Entrapment #3
Her fingers closed over his to twist his hand palm up, and at her touch, the Pollocks faded in significance. One look at her tipped-up nose and pouting lips, and he was grinning like a fool once again.
“Ye must keep your hand clean,” she said, blowing a wisp of auburn hair from her forehead as she squinted close to inspect the wound.
Using a corner of the discarded bandage, she dipped the cloth into the lavender tincture and dabbed at his palm. And for a time, he simply sat there, strangely thinking nothing.
Finally, she pushed the bowl back and announced, “’Tis a trifling cut.” She moved as if to go.
Suddenly, he didn’t want her to leave. “Are ye sure, now?” he asked quickly. “It does pain me so.” He curled his fingers and feigned a wince.
Concern wrinkled Sorcha’s brow. “Truly?” she asked, giving his hand a second, deeper look. “Where?”
Aye, her touch was soft and delicate as a feather. He could only imagine how it would feel upon his chest. And her bonny elfin looks combined with the seriousness of her expression were beyond fetching.
His silence betrayed him—or perhaps it was the grin still cemented on his face.
Sorcha lifted her head in a sudden flash of understanding. The look she sent him was a reproving one, but then a spark of mischievousness arced those stunning blue eyes and she slapped his hand. Hard.
This time, it really did sting.
He almost kissed her.
“I see why Alec of Lainshaw is enamored with ye,” he admitted rawly.
At the mention of Alec, her playfulness fled.
“If I were any other man, I’d be fair jealous to deliver ye into his arms,” he lamented in a half-humorous tone.
She averted her gaze. Aye, the trickster was uncomfortable with her lie. He grinned. He’d found the charade far too entertaining, but it would be ending soon. He could only imagine how furious she’d be when she discovered the truth of it on the morrow.
“He’ll likely not be there,” she said, preparing to stand up.
He caught her by the arm. “Nay, he’ll be there,” he said with certainty, grinning all the wider. “Ye miss him sorely, no? His ravishing Montgomery ways?”
A slight flush dusted her cheeks. “No more talk of this, aye?”
“And why no more?” he asked, but then he spied Taran sauntering their direction with Gellie and Andrew in tow, and his mood shifted.
Silence fell over them all then, punctuated only by the wailing winds from outside, but the silence was rendered less awkward by the speedy appearance of the evening meal—an oat porridge of pork and rosemary along with a fine ale, made all the finer for the day’s exertion.
But they’d no sooner finished than both lasses bade the men goodnight and excused themselves to their tiny chamber.
Alec arched a wary brow as the two women passed the Pollock clansmen, and as several of the men’s heads pivoted to follow them with their eyes, he decided it was enough.
Tossing the last of his ale down, he rose to his feet. “I’ll be sleeping in front of their door,” he informed his brother and cousin crisply.
“Aye,” Taran agreed, sending the cantankerous clansmen a long, dark look. “I’ll be staying here.”
The Pollock clansmen caught the exchange. A few of them shifted, clearing their throats. “We’re leaving soon enough, laddies, no need to fash yourselves, aye,” one of them called.
Snagging a chair, Alec headed for the hallway, dragging it behind him, but not before tossing a parting shot over his shoulder. “Aye, and I’ll ensure ye dinna fash anyone but yourselves.”
One stood up angrily, but his companions quickly pulled him back down.
Alec shrugged and disappeared into the darkened passageway. Finding the door, he kicked the chair into place and settled in, propping it back on two legs to caress the hilt of his dirk.
He could hear the buzz of the Pollock clansmen down the hall, but their angry conversation continued only a few moments before Taran’s distinct rumble interrupted them.
Shortly thereafter, the sound of scraping benches preceded heavy footsteps, followed by the loud slam of a door.
The next moment, Alec’s younger brother joined him, laughing.
Alec grinned. To be sure, Taran had a way about him—an intimidating way.
As silence shrouded the brewery, he gradually became aware of the low hum of feminine voices sounding from within the chamber. At first, he resisted, but then pitching all shame aside, curiously cocked his ear to catch the strain of words.
“Ach, keep your feet out of my face now, Gellie,” Sorcha’s voice drifted through the door, accompanied by a laugh.
“There’s no room for the both of us,” Gellie grumbled. “Why dinna ye sleep with your braw admirer, aye?”
Alec grinned.
“And you’re a heathen-minded lass,” Sorcha accused, but her tone lacked ire.
Gellie wasn’t done. “He’s a lad to swoon over,” she said. “I’d be running to his bed, not dancing around it like ye, lass.”
His grin widened, even as he experienced a niggling sense of rising shame. He stretched, preparing to move away when he heard Sorcha’s soft reply.
“Aye, he no doubt charms the hardest of hearts,” she admitted, but then added dryly, “And I’ve no doubt he’s beguiled many.”
It felt like a slap on the face, but one rightly deserved. Chastising himself with a wry ‘he that keeks through a keyhole may see what vexes him, ye daft fool’, he repositioned his chair a polite distance away.
He let his thoughts wander then, from the madness of the Montgomery-Cunningham feud having lasted over one hundred years with no true effort on the parts of the clans to end it, to Auld Bertha’s perplexingly prophetic words.
But more often than not, he caught himself thinking of Sorcha’s pert nose and the soft smile hiding a steely will she seemed unaware she possessed even herself.
Gradually, his lashes drifted shut.
He hadn’t realized he’d fallen asleep until he woke, startled, to the sound of muffled cries.
The next moment, he’d crashed through the tiny chamber’s door with dirk drawn and ready.