Dead, he could not threaten her and all she loved.
Now her skin pricked all over at his nearness. She could hear him breathing. By God, she could smell him.
The boogeyman, the boggart.
“Saerla.” He spoke her name again, sibilantly. A demand.
She opened her eyes.
He stood above the place where she lay, directly above. Lit by the dancing firelight, she could see his face better than ever before. A hard face made up of all planes and angles, it bore a scruff of black beard, and an equally dark scowl.
He wore no sark, his broad chest bare. Saerla’s eyes flew instantly to the wound she’d made with her dirk, high up near his right shoulder. She’d stabbed blindly, hoping to take him in the throat.
She’d failed.
She fought to keep her dismay over that fact from showing on her face. She dared give nothing away. This was a powerful man, sculpted in muscle, and she lay at his mercy. He was dark in appearance and spirit, as the boogeyman should be. His hair, still ruffled no doubt from the removal of his helm, shone black as the wing of a crow. His eyes—but she could not see them well. She did not want to look there.
Gathering all her strength, she scuttled away from him on the bed. Aye, she lay atop a bed—they were alone together in a bedchamber.
What did he intend to do?
If he tried to ravish her, she’d fight. But he made at least two of her in size and would be able to overpower her with ease. Aye, but she would damage him before he got what he wanted. She would strike out with everything in her.
“Stay awa’ from me.”
She barely recognized her own voice. Hoarse with fear.
He drew a breath that expanded the broad chest—she heard the air surge into him. The fire rimmed him in golden light. A devil.
He raised one hand in a soothing gesture. “Do no’ be afeared.”
She reached the far side of the bed and drew her body up tight, knees bent and arms wrapped around them. Her mind raced and her heart galloped. There must be weapons here in this chamber, if it was his chamber. The man was all about conquest and death, and would not be without a surfeit of arms. If she could slide off the side of the bed and dodge him long enough to get her hands on a knife or sword…
But she did not know for sure that her legs would hold her.
“Keep awa’,” she repeated in a croak.
He lifted both hands this time, perhaps showing her they were empty of weapons. He did not need weapons, though. His hands looked as strong and merciless as the rest of him.
“I ken who ye be. Rory MacLeod.”
“And I ken who ye be. Saerla MacBeith. Are ye hurt bad?”
She shook her head. A lie. Her skull pounded twice as hard now that she was upright.
“I am Rory MacLeod,” he granted, in a deep rumble. “And ye be here at my keep, taken awa’ out o’ the battle. My prisoner and my prize. Let us see what yer sister will bargain for ye.”
Chapter Nine
He meant tosend her home. He held her here at MacLeod, aye, a place she’d seen scores of times from a distance yet never visited. But he intended to make a trade, as he had done for his cousin, Leith.
Relief surged through Saerla in a staggering wave. For an instant she wanted it so badly—longed so intently to be home—that she feared a sob would escape her throat.
She could not let this monster see her cry.
But for whom might he trade her? Farlan? He’d sent Farlan away. Banished him, in fact. His best friend.
Forwhatcould he possibly exchange her?
