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Beast.
She was not about to show him fear so she gave a clipped nod and sat, half terrified, alone in the darkness.
Little rustlings moved through the brush behind the log, making her jump. Eerie creaks moaned in the trees overhead, making her duck.
“It is just the wind,” she told herself.
Something scuttled in the brush directly beside her.
She slid to the edge of the log and gave a startled cry when a splinter poked through her skirts, into her bottom. She carefully removed it and, straightening the fabric again, spotted something on her gown that made her heart grow cold.
Grass stains. And a small tear. The tunic was ruined. Ruined.
She narrowed her eyes and glared across the clearing. The Irishman had much to answer for.
Tightening her jaw, she listened to the rustlings in the underbrush all around, but held her seat with grim determination until a long wolf’s howl broke the night. Very close to hand.
She loosed a scream, which somehow formed itself into Máel’s name. She shot to her feet, shaking. Thuds and bumps sounded in the woods behind her and she whirled.
Máel appeared out of the trees, firewood in his arms.
Cold relief rushed through her chest.
He dropped the wood and took a swift step forward. “Did you scream?”
She carefully retook her seat. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I thought I heard my name.”
She sniffed. “Ladies do not scream the names of outlaws.” She paused. “I believe there was a wolf.”
“Aye, a wolf,” he agreed, gathering the wood he’d dropped.
“How…how close do you think they will come?”
He dumped the firewood by the pit, then crouched beside it. “They won’t come near the fire.”
“Oh. Of course.” She cleared her throat. “There were also…scuttlings.”
“Scuttlings?” he repeated.
“Yes. In the underbrush. Loud ones, such as would be made by a large creature. Very large. Possibly a boar.”
His face tipped up, lines of laughter around what was this time a full smile. And oh, was it not devastating in its masculine beauty?
“Boars don’t scuttle, Cassia. They run you straight down.”
She frowned. “That does not help.”
He said quietly, “No harm will come to you. I swear it.”
It was then she feared she might be in more dire straits than she’d thought earlier, when she whispered the name of the rogue who had engineered her doom.
For now, she realized her best chance lay in trusting him.
The flames crackled to life, flickering red-gold warmth over her knees and face. She edged her bottom as far forward as she could on her perch.
Still in a crouch, he pivoted on the balls of his feet and turned to her.
