Conall halted and stared at the shallow depression where the dead wolf had lain only moments ago. There was not a drop of blood to be seen against the flattened snow, although Conall had plunged his sword into the beast’s chest and the red flow had painted the ground. He looked down at his blade: clean and gleaming in the fading daylight.
No drag marks leading to the forest. Not even a single wiry gray hair.
A gusting wind barreled through the clearing and the night seemed to lean over the wood suddenly. Conall shivered, and although he was no coward, an awesome feeling of lonely longing wrapped arms about him on the frigid breeze and licked his icy cheek obscenely. Conall had the immediate urge to run to the hut and bolt himself and Eve inside.
He forced himself to walk calmly, though, backward and facing the rippling darkness of the forest. He felt behind him for the door and was grateful when it pushed open easily.
Conall stepped inside and quickly shut out the single, mournful, high-pitched howl, calling to him through the twilight.
The highlander stumbled backward into the hut and slammed the door shut, slinging a bow and a large pack to the floor and leaning against the door while he scrambled to drop the brace in the brackets. When he turned to face her, Evelyn noticed the paleness of his lips, his furrowed brow.
“Have the grays returned?” she asked, praying silently that they had not—even one night alone in the small hut with this man would be too many. Evelyn felt she should advise him to be on his way quickly. For his own safety, of course.
And possibly her own, from the haunted look in his eyes.
He shook his head as if coming out of a daydream. “Nae.” MacKerrick scooped up the pack and walked past Evelyn and Alinor to sit upon the low stool. It piqued Evelyn how the man so quickly made himself at ease in her home. He set the bag between his boots and did not look up at her as he began to rifle through its contents. “Even the one I took is gone.”
“Gone?” Evelyn frowned as Alinor slid from beneath her hand and ambled cautiously nearer the highlander, circling his stool and sniffing the floor around him.
“Aye. Gone.” He pulled a small jug from the pack and attacked the cork with his back teeth. He spit the dislodged stopper into one palm and lifted the jug to his mouth, drinking deeply. While he was occupied, Alinor sidled closer and began sniffing the bottom of his pack in earnest.
“What do you mean, ‘gone’?” Evelyn demanded. “Alinor, to me.”
MacKerrick lowered the jug and rested it on his knee. “I mean, the gray wolf…I just killed…is…gone.” He looked at her curiously and then at the jug on his leg. He held it out to her abruptly. “Mead?”
Evelyn nearly refused it. But the opportunity to drink something other than melted snow—anything but melted snow—was too tempting.
She reached for the jug with both hands. “Thank you.” She paused before drinking, although the sweet, mellow scent coming from the mouth of the vessel was enough to flood her mouth with saliva.
Alinor was now rudely scratching at the man’s pack.
“Alinor!To me!” she commanded.
The highlander glanced down at the wolf, then waved a careless hand at Evelyn. “Drink your mead, Eve. She canna harm it.”
Evelyn was not at all certain she appreciated being told how to handle her animal, but she raised the jug to her lips and let the mead flood her mouth—explosions of rich, tangy honey—while the highlander addressed the wolf directly in his low brogue.
“But if youdoharm it, wolf piss or nae wolf piss, I’ll have your hide for a new one.”
The delicious mead in Evelyn’s throat backed up into her nose and she choked. “Sir,” she gasped, coughing and wiping at her mouth. “Language, if you please!”
“What?” The man looked at her mildly. “One of the bloody beasts pissed on me pack. I doona wish for yours to take out hard feelings against my personal belongings.”
Evelyn could not stop her chirp of laughter, but she quickly covered her mouth, shocked at her own crudeness, and handed the jug back to its owner with no little regret.
The highlander grinned at her. “I’d be thankful to trade a taste of the meat I smelled you cooking for the swallow of mead you’ve enjoyed, Eve.”
Evelyn’s gaze flew to the shelf on the wall and she winced. She and Alinor could hardly afford to share what little food they possessed with a man who would soon be leaving them, but the sweetness of the mead still lingering on her tongue roused her conscience.
“I’m not certain ’twould suit you, sir—’tis rather…dry.” She hesitated. “A bit burnt, as well.” She tried to laugh. “I’m afraid as a cook I’m no prize.”
The man looked at her as though she was daft. “I’m hungry, lass. Would you deny me food because you doona wish me to criticize your cooking skills? Vain woman—I wouldna care a fig were it horsemeat and you served it raw.”
Must he find a way to insult her with every breath?
“Very well.” Evelyn let her lips curve in a small smile as she crossed the floor to the shelf. She picked up a scrawny strip at first, but then replaced it in favor of a longer chunk—thick in the middle and guaranteed to be a bit…chewy.
She faced the highlander once more and he took the piece eagerly. “Here you are, then. Enjoy.”
