The maid blinked, a little confused.
Isabail bent to Muirne’s leg, lifted her skirt a bit, and peered at her foot. “The toes are paining you, are they? It must be remnants of the severe chill you took.” She flung an arm around Muirne’s waist and pretended to take some of her weight. “We should get you off that foot. Back in the saddle, I think.”
Hobbling forward, Isabail glanced at Duncan. Sure enough, the sandy-haired warrior had exchanged his glower for a look of concern.
“Help her into the saddle,” she requested. “Then we’ll remove her boot and have a look.”
Duncan gently spanned Muirne’s waist with his hands and swung her up on the horse. “Poor wee lass,” he said as he settled her in the saddle.
“I think I saw some salve in Graeme’s bag,” Isabail said. “If you fetch it, I’ll rub some onto her toes.”
“Duncan,” came a dark voice from behind her. “If you fetch it, I’ll be embarrassed to call you kin. She’s playing you for a fool.”
At his chief’s cold words, Duncan’s scowl returned in a furious rush.
Isabail spun to face her nemesis. Although she was growing accustomed to his large size, his towering form still stole her breath away. Or was it the fierce male beauty of his face? Really, the devil must have had a hand in shaping the man—he had it all: a powerful body other men would envy, an easy grace that made the sword in his hand seem like an extension of his arm, and the face of an angel. Anavengingangel.
She swallowed. “She complained of pain.”
“Liar.”
The faint heat in Isabail’s cheeks became a bonfire. “I beg your pardon?”
“I was watching the two of you as I approached. Your maid was not favoring her foot; nor did she wince with pain. You are a liar.”
His voice was cold and hard, not loud and angry, so Isabail was able to hold her ground, even though her instincts were clamoring at her to flee. He could kill her with that sword. One mighty swing and her life would be over in a flash. Like her mother’s had been.
But he wouldn’t kill her.
Not until he had the information he desired. At least, she prayed that was so.
“Please,” she begged. “Release us. It was my brother with whom you had a grievance, not me.”
He stared back at her, seemingly unmoved by the tears that had sprung into her eyes. “Tell me what I need to know, and I’ll have no need to hold you.”
Isabail heard Muirne gasp at his words and knew what the other woman was thinking.Tell him and we’re as good as dead. There was a fair chance she was right. Especially as she suspected his clan was camped somewhere at this end of the glen—the tension in the men’s shoulders had eased in that way that suggested they were home. He would not risk releasing her and having MacPherson discover his kin.
“I do not recall any names. It is too long in the past.”
He sheathed his sword. “Then face the consequences.”
Two huge hands reached for her, and Isabail crammed her eyes shut. It was an instinctive reaction, but a woefully inadequate defense. Shutting out the world never made the punishment more bearable. Indeed, it had often made it worse—even that small rebellion had infuriated her father. But it was all she could do against the might of a man’s anger. She steeled herself for the blows.
But they never came. MacCurran simply tied something soft about her head, blinding her view. Then he grabbed her by the shoulders and prodded her forward. When her outstretched hands met the warm, silky coat of his huge steed, he thrust her unceremoniously into the saddle and leapt up behind her.
“For your lies,” he growled, “you’ll miss the evening meal. You’d best hope the pinch of hunger in your belly stirs your memories.”
* * *
Aiden wasn’t certain what made him angrier—the woman’s continued attempts to throw herself into danger or the look of frozen terror that took over her face each time he lifted a hand. What cause had she to believe he would strike her? Aye, she had annoyed him. But there was a huge leap between feeling anger and using one’s fists.
A warrior was only as good as his self-discipline, after all.
He shackled her tight to his chest with one arm and guided his mount around a huge oak with the other. Her fear was understandable, given what she knew of him. But it still rankled.
If she would simply confess the names of her brother’s guests that night, they could part ways. She would be free to seek solace from Tormod MacPherson, and he could hunt down the filthy cur who’d actually done the evil deeds he’d been accused of. Oh, to have the satisfaction of running that bastard through.
“You went off into the woods in search of miscreants. Did you slay anyone?” Isabail asked, a note of faint disapproval in her voice.
