“Are ye daft? Must I keep repeating myself?”
Slowly, she stood and turned to face the man.
Not a MacLeod.
A Mackenzie. Not an enemy, but not necessarily an ally either.
She breathed a sigh of relief.
Until the man’s gaze roved over her body like she was a meal, and he was starving. He licked his lips, a sneer transforming his face into something sinister.
He still had the tip of his sword pointing at her. Any move she made to grab her dirk would quickly be stopped with a stab. He would for certs catch her if she tried to run. The man was tall and lanky with long legs. He could easily take one stride for her three.
Moira refused to let him see her fear—even if it bubbled up within her, threatening to spill over. Instead, she straightened her shoulders and jutted out her chin, looking the man straight in the eye.
“Ye should take care and be on yer way,” she said firmly.
“And ye should have taken care no’ to travel alone.”
Quickly he closed the distance betwixt them and Moira sucked in a breath. She had nowhere to run.
“I suggest ye stop harassing the lass.”
The warning was clear, and the man who was so close to her that she could smell his fetid breath, widened his eyes. He was blocking her view so she couldn’t see who had delivered the command.
The Mackenzie spun and confronted the intruder. “The wench is mine. Go find yer own,” he spat.
“Ye’ve no right to the lass that is clearly on my land. Leave now, afore I force ye.”
The words he spoke sunk in. She wasn’t on Mackenzie land. That could only mean one thing—she’d made it to MacLeod land.
Inwardly, she groaned. The new situation probably wouldn’t fare any better for her.
The Mackenzie looked over his shoulder at her, his eyes narrowed and turned back to the MacLeod and spit on the ground at his feet.
“I’ll concede as there is nay need for spilt blood today. But I make no promises for future encounters.” With his parting words, he walked away, giving a wide berth to the man that had stood up for her.
Once he learned she was a Hart, his chivalry wouldn’t last. She dared not look at the man for fear of his reaction. Moira could only hope that he would believe her to be a commoner and allow her on her way.
“What are ye doing on MacLeod lands?” He demanded, his voice as sharp as the sword that had been pointed at her chest just minutes ago.
“I am visiting friends,” she murmured, deciding to keep the same excuse she’d used afore.
“We arenae expecting anyone. Show yer face.”
His voice was firm. Unbending.
She didn’t move.
“Are ye hurt?” Concern laced his question.
That was unexpected.
The man approached and she stiffened.
“Ye’re safe. I willnae hurt ye, lass.”
His voice was vaguely familiar. Could it really be who she sought?
