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She rolled over and smiled. So, the laird of Clan MacPherson was attracted to his prisoner. That kiss they’d shared in the secret garden meant something to him even if he denied it. Perhaps she wasn’t the only prisoner here. If he was a prisoner of his emotions, she could use that to her advantage.
That pleased her. The part that bothered her was the battle going on between the English and the Scots. She had the blood of both sides flowing through her veins. Fia didn’t want her family or her friends killed. Richard was her half-cousin so, by right, he was family, too. He was young like her and didn’t deserve to die either. She was fond of her cousin, though she didn’t know him well. Once a year while being fostered by Lord Beaufort, she and her cousins would visit with the young king. Richard had always been pleasant to them although he didn’t care for Fia’s father or uncles.
“Get up,” she heard, turning over to see Alastair’s tall body looming over her. The early morning rays of sun coming up on the horizon shone from behind him, casting a sheen around his body and illuminating his dark hair. He looked tired. Stubble peppered his jaw. Seeing his mussed hair made her want to run her hands through it to fix it. “We need to go.”
“Where are we goin’?” she asked, pretending not to know. She sat up, stretched and yawned.
“Dinna play games with me, lass. I ken ye heard us talkin’. I saw ye watchin’ us through yer half-closed eyes.”
“Blethers! Then why dinna ye have yer secret meetin’s in front of me from now on instead of tryin’ to keep things from me?”
“Fine. I will.” He grabbed her arm and pulled her to her feet. “Ye are my prisoner, and I am goin’ to exchange ye for my faither who is bein’ held by the Grants.”
“I ken that. But it isna goin’ to work.”
“What do ye mean?” He walked over and dumped water over the fire to douse it, and then started kicking dirt atop it.
“Clan Grant barely even kens me,” she told him, hoping he would believe it. “They willna want me, so yer plan willna work.” The Grants knew her well, but she didn’t want Alastair to find out. Also, the MacKeefes and the Douglas Clans were close friends of her father since they had been a big part of his life. Most of the Lowland clans of Scotland knew her, too, since she was a daughter of one of the Legendary Bastards of the Crown. They admired and respected Reed Douglas for being the only one of the three brothers who refused to pay homage to the late King Edward, staying loyal to Scotland instead.
“We’ll see about that.” He released her and took a step backward, moving away from her. That told Fia he didn’t believe her story. Perhaps she wasn’t going to be able to fool him the way some of his clan members were. She wanted to tell him that some of his men were lying, but didn’t think this was the place or time since his men were watching her every move. “Get on the horse,” he commanded.
Before she had a chance to move, his hands were around her waist, and he hoisted her up into the saddle. She landed with a plop, having to grab on to the horse’s mane to keep from going over the other side. He was strong, and she was sure he could be quite forceful.
He swung his body up behind her, gripping her around the waist with one arm. With his other arm, he reached around her and took the reins.
Her body warmed being pushed up against him. Her cheeks tingled with blood flowing to her face, making it hard to breathe. He was her captor, so why did she like the feel of being held tightly in his embrace?
“Let’s move on out,” he commanded, turning his horse and speaking to his men.
“Wait!” cried Fia. Her hand flew to her head while her eyes scanned the ground where she’d slept last night. “My crown. I need to find my crown.”
“Relax,” he whispered in her ear. His breath tickled the small hairs at the back of her neck. “Did ye forget I’ve got it in the travel bag attached to the horse?”
“I dinna want yer men to steal it.”
“If anyone is takin’ it as a token of war, I assure ye it’ll be me.”
“A token of war? But, I’m no’ the enemy!”
“The crown is from English nobility, is it no’?”
“Ye ken it is. I told ye it was given to me by the late Queen Philippa.”
“The Queen of England,” he stated.
“Aye. Of course.”
“I prove my point.”
“I’m no’ the enemy,” she said once again.
“Ye’re a Gordon and aligned with the Grants who are enemies of the MacPhersons. So that makes ye my enemy after all.”
“Then why did ye kiss me?” she spat.
“I kissed ye because . . . because ye sewed up my wound,” he said, though she didn’t believe that was the only reason. “And it was before I kent who ye really were.”
“I did nothin’ to ye or yer clan. Do no’ blame me for yer misfortune.”
“Nay, that’s no’ true, lass,” he said, directing his horse into a gallop, leading the way to the Highlands.
“What did I do?”
He didn’t answer but only mumbled something under his breath. She would have to ask him about it later.
