“No.” She put more distance between them, eyeing him as though preparing for a challenge. “While I appreciate yer hospitality, I would welcome some rest, if ye dinna mind.”
He poured two glasses, picked them up, and joined her. “How long have ye been on the run, Mila?”
She managed a calm exterior, but alarm flashed in her eyes. “On the run?” She eyed the glass he held out. “I dinna ken what ye mean.”
“Aye, ye do.” He moved closer, nudged the glass toward her, and whispered, “It is not poison, mistress. Watch.” He drained his petite goblet in a single gulp.
Her chin ratcheted upward to a defiant slant. “I didna think it poison.” She took the drink and sipped it, glaring at him over the rim.
“I take it his mother was a dear friend of yers. Did she bid ye get him to safety?”
She answered by choking, turning aside, and beating on her chest while coughing and wheezing.
Apparently, his suspicions were on point, as usual. That part of the puzzle had been easy enough to sort. Especially after everything the lad had said and the fact he looked nothing like her.
Teague strode back to the cabinet and poured another port and a glass of water. “Here, lass.” He handed the water to her. “Forgive me. I am not trying to kill ye. I swear it.”
“Ye have a bloody strange way of showing it.” She sipped the drink, glaring at him as if ready to throw it in his face. “Robbie is my son. How dare ye say such a thing!”
“Yer words dinna match yer actions, mistress.” He studied her, wishing he could win her trust. “Have I not proven ye are safe here? Would it not be easier to tell me the truth?” He moved closer, trying to ignore the not-so-subtle rise and fall of her fine, firm breasts beneath the light kerchief modestly covering the low neckline of her fitted bodice. “Even when a lad is the spitting image of his father, ye can usually see his mother in his eyes.” He offered a knowing look. “I dinna see ye there. Not anywhere.”
“Maybe ye are not looking hard enough.” She marched across the room, thumped her glass on the cabinet, then went to the hall door and yanked it open. “Good day to ye, Chieftain MacDonald.”
He almost laughed at her attempt to run him off by vexing him again. Instead of leaving, he settled into the only chair sturdy enough to hold him. Perhaps he should have put more planning into choosing the furniture for this room. “I am not leaving until ye offer me some honest explanations, m’lady.”
She had to be of high birth. He hadn’t picked up on it before, but she reeked of it now. Those high cheekbones. That regal stance. Her mannerisms. She was someone of importance.
“Ye may start by telling me yer real name and who is after ye.”
She held fast at the door, glaring at him with her teeth bared. “No one is after us. Now leave.” Her eyes narrowed to match a sneer that only convinced him more of her noble blood. “Or were ye lying when ye said ye would do us no harm? That we were safe here?”
He sipped the port, wishing he had stocked the cabinet with whisky instead. He flicked his hand and shook his head. “How have I harmed ye? I merely intend to sit here until I get some answers.” He uncrossed his legs, leaned forward, and propped his elbows on his knees. “In all seriousness, m’lady, if ye are at risk, then my clan is at risk as well.” He shook his head. “That, I canna have. Do ye not agree?”
“Then Robbie and I will leave as soon as he finishes his bath.” She slammed the hall door shut again, stomped back to the cabinet, and threw open all its doors. “And what poor excuse for a Scot cannot keep a decent bottle of whisky at the ready?” Her voice echoed with the sound of frustrated tears wanting to be shed. With her back to him, she bowed her head and leaned forward, gripping the cabinet until her knuckles went white.
“Damn and blast it all,” he muttered. He couldn’t abide a woman crying. Especially not because of him. “Ye will not leave,” he said, louder. “Ye will share yer feckin’ troubles so I can help ye. Understand?”
“Dinna bellow at her or I’ll be coming out there to deal with ye!” Robbie shouted through the door.
“I am not bellowing,” Teague retorted. “I happen to be a loud man. When I raise my voice, ye will know it.” He resettled himself in the chair and jerked a thumb toward the bathing chamber door. “Ye see? Ye upset the lad. Is that what ye wish?”
“Dinna be turning this on me as if it was my fault. Ye started it.” She descended on him, shaking a finger and thrilling him with her fire. So, here was the fearsome lioness young Robbie mentioned. “When I am ready to share our woes, I will share them, and not before. Did it ever occur to ye I am a mite cautious about pouring out my troubles to a man I have just met? What if yer kindness is naught but an act? What if all these folk only appear to respect ye when, in fact, they fear ye?” She stabbed the air again, accusation ringing in her voice. “And what happened to yer assurance that if I didna wish to answer anything, I didna have to?”
The lady made a fair point, but that didn’t diminish the fact that if she was in danger, so was his clan.
He tempered his answer with a kindly look. “I understand what ye are saying. However, I have worked all my life to make this a safe place for my people after the bloodbath of Glencoe. The well-being of my clan outweighs my earlier promise to respect yer privacy. I fear I must now retract it.” He slowly shook his head. “My charity and hospitality are great, but my protectiveness is even greater. Do ye understand what I am trying to say? Are ye familiar with what happened to the MacDonalds on that terrible day?”
She somehow softened, her tension melting away. One of her dark curls slipped free of its pinning and fell to her shoulder. She caught hold of it and nervously twisted it through her fingers. “I know of the massacre,” she said quietly. “Terrible doesna begin to describe it.” She lifted her gaze to his and studied him, her brow creasing with a most endearing frown. “I want to trust ye,” she whispered.
While he wanted to rise from the chair and go to her, he forced himself to stay put. Nay, he did not wish to veer her from what he hoped was sharing more about herself and the boy. “Ye can trust me, m’lady. I swear it.”
“M’lady again, is it?” One of her sleek, dark brows rose. “What happened to Mistress Mila or Mistress Abernathy?”
“Nay.” He offered a sly grin. “Ye are most definitely a lady of noble birth.” With a bold sweep of his gaze from the top of her head down to the hem of her skirt, he continued, “The way ye carry yerself. Delicate features. A long, lithe form Michelangelo himself would rise from the grave to sculpt. Silken locks as glossy black as the Earl of Hell’s waistcoat and twice as tempting. Aye, m’lady. Ye are Mistress Mila no more. Yer title is most definitelylady.”
She turned away and walked to the window, staring outside. Silent. Pensive.
He silently applauded himself. She was of noble birth. And on the run. With someone else’s son.
