Page 55 of A Highland Rogue to Ruin

“Ye lie.”

“Mayhap a lurker,” he answered honestly.

“What about Nykr?”

“Worry nay for my beast. He kens what to do.” Unsheathing both blades from beneath his arms, he spun them around into a sound grip.

Her breath hitched at the sight of knives and she flinched in his periphery. “Torm—”

“Wheesht.”

Someone was spying on him, or them. Her brother? Or another one of his enemies, come here with the same intention toward him that he’d come for James? Truces were only as good as one dishonest vow. He should know.

He eyed from where the sound had come. Glanced into the boughs. Dropping down from above was a favorite tactic of his, and he wouldn’t put it past another to try it on him. Saw no one, as he slunk forth, ears trained on the silence. Creaking whined on the breeze.

There should be squirrels frolicking. Perhaps a vole foraging. And there should be lots of birds. All signs that something had put them silent. His battle sense licked through his blood. Yet as he wove in and out of trunks, he saw no further signs. No telltale broken branches or rips of clothing, and the brambles were too thick to determine footprints or one single broken twig, nor could he distinguish any disrupted detritus underfoot.

A bird chattered and rustled distant branches. Whoever it had been was gone now.

He returned from the woods and spied Brighde’s face. Ghostly white. His skin prickled further, wanting to put distance between them and whoever the lurker had been.

“Who was it?” she whispered.

He shook his head to ease her worry, but his brow furrowed as he gathered Nykr’s reins and hoisted himself aloft, for her sheen of distress didn’t dissipate. “Speak.”

“It’s just… Nothing.” She shook away the discontent. “I was worried, ’tis all.”

“I thought ye nay lie.” He earned a censorious glare but cared not. “I canna help ye if I ken no’ the problem.”

She bit that lip. He growled and honed in on it, and she popped it free, as if remembering.

“It’s just… A couple nights ago, after ye snuck into my tent. I could have sworn there was someone right outside. Was it ye?”

Alarm kicked through him again.

“What happened?” he ground out, realizing his teeth had clenched and that same flood of panic that had lanced him when he’d seen her in danger yesterday was nipping again.

“There was the shape of a man alongside my tent. But then ye snuck in that morn, and I was convinced it had been ye so I thought little more about it.”

Christ. “’Twas no’ me.”

Had it been the same person who’d been in the woods now? Was this why she’d been searching the ground around her tent as if she’d lost something? And worse: was this a sign that like every MacLeod before him had done, he’d brought bad luck down upon her? She wasn’t being watched because of him…was she?

“Has this happened before?”

She shook her head at his demand. “Nay, and the next morn I found a red fiber clinging to my tent stake.”

He shook the distressing sentiment that he was a harbinger of bad luck away, even as worry threaded an unwanted seam through his thoughts. “Are ye certain it was nay one of yer guardsmen patrolling?” It made sense. Besides, how could anyone know the depth of his fondness? He’d kept this tryst secret from his enemies. The only people who knew were his men, and he’d trust each of them with his life. “Yer tartan is red. And yer brother is a warrior worth his salt. He’s got men on watch all hours of the day and night.”

She thought on it, nodded, and though her unease didn’t entirely dissipate, her brow softened. “Ye’re probably right. It’s just…when I called out to Angus, they ran away. Why would one of our guards do that?”

The unease flared again. He’d forged a truce with James once already, and prayed it held because if it did, he’d go to him to share this news, even if it brought trouble down on Tormund’s back to confess he’d taken Brighde away in secret. MacDonald needed to scour the area. Her safety was more important than his hatred of the man. But right now, she was with him, and he’d protect her well.

He slipped free one of his sgian achlaises, a handsome blade with an obsidian stone embedded in the hilt and edged in gold, and tucked it into her girdle. “Carry this wherever ye go. Wield it on any man who deserves it.”

She frowned. “But Torm, I can nay even step on an ant without crying.”

“I might nay always be the one to protect ye. Promise me ye’ll rally the courage, lass, and shiv any bastard who dares to warrant it.”