"But the Kincaids are ready tae fight with them at a moment's notice, as are several of their oldest allies," Murdoch continued. "I can give ye information where I have it, but I'm afraid we're gonnae be takin' a risk nae matter what."
The meeting continued along the same vein, with different leaders shooting pointed questions at Murdoch and Murdoch answering with smooth, practiced ease. Morag tried her best, but she found detecting lies almost impossible. On top of that, when Alistair or Ian tested Murdoch with information they secretly already had, Murdoch flawlessly and invariably answered with something that matched their existing information.
By the end of the three hours, even Laird Caindach was looking somewhat satisfied by Murdoch, but that nagging voice in Morag's head had just grown louder. Yes, he played the part of a Campbell exceedingly well—but she could not forget the brightness in his eyes.
The leaders, Alistair, and Ian cleared out of the room, Ian instructing the guards to leave Murdoch alone. Apparently, the prodigal son had truly earned the freedom to wander the castle thanks to his performance. Morag stayed in her seat until all the men were gone, her mind whirring as she tried to work out what she was missing.
"Escort him tae his chamber," Laird Caindach hissed in her ear. "Find out anythin' else ye can, and if he invites ye inside, ye're tae accompany him."
Morag shivered in disgust, not necessarily at the idea of Murdoch but more at the fact her father saw her as so much of a pawn. Nevertheless, she nodded, staying seated and silent until Laird Caindach, too, had fully left the room. When she and Murdoch were alone, she stood and slowly walked toward him where he was leaning over a map and reading something intently.
"Ye held back. They might nae have noticed, but I did," she said without preamble. She knew her father would be furious at her choice of topic, but she could not help the words as they slid from her tongue. "I want tae ken what game ye're playin' here."
Murdoch turned to face her, eyebrow arched again, the same mocking smile on his face he'd worn every time he addressed her much to the amusement of the other men.
"Holdin' back?" he asked. "What would ye have had me say?"
"More," Morag snapped back. "Did ye think ye went unnoticed, feedin' them scraps of information until they were too fat for the real meat? Ye caught me by surprise with yer half-truths at first, but I understand now."
"Do ye?" He folded his arms. "A bonny lass like ye doesnae look like ye understand much. I think yer hands are clearly more fit for a knittin' needle than the intricacies of war strategy."
"And yers better suited tae a polearm than a chess match!" Morag shook her head, riled despite her promise to herself to stay calm. "Are ye here as a friend or a traitor? Answer me plainly."
"I'm nae traitor," Murdoch said sharply and with such conviction that it was impossible that it was anything but true. He leaned closer to her, and for a moment her heart stuttered as those bright hazel eyes stared into her own. "But that doesnae make me yer friend, lass."
Abruptly, he pulled back, and Morag gasped as she caught the breath she'd forgotten to take under his gaze. Indescribably disoriented, she took a moment to right herself, and by the time she did, Murdoch was already halfway out of the door.
Annoyed, Morag chased after him, then when he turned back, slowed to a stop so it looked like they just happened to be walking out of the door at the same time.
"Are ye gonnae follow me everywhere I go?" Murdoch asked. "Tae me rooms, maybe? Tae bathe? Tae the privy?"
"I'm still a laird's daughter. Watch what ye say," Morag replied. "I'm just goin' tae meownroom. That's all. And for what it's worth, I dinnae believe a word ye say. Why would ye turn on the people who raised ye so suddenly?"
He snorted. "Says ye! Were ye not due tae wed Rolland Murray until a short time ago? Ye would have been on his side in an instant, and yer father too, if it would have benefited ye. And now here ye are, servin' as Campbell's spy."
The accusation stung because it was partly true: if she had married Rolland as planned, her father would have scorned Campbell because he went where the power was. But now that it seemed that Campbell was going to emerge victorious, and since Morag was of no more use as a bargaining tool of a bride…
"I'm nae Campbell's anythin'," Morag replied fiercely. Tension crackled between them even as she tried to keep her distance as they walked along the corridor. "And I dinnae believe ye are either. Someone's gonnae find out why ye're here, play-actin' the savage, and I swear ye'd better hope it's me rather than Ian or someone else with blood on his mind."
"Oh aye?" He sounded amused. "And what will ye do when ye catch me in me so-called crimes? Scold me tae death?"
She narrowed her eyes. "Taunt me all ye like. Ye're nothin' but a coward in fine clothin'. A chameleon with nae spine, here on some task I dinnae thinkyeeven ken."
His grin faded. "Andyeare a spoiled lass desperate for scraps of power wherever ye find them. Tell me, whose eye were ye tryin' tae catch in that dress? Mine? Ian's? Laird Campbell's himself?"
Blushing, Morag glanced down at herself. "And if I was? Am I tae be shamed, then, for usin' what power is left tae me? We cannae all be born intae favor by virtue of our sex,Murdoch."
Murdoch opened his mouth, no doubt to offer some other acerbic retort, but before he could speak Morag's gown snagged on a loose stone. Caught by the sudden pull, she gasped, tripping and falling toward the ground. Gasping, she threw out her hand to save herself, wincing in pain as it scraped against the wall but did nothing to slow her descent.
A pair of strong arms caught her in a second, one wrapped securely around her waist while the other steadied her elbow. Murdoch helped Morag back to her feet and lifted her now-bleeding hand, inspecting it with a frown.
"How did ye manage that?" he muttered, and Morag heard something in his voice that hadn't been there before. "Ye'll need tae get the healer tae look at it. It's deep. Here."
Before she could do or say anything, Murdoch had ripped a strip from his sleeve, apparently not bothering about the fact he'd ruined his fine shirt. He wrapped her hand tightly, stopping the blood from running down her arm and making a mess. His touch was so gentle that Morag's pulse raced beneath his fingertips, fluttering like the wings of a delicate butterfly in response to the softest touch. Her lips parted, but no sound came out.
"It'll keep it secure until the healer tends tae it, but dinnae leave it too long or it will get infected," he told her.
Then he looked up and met her eyes, and a sudden look of guilt or confusion crossed his features. He tore his gaze away sharply, and Morag saw a tinge of red on his cheeks.
