Lizzie lifted her head with a sullenness tempered by defeat. She didn’t speak. Just stood there. Waiting.
“How come ye to be so close to Master Cranson?” Mila asked. “Did ye meet with him while in Edinburgh with yer father?”
“More like he met me.” With a huffing sigh, the woman shook her head. “He came up to us, to Da and me, whilst we ate supper in the pub. Said he overheard us talking and asked for an introduction.” She flipped a hand in Teague’s direction. “Claimed he had always admired our chieftain.”
“And ye didna find that suspicious?” Teague asked. “Ye know as well as anyone in this clan that my business dealings are verra selective by nature.” He shot Mila an apologetic smile. “Aye, m’love. Ye married a smuggler.” He swung his focus back to Lizzie. “Did ye and yer father tell him how to get here?”
The wretch didn’t answer. Just stared at the floor.
“I take that as a yes,” Mila said.
“As do I,” Teague agreed. He dropped back into his seat and bowed his head. “Fool girl. How could ye endanger this clan in such a way?”
“He swore he believed the same as we do. He knows our true monarch is King James.” A hiccupping sob escaped Lizzie. “And I wanted to make ye jealous. Make ye look at me instead of her.”
“What ye have done is put my neck in the noose!” He brought his fist down hard on the desk. “Did ye lead him in here as well? Help him pry open my desk and steal my papers?”
Tears streamed down Lizzie’s face. She dropped to her knees. “I swear I did none of that. Please believe me.”
“Lock her away until we decide what to do with her. She has doomed us all.” Teague didn’t dare say another word to the selfish she-devil. Not after all she had just admitted.
Calder hefted her to her feet and dragged her from the room.
“Off to yer bed, Grissa,” Mila said. “Himself and I will go up soon.”
“I laid yer shift on the bed, mistress.” The maid gave a weary curtsy and a sad shake of her head. “I shall pray verra hard before I sleep. I swear it.”
“Thank ye.” As soon as the girl departed and closed the door, Mila went to him and took his hand. “Come. We need sleep to think straight.”
“It is already dawn, lass.”
“I dinna care.” She tugged him. “Come. To bed with ye. At least for a little while. We need to rest while we can.”
He allowed her to lead him up to their chambers, strip him down, then tuck him into bed like a child. She lay beside him on top of the covers, still fully clothed in her evening finery. He pushed himself upright. “Let me help ye with yer laces, aye?”
She stayed his hand. “No. Grissa can help me later. For now, I would rather remain clothed.”
He frowned, knowing the answer before he ever asked it. “Why?”
“It takes me a lot longer to dress than it does for ye to sling a kilt around yer waist and strap a sword to yer side. Fully clothed, I am ready as soon as my feet hit the floor.”
“Ye need sleep as much as I.” He leaned back into the pillows, pulling her with him and tucking her close.
She huffed an amused snort and nestled her head in the dip of his shoulder. “As Gran always said, ‘I can sleep when I am dead.’”
“Dinna speak of death,” he rasped, hugging her tighter. “Not today.” It was no longer his death he feared, but hers. The thought of her suffering because of him was more than he could bear.
She raised her head and soothed him with a tender kiss. “Sleep, my love. We are together and all will be well. I refuse to think otherwise.”
“I hope ye are right, my dove.”
“I am always right,” she whispered, then started humming a softly lilting tune that seemed so familiar.
“What is that?”
“What?”
“That song.”
