She remembered that Englishman who had tried to rape her when she was 16. He had been affected just as these men were now. His eyes had glazed in just such a manner, his breathing harsh. Beyond the reach of the dying fire, she sensed others listening, reacting, and she imagined being surrounded by a pack of real wolves would feel much the same.
“Give me the man’s name, milady, and why ye wish him dead.” Duncan cleared his throat violently. “I was but teasing ye, but I will have his name. Did he try to kiss ye? Did he kill yer puppy?”
Here was the mockery she’d expected, but it was strained, somehow. The man stood with his feet braced, never looking away from her. His smile sinister.
“What did he do?” he asked again.
“My brother died at his hands, if you must know. My only brother. I was only eight years at the time. Sander was but twelve. I begged the man not to take him away. Then I vowed that if he didn’t bring him back to me, I would see him dead for it.”
If it were possible, Duncan looked even more dangerous. Did he have no compassion? Was the vow of a female so trivial?
“His name, milady. If ye please.”
Tearloch had had enoughof watching his men panting after his bride-to-be. He had no idea what they discussed around the other fire, but it drew an audience—a decidedly aroused crowd, from the looks of it. How she could hold the attention of such weary men was a mystery. But then again, she had his attention as well.
He would have marched over and taken things in hand, but he was far too weary. And each time he imagined plucking her from the crowd, he could see those big dark eyes questioning him, and he knew he wouldn’t be able to form an answer.
Moments ago, Duncan had appeared at the other fire. Surely they would all disperse now and he could take her to the tent without the need for conversation.
“Commander?” Duncan’s tone had him on his feet instantly. “Best join us.”
Tearloch stomped to the other fire, hopefully looking much angrier than he felt. Every man came to his feet, and all were now glaring at the woman who had enthralled them only moments before. He would have laughed at their fecklessness had he not also vacillated so many times that day.
Duncan nodded. “Tell him Jamie, so he doesnae suspect me of exaggeratin’.”
“Yes, Jamie. Tell me.”
Tearloch twitched nary a hair while Jamie recited the fireside conversation. Duncan interrupted at the end. “Ask her the name of the dead man, Tearloch. Go on with ye. Ask her.”
When Kenna refused to offer it again, the crowd around her announced in unison, “The MacPherson!”
“That’s right, lad. She’s willing to pay any man daft enough to try to kill the MacPherson.”
“Not just any man,” the lass said in her own defense, her attention on her hands. When her comment met with silence, she dared look up. “I suppose there are MacPhersons among you?”
“No,” Tearloch answered, effectively silencing them all as he looked around the ring of men poised to defend him from a woman.Hiswoman.
He was pleased he could speak at all, and if he didn’t look directly at her, he could keep on. “But we know of them. They are not easy men to kill,” he told the fire.
Still the petulant child, she argued, “But I only want to kill the one.”
“But he’d be the hardest?—”
“The meanest?—”
“The most dangerous?—"
“Enough!” Tearloch could only take so much praise. “We will speak no more of this tonight. Come, lass. It’s back to the tent with ye.” He hauled her to her feet. As soon as their bare hands met, he relaxed and looked into her eyes. “Why can ye not stay where ye’re put?”
“There were no wolves near the fire,” she answered. “And if you’ll stop puttin’ me, I’ll cease disappointing you.”
Tearloch closed his eyes. “Monroe, where is the rope?”
“Here,” Monroe said, dashing forward, handing over a large coil.
“You wouldn’t,” she hissed.
The men looked at Tearloch to make sure he kept his resolve, he supposed.
