Neacal nodded. Such a life would be too hard for most women, but Anna was obviously up to the task. Though she appeared dainty and lady-like, he sensed she had much hidden inner strength.
Tavia had said Anna was a widow. He wanted to ask her about her late husband, but he did not wish to upset her or pry too much. Most intriguing of all, he recognized something in her which he himself possessed—painful secrets. He yearned to know what hers were. But after the last woman he'd dallied with… who had betrayed him… he would not trust another so easily. Women could be just as dangerous as men. Not because of their fighting skills but because of who or what they knew.
His gaze drifted back to Anna, so beautiful in the firelight. Her skin held a creamy glow that lured him to run his fingertips over her to see how silken she was. And her rosy lips… he yearned to taste and explore them. Unwanted arousal surged through him.
Hell, it had been almost two years since he had touched a woman. And this one just happened to be in his bedchamber.
What the hell business did he have getting aroused? He knew very little about her and he respected her too much to seduce her. Still, he craved her with everything primal and male within him.
He paced again and dragged his fingers through his hair. He'd best forget about how bonny she was and focus on the traitors out to destroy him. How many of his own clansmen were actually his enemies? They were liars, for they'd pledged an oath to him, twice.
"I'd best be getting back to my own chamber." She stood.
Though he didn't want her to go, he knew she was right. The gossips wouldn't be kind if they knew she'd been in his chamber.
"I thank you for telling me about the traitors. I have an idea. In the morn, try to eat early. Then, while everyone is in the great hall breaking their fast, meet me at the top of the stairs that lead up here. I want you to secretly point out the two men you heard talking. I'll tell no one that you were the one who informed me."
"Very well, m'laird." She curtsied, then exited, closing the door behind her.
He'd told her more than once to call him Neacal. Why wouldn't she do it in private, at least? Every time she called him m'laird, some part of him rebelled against it. He knew not why. He was the laird and had to grow used to the title. But he had been Neacal the whole of his life, and now very few called him that. 'Twas as if they expected him to take on a new name and new identity simply because his brother had died.
After barring his door, he paced, thinking of each of his clansmen. Which two were traitorous? They had to be some of the ones who had hung back slightly when all the men were pledging their allegiance again a few days ago.
