Arran hugged her back, then stepped away. He looked at them all, his family, and glanced at Alexandra one more time. Then he solemnly nodded.
"I will," he swore, and silently added that he would do what it took, no matter the cost.
The weight of the promise sang in the breeze.
CHAPTER FIVE
Morag Caindach was watching him again. Murdoch was growing increasingly unsettled by her presence; she seemed to be around no matter which corner he turned, always watching him, always waiting. The suspicions of the others in the castle had relaxed somewhat over the last week, and they were all starting to treat him more and more as a Campbell and less and less as an outsider.
He still wasn't welcome in the more high-level war discussions where intense strategies were discussed, but he attended the general meetings regularly, trained with the soldiers, and no longer was escorted by guards around the castle. His interactions with Alistair Campbell were still somewhat limited, but he and Ian talked most days, and despite his expectations, he found himself warming up considerably to the man who was his brother. Ian, in turn, seemed to be growing pleased to have him around.
But Morag didn't trust him. Murdoch didn't know what he had to do to convince her, and nor, if he was honest, did he know why it mattered so much to him. For some reason, he desperately wanted her to either leave him alone or… well, he didn't know what.
He felt haunted by her, imagining her eyes even while she slept, his skin still prickling days later from where he'd held her after she'd fallen. She was too clever, so beautiful, and too quick. She was dangerous, and Murdoch knew that he needed to avoid her if he wanted to get through this intact.
He was still confined to his rooms at night, but he had slipped his way out of the door every night for the past three nights, and this one was no different. He wanted to explore the Keep and find out what he could while there were few people wandering around and he could actually work in private. As he paced along the corridors, he listened carefully for the sound of footsteps, knowing that, although he could easily make up an excuse as to why he was wandering around, the best idea would be to avoid being spotted. And so, every time he heard so much as a sound, he would duck into a nearby room or around a corner, keeping himself hidden as best as he could.
Murdoch had been walking around for almost half an hour and had definitely gotten lost. He had no idea where he was in the castle, and he wasn't sure if he'd ever been in this section at all. He spotted a door ahead that looked promising, but just as he approached it, it started to open. He quickly turned back, but footsteps suddenly echoed in that direction too. Panic flooded through him as he realized he was trapped, and he rushed forward to reach a hanging tapestry. He pulled it back and hoped that the space behind it would be big enough for him to hide behind.
To his surprise, it opened up into not a nook, but a small, hidden corridor. Curiosity and a desperation to hide pulled Murdoch on through it. He couldn't turn back, after all, and he had no intention of just standing still. He made his way through the dark tunnel mostly by feel, his heart racing, scraping his hands against the walls as he couldn't see. Suddenly, starlightand cold washed over him, and Murdoch stumbled on soft grass beneath his feet.
Blinking to adjust his eyes, Murdoch realized that he had somehow ended up outside. It was a small, secluded courtyard, surrounded completely by tall stone walls, with only a long rectangle of land, completely hidden by the secret entrance. Someone else was already there, firing a bow over and over toward a target set up on the far wall, cursing in a very unladylike way under her breath with each near-miss.
The woman yelped and spun around with the loaded bow in her hands, pointing the arrow directly at Murdoch's chest, her eyes blazing. Her long dark hair was the first thing he noted, black as ink and soft and shining as gossamer silk, braided roughly down her back as if she was unused to doing it herself. Her eyes, green as the grass, shone with shock and determination, and her sharp expression made it clear she would have no hesitation in firing the arrow into an intruder's heart if it was the only way to protect herself.
Murdoch was struck momentarily by a memory, Aila telling him the story of Scáthach, the ancient warrior queen. This was how he had almost imagined her in all her glory. For a moment, he was struck breathless. But in that beat, her hands trembled, and when Murdoch looked down at them, he saw that they were red and raw.
"Ye shouldnae sneak up on a woman like this," Morag snapped, not lowering the weapon. "How did ye even find me?"
Murdoch stood still, mildly amused. She was holding the bow all wrong, and judging by the state of her hands and the arrows littered everywhere, she'd probably been here trying to train for several hours.
Morag scoffed. "Nae reply. Aye, that makes sense." She lowered the bow. "I dinnae ken why I even asked. It's yer natural habitat tae be skulkin' in the dark, sneakin' around through theshadows like the liar ye are. Everyone else might be fooled, but I'm nae."
He knew he should leave. There was nothing to be gained from standing here being berated. And yet, when he tried to turn to go, something kept him rooted to the spot. His eyes went from Morag's hands to her face then back again, and he sighed. He took a few steps toward her and, before she could react, gently repositioned her hands on the bow.
"What are ye doin'?" she demanded.
"Ye're holdin' it wrong. Nae wonder ye're so sore. Support the weight here, that's it."
His fingers brushed the skin of her knuckles, and he felt a spark travel lazily through his body from the contact. He fought the urge to move closer and instead stepped back.
"Better. Though if ye're tae hit the target as ye wish, ye'll need tae fix yer stance, too."
Morag narrowed her eyes. "And how should I stand?"
He paused. "Can I touch ye? Just tae help move ye intae place."
Morag looked like she might shout at him, or maybe even attack him, then her face twisted in uncertainty. She looked between him and the target then, with a small sigh, nodded.
"Butonlyfor that, mind. Nae wanderin' hands."
"I wouldnae dream of it," he replied.
Morag turned toward the target and he moved behind her, placing one of his hands on her waist and the other cupping her elbow as he helped guide her into place.
"Move yer feet—nay, nae like that—aye, that's it. Now, line up the shot."
Morag lifted the bow and fired. The arrow flew through the air and hit the target, not close to the center but definitely within the rings. Her body tensed and, when he glimpsed the sight of her face, she was wearing a rare smile.
