Her lips tightened, though her voice did not falter as she answered, “I was passin’ through, and sought shelter, does that make me a spy in yer eyes?”
James tilted his head slightly, studying her as if weighing each word. “It might, if the timin' suits it,” he said. “The Campbells have been restless, and they’ve used subtler means than open war before.”
At that, something flickered in her eyes, quick and fleeting, but it did not escape him. “I’ve nay ties to that clan,” she said firmly, though she offered nothing more.
“Nay ties ye’ll admit to,” James countered, lowering the blade just slightly though it remained close enough to remind her of its presence.
She drew in a slow breath and said, “Ye’ll get nay spy confession from me, for there’s none to give.”
He watched her closely, noting the steadiness in her voice, the absence of fear where he might have expected it.
“Stubborn,” he muttered, almost to himself, though there was a trace of something else beneath it.
“Proud,” she corrected quietly, lifting her chin despite the sword’s lingering presence.
Their gazes held, neither yielding, the tension between them taught like a drawn bow.
At last, James straightened, lowering his sword fully though he did not sheathe it. His gaze lingered on her, drawn by something he could neither name nor dismiss. And though he told himself she was no more than a potential threat, he was mesmerized by her defiance.
Who is she? I must ken.
“We’ll see how long that pride holds,” he said, his voice returning to its colder edge. He stepped to door and addressed the guards to return.
“Keep her under watch, and see that she’s fed, but she goes nowhere without me say. She will be taken to the dungeon.”
The guards nodded, stepping forward.
“Dungeon? Nay!” she said loudly.
James turned his back to her and smirked. He knew that she would fall into his trap.
“If ye wish to avoid the dungeon, ye will give me the truth,” he said.
James stood rigid before her, the weight of his authority settling coldly into place as he considered her silence.
“I… I cannae say,” she whispered.
“If ye’ve naught to say, then ye’ll find the dungeon a fitting place to think on it,” he said at last, his voice edged with quiet finality.
The guards shifted again at his words, already prepared to carry out the order.
James watched as the woman's composure faltered for the first time, her breath catching as she leaned forward despite the bonds at her wrists. “Fine, then,” she said quickly, her voice tight with urgency, “I’ll tell ye… I cannae bear the dungeon.”
James' gaze narrowed as he studied the crack in her resolve. “Speak then, lass,” he demanded, his tone commanding.
She drew in a steadying breath, her chin lifting once more though her eyes betrayed the strain beneath.
“I’m fleein’ a marriage,” she said.
James did not interrupt, though his expression hardened slightly as she continued.
“A forced one, to a man thrice me age, cruel by all accounts, and wantin’ naught but an heir to his name.”
A faint murmur stirred among the guards, but James silenced it with a glance, his attention fixed wholly upon her.
“And ye expect me to believe ye simply ran, alone, through the Highlands to flee a marriage?” he asked, skepticism threading his tone.
She met his gaze without flinching and replied, “I’d rather face the wilds than be bound to him, so aye…I ran.”
