Then, as quickly as she could, Morag fled into the safety of the castle, trying to ignore the frantic swirling in her treacherous heart.
CHAPTER NINE
After three hours of restless sleep, Christopher woke again properly, but he didn't open his eyes yet. With them closed, he could still feel Morag in his arms as if she were really there, her body fitting perfectly against his, her lips so close that it was almost unbearable. He could still envision that glint in her green eyes when she'd challenged him, still hear the defiance she'd shown when she'd threatened to expose him, even though he'd heard the fear she'd tried to hide as well.
He groaned and forced his eyes open, rolling onto his back, hoping that the light of day would stop Morag from consuming his every thought. But even now as he stared at the canopy of his fine bed, he wondered what she was doing. Had she slept? Had she tended to her small wounds?
She'd managed to get a few small hits on him as well, though they had been small enough that there was only a little blood to clean up, and he could easily explain that as injuries from training. He wondered if she'd have to burn the shirt she was wearing to hide it from her father. She was smart enough to do so.
Christopher got out of bed and wandered sleepily over to the mirror, his body aching with every step. He stared at the manwith the dark-ringed eyes who looked back at him and realized with both terror and a thrill that Murdoch was gone for good. He'd worked so carefully to invent the persona that had kept him safe and bought him the trust of Alistair and Ian, but now that he had spoken of Elsie and Arran and Cassie—of his family—aloud, there was no way he'd be able to retreat back into that coldness.
His mind went to Morag again and the brief look in her eyes when he'd spoken of them. He wondered what it meant, then growled slightly at his own stupidity.
Morag Caindach was dangerous. He'd known that from the beginning, though now he understood that her true danger lay in a very different place than he'd expected. Every moment she let her guard down and he did the same in turn, it changed something inside of him, so subtly that he hadn't noticed until it was too late.
She knew his secret, and despite that, hetrustedher to keep it, no matter what she claimed to the contrary. He wanted to be near her, to listen to her, to know her and understand her, and he wanted her to know him too.Thatwas the true risk she posed, and it was one he couldn't allow to continue.
"Focus," he told the man in the mirror. "Yer mission is too important tae lose yerself tae a pair of bonny eyes now."
He took a few more minutes to gather himself, then quickly washed and dressed. The sun was much higher in the sky than it usually was when he woke up, but nobody seemed to have noticed that he had stayed in bed too late.
Christopher knew that he needed to get some intelligence if he was to get back on track. Ian was his best bet, and so he went off in search of his brother by blood. His feelings about Ian were complex—the manwashis brother, and he'd been surprisingly kind toMurdochever since he'd earned his trust.
Part of Christopher wondered, maybe even hoped, if there might be a chance of turning him away from the darkest pathone day. Maybe he could bring him home to meet his other brothers or back to Murrays to meet Elsie. Maybe Fenella's children could finally be reunited at long, long last.
After asking a few different servants and guards, he found his way to the main courtyard where Ian was deep in conversation with some of the allied lairds. A huge crowd of people was gathered, from scouts preparing to ride out to soldiers discussing strategies to lairds and ladies mingling.
Christopher saw Laird Caindach in the middle of the fray, and sure enough, his eyes found Morag nearby, standing with a maid and watching proceedings with no expression on her face. He quickly looked away from her, finding Ian again, and started forward toward him.
Ian saw him coming and raised his hand to wave. Christopher waved back and hurried over, but before he could say anything, a commotion erupted near the open gates which were waiting for the scouts to leave. Guards were shouting and the panicked whinnying of a horse pierced the air. All heads whipped to stare. From his angle on the stairs, Christopher had an extremely clear view of the horse which raced through the gates, screaming in agony and fear.
Icewater filled his veins. The riderless horse, dragged along by ropes, was huge and muscled, sleek and elegant and pure white except for the blood that streaked its face and body. It limped badly on one leg, and its eyes were wide and crazed. The soldiers who were pulling it along by the lead were shouting about an enemy scout who had run free, but Christopher could barely pay any attention, focusing on the injured animal, his heart aching for its pain and fear.
"That's a Kincaid horse," Ian said in surprise.
Not just any Kincaid horse. Beneath the blood, Christopher caught sight of a dark heart-shaped mark between the horse's eyes. It—no,he—was a horse that Christopher knew. He'd beenthere when Arran bred and raised the foal, and there when Aila trained the yearling until he was ready to be gifted to the McKenzies.
Christopher remembered the bright smile on Rory McKenzie's face when he was told he could name the stunning creature. He'd dubbed him Splendor, and every one of the McKenzies had adored him immediately. Christopher remembered Rory asking Aila for tips again and again, excited to finally have one of the grand horses for the family, even if it would probably be used by their scouts.
Who had been riding Splendor when he'd been captured? Whose blood was mingled with the horse's, sticking and matted in his fur? His stomach tightened so painfully that he thought he might be sick, and, with all that pressure, Christopher's mask shattered as he stared at the horse. Worry, fear, and panic consumed everything he'd worked so hard to create, and there was no longer any room for being careful.
"Stop that screaming," Ian said. "I'll kill the beast. Hold it still."
Ian moved forward, drawing his sword, and Christopher shouted, "No!"
He acted before he could think. With a strangled shout, he yanked Ian back with heavy force, blocking his path, unrestrained ferocity behind the way he threw the heir to the ground. Ian shouted something in rage, but Christopher ignored him and the gasps and shouts from the watching crowd. He walked forward as calmly as he could manage, stopping in front of Splendor and raising a gentle hand to the distressed creature's snout.
"It's all right," he whispered, tuning out every person in the world other than himself and the horse, the rest of the crowd fading away to nothing. "I'm here. Ye'll be all right."
He moved closer, keeping up the slow, careful whisper, the gentle expressions, and the soft movements. He used the gentle tones that Aila had taught him and the quiet tones he'd used over and over again to build trust with Beatha.
"We can help ye," he promised Splendor. "Be calm."
Slowly but surely, Splendor's screams abated into nervous nickering, then eventually into quiet. He lowered his head to meet Christopher's outstretched hand, and Christopher gently patted him, making sure he felt safe.
There was a beat of pure silence, then Ian's cold, furious voice echoed around the courtyard. "Murdoch!"
Christopher turned his head and saw that Ian had clambered to his feet, a dark bruise forming on his cheek where he had smacked against the ground. He stayed still, determined not to startle the horse again.
