Had Broc visited often?
Did they loveeach other?
Who was this man she had wed instead of Broc?
Her head filled with questions.
It was easier not to think about the bowman. She didn’t want to consider Tomas. Didn’t want to think that her stepmother wished her dead. What had she ever done to incur the woman’s wrath? Surely Broc must be mistaken. He’d misunderstood the bowman’s intent, was all. Tomas had merely been defending her—it had to be.
She tried to recall the previous day’s events precisely. Her stepmother’s brother hadn’t been among her father’s men—not when John had fallen and Broc had whisked her away. So, then, where had he been? And why hadn’t he shown himself? What would he have to gain by her death?
The question plagued her.
Broc would return soon enough with news.
In the meantime, she intended to take care of a few minor necessities. He couldn’t possibly miss her in the short time she would be gone.
Broc expectedto find Elizabet still abed. Instead he returned to find her gone.
He tried not to panic—for her sake, not his own. He knew they were out searching for her. What if the bowman found her first? He’d promised no harm would come to her, and he didn’t intend to fail her now.
He barreled out of the hut, shoving the door open and calling her name frantically.
By God, if they found her first, if they discovered his involvement, the clans would all be at war again. And Broc would be the man responsible for starting it. Was this how he repaid his debts to Iain? By starting a blood war worse than the MacLean-MacKinnon feud?
“Elizabet!” he called, running through the forest.And then at once he saw her, hiding behind a bush. Her head popped up, and then she ducked once more.
She was hiding from him. She obviously didn’t wish him to find her. Too bad. He had, and he bloody well intended to drag her back to the hut where she would be safe.
He ran and dove after her, determined to catch her. He hardly expected what happened next.
Somehow, she seized hold of him, taking his arm and twisting his body in midair like some warrior woman. Dazed and confused, he landed with a thud upon his back.
“Damn,” he said, and groaned.
Elizabet stood, arms akimbo, and glared down at him. “What in damnation were you doing?”
He gave her a look of wounded pride. “That hurt,” he protested.
It served him right.
Elizabet raised a brow at him, unmoved by his little-boy pout. “I heard you the first time you called,” she assured him. “Didn’t it occur to you there might be a reason I didn’t answer you at once?”
His confusion turned slowly to comprehension, and his gaze snapped to the place where she’d been stooped and then back to her. He seemed suddenly to realize what he’d interrupted, and his eyes widened. His cheeks began to color, and he rolled over onto his side, grunting in pain.
“It serves you right!”
He ought to be as mortified as she was! “I’m fine,” he said, rolling back toward her, holding his arm, nursing it, and looking sheepishly up at her.
“More’s the pity!” How dare he look so beset when she had every right to chastise him!
“It’s just that... I saw you were gone,” he explained, wincing as he tried to rise.
“Am I a prisoner in that hovel? Can I not leave to attend to my own affairs when I must?”
He merely looked at her, blinking, but didn’t reply.
“Well?” she persisted, vexed with herself for noticing, once more, the color of his eyes—the deepest blue she’d ever spied. “Am I your prisoner?” she demanded to know.
