She did not know how to seduce a man. She had never been that kind of woman. She dealt purely and honestly with the people she knew, men and women alike, and only kept from them the truths she Saw in Visions that she thought might hurt them.
For this, she would have to twist truth and do it convincingly. She was not equipped for it. She had no coquettish ways. No womanly wiles.
Fate had chosen wrong, placing her here.
Why should he believe she desired him? That she might invite his touch? His kiss? Might want him to take her to the bed that lay just behind her, where she might slit his throat?
Get him talking,her inner woman urged.Make it intimate.
“Chief MacLeod. Ha’ ye word for me about my release?”
“Nay.” He still regarded her as if he expected her to attack him. As indeed she would. “I yet prepare the letter to your sister. I seek fro’ ye some information.”
“Oh?”
“Aye.” He did take a step away from the door toward the fire. Then another. He went and held his hands out to the flames, but he kept his gaze on her.
“Come, sit,” she invited him. “I will answer what I can.”
“Will ye?” He looked surprised.
“I want to leave here, do I no’? To go home.” Her own yearning made that sound all too convincing. “If I can in any way further my release, I wish to do so.”
“That is a very sensible attitude.”
“I am a sensible woman.”
“Aye, then.” He sat on the settle that fronted the fire. Knowing she must get closer, Saerla joined him there.
Aye, and being so close made it all too real. No Vision, this. She could not convince herself of that. For she could smell him just as she had last time. The tang of the rain, and leather, and wet wool, and that other scent she’d caught when he kissed her.
Kissed her.
She needed to convince him to kiss her so again. Render him unsuspecting. Then bring up the point of the knife and—
Fear got her on her feet. “Ye be very wet. I ha’ a cloth.”
It was the one she used for washing and drying. Since she’d found it here, she suspected it was his, after all.
She brought it in her hands, which trembled. Sat back down, closer to him this time. Caught his gaze as she said, in a murmur, “Pray, allow me.”
He sat stock-still when she touched him. Like rock when she applied the cloth to his face, gentle as she might touch a child. Like stone as she ran it down across the angle of his jaw and farther—farther, to his throat.
Just there, she would have to place her blade. Pierce the flesh.
The collar of his sark lay open and his skin gleamed wet. A pulse jumped as she plied her cloth there, but naught else moved.
Saerla’s head went light, as it sometimes did before a Vision. She felt like another woman, almost. One who had stepped outof herself. One who, the cloth still caught in one hand, used the fingers of the other to pluck at the laces on the front of his sark and untie them.
He drew a harsh breath as she placed her cloth inside his sark, meeting a crop of coarse hair and hard muscle.
“Saerla.” It came in a growl as he caught her wrist, his paralysis suddenly broken. And then, in a whisper, “Saerla.”
He pulled her into his arms. She had not far to go as she leaned into him so closely. It might have been a chasm, since she crossed her fear, her doubt, and her reluctance.
All that flew away as soon as she met the wall of his chest. Just like before, she half expected violence. As before, he surprised her.
His arms wrapped around her, forming not a prison but a cradle. Not confinement, this, but protection. She felt safe.Safe. That allowed the fear to subside even before his mouth found hers and made her forget every other consideration.
