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“The lady knows that I do not offer her promises that I will not do everything in my power to keep.”
It was true. Even when his men turned against him, he’d planned a way to deliver her safely onto Scottish soil. Maisie felt light-headed, thrilled by his comment and the way he looked at her as he delivered it in that gruff, determined way of his. He did not hate her for what she had brought upon them. Never had she been more thankful for anything. It gave her strength.
Moving slowly, she stepped out from the table, one eye on the door.
The serving girl had moved closer to it, cowering by the hinges. How long did they have before the men who guarded this place were told of an intruder’s presence? Would she be able to hold them back by magic, should they come for Roderick?
“Cyrus, I have made clear how we stand with one another, and you must accept that I do not inten
d to stay with you.”
“Never!”
She stared at him, aching from the pain and disloyalty that Mama Beth had experienced. “You called this man a heathen. Many would call me a heathen, but you told me that did not matter. It does matter. It always will matter.”
“It doesn’t matter to me.”
“Oh, but it does, for it is my heathen craft you wanted, and all that would be unveiled when you claimed me as your lover.”
“Margaret—”
“You have played with the truth, and you have used me to gain power and prestige.”
Roderick cursed beneath his breath and tightened his grip on Cyrus. Maisie realized she would have to be cautious, for now that Roderick was sure of Cyrus’s identity, he looked on him with revulsion and anger. “Say the word and I will put an end to him,” he growled.
“No!”
Roderick did not relinquish his grip on Cyrus’s hair, but grinned. “Can I at least hit him?”
Maisie sighed. Men, it seemed, relished injuring their opponent in some way even after they had claimed the woman.
Cyrus shifted uneasily, struggling to maintain eye contact with her while pinned to his seat by a lethal weapon. “Get rid of him, and I assure you, you will come to understand how much you mean to me.”
It was he who looked betrayed now, he who looked pained and aggrieved and heartbroken. He did love her, twisted though it was.
“I cannot,” she responded, and braced herself to tell him why. “I cannot, because this man is my lover, and I care for him deeply.”
Roderick’s mouth curled, and he looked across at her proudly. “And that is why I found myself healed.”
She nodded.
The moment was broken by the sound of Cyrus kicking out at the table before him.
Across the room, the servant reached for the door handle, dragged the door open and took flight.
For a moment Maisie thought Cyrus would slit his own neck, for he twisted and bucked against the blade of the cutlass as he tried to break free of Roderick’s grasp.
Roderick cursed, glanced back at the open door, drawn by the sound of the serving girl’s departure.
Cyrus broke free. He flitted to the far wall and lifted down a sword from the mounted display. “You gave yourself to this oaf?” he shouted, as he approached Roderick, sword at the ready.
“I gave myself to an honest man.”
“A mistake I will obliterate from our lives forever.” He lunged in Roderick’s direction, weapon lifted.
“Roderick, be careful, for he is a skilled swordsman.”
Roderick looked Cyrus up and down with some doubt, then stepped forward, defended and quickly returned.
