But Broc couldn’t prove anything at all.
He had to rely solely on the authority of his word. He had to trust in the simple fact that his friends and kinsmen knew him well and knew he was no liar. God’s truth, he had never lied a day in his life.
Until now.
The disgusting truth was that if he confronted the bastard outright, Tomas would need only say he was holding the pouch until Elizabet was found. After all, if Elizabet were found dead, the monies would be returned to her father, not to Piers. It was that whoreson’s word against his own.
And at the heart of it all was the simple fear that Elizabet would not believe him.
And why should she?
He had lied to her.
He prayed to God Iain would know what to do, because his choices were few, and he didn’t want to lose her now when he’d only just found her.
He would do anything to keep her safe.
Anything.
She was his priority.
She was his wife.
Nothing took precedence over her—not even his loyalty to Iain MacKinnon. He had bound himself to Elizabet, and whether she chose to believe in him or nay, he would honor the vows they had spoken until the day he last closed his eyes.
He hadn’t wornhis new tunic, but Elizabet knew it probably wasn’t the wisest thing to do. If Tomas spied Broc wearing the rich, red fabric, he would know at once how to find her.
She folded the tunic neatly and placed it upon the table, lovingly smoothing the wrinkles from the garment. When they wed again in the sight of men, he could wear it then.
She smiled at the ridiculousness of her situation. She was as happy as a woman could be, considering that she was being stalked by a cold-hearted murderer and stuck in a dirty hovel—but she was, indeed, happy.
Broc would fix everything, she was certain.
Sighing, she turned to lean on the table and stare at the pallet they had shared. He had touched her body so wickedly, but his tender kisses had made everything seem so right and so pure.
And his vows had been so romantic. Certainly she had never imagined it would happen to her—and not with the seemingly most practical man she had ever met. But her wedding was surely the sort of thing of which dreams and legends were made.
She didn’t need to wed him before an altar. Their communion had been one of the heart. And their witness had been the only witness that truly mattered...
A wry smile turned her lips.
She must remember to thank Tomas for trying to kill her. If it hadn’t been for him, Broc would never have taken her, and she wouldn’t be so blessedly happy right now. She was quite certain that hadn’t been his intention.
The first thing she was going to do was tell her father and if Margaret had any knowledge of her brother’s actions, Elizabet hoped her father would strangle her in his bed. If he was so weak that he still could not see her black heart, then so be it. Elizabet didn’t need him. He hadn’t taken any part in her childhood, and she didn’t need him to be a part of her life now. The best thing he had done for her was to send her away with her dowry intact, and for that alone she was grateful.
She glanced down at the floor, spying a bundleunder the chair, and bent to retrieve it. It had to belong to Broc, because it hadn’t been there yesterday. He must have dropped it.
She set it down upon the table, wondering about its contents, and then, curious, she picked it up once more and unwrapped it.
The smile left her face as she opened the napkin and examined its contents. Food. Hard cheese. Bread. Nothing that would have spoiled. She cast a glance at the door, wondering if he’d forgotten that he’d brought it. Why would he go if he already had something they could share? It wasn’t a feast, by far, but it would certainly have gotten them through the morning.
She supposed he’d forgotten he had it.
She heard a sound outside the door and thought mayhap he’d remembered, after all. She set the napkin down and hurried to the door, halting in her step as it opened to reveal a young woman. Elizabet started at the sight of her.
For a moment, neither of them spoke, so stunned were they at the sight of the other.
And then the woman smiled. “My name is Seana.”
