Katrina. Ye are clever. Use that, and ye will win whatever battle ye come across.”
While she sat there, utterly dumbfounded, he took a long sip from his tankard.
And Katrina told herself that she was pleased.
And that he deserved it, no matter what that voice in her head said.