Leona descended carefully, one hand pressed against the wall for balance, the other clutching the basket of supplies against her chest. Nyx perched on top of the basket, unnaturally still, as if she sensed the danger lurking in the shadows below.
Torchlight flickered from somewhere ahead, casting dancing shadows that made Leona’s heart hammer against her ribs.
The corridor opened into a wider space, and she paused, pressing herself against the wall. Two guards sat at a rough wooden table near the far end, playing cards and passing a flask between them. Neither looked particularly alert, more bored than vigilant, their shoulders slack with drink and tedium.
She waited, barely breathing, until one of them stood with a yawn.
“I’m off for a piss. Try nae to lose all yer coin while I’m gone.”
The other guard waved him off without looking up from his cards. “Aye, aye. Hurry back so I can take the rest of it.”
The moment the first guard disappeared down a side corridor, the second became absorbed in studying his hand, lips moving silently as he counted cards.
This was her chance.
She slipped past the table like a shadow, the basket clutched tight to muffle any sound. Her pulse thundered so loud she was certain the guard would hear it, but he never looked up, never noticed the girl and cat moving through the darkness behind him.
Three cells lined the far wall, two of them empty. The third…
Leona stopped, her breath catching in her throat.
Even in the dim torchlight, even bloodied and bound to a chair, Murdock Lyall was the most magnificent man she’d ever seen.
He sat with his spine straight despite his wounds, dark hair falling across a face that looked like it had been carvedfrom granite and shadow. Broad shoulders strained against the ropes binding him, and even injured, even captive, there was something primal about him. Something that made her think of wolves and winter storms and things too dangerous to touch.
His eyes opened as she approached, and she froze.
They were the color of midnight, cold and assessing, with an intelligence that made her feel stripped bare. Those eyes swept over her once, taking in her hastily thrown-on cloak, her bare feet, the basket in her arms, the cat perched atop it. Then they settled on her face with an intensity that made heat bloom low in her belly.
“Well,” he said, his voice rough as gravel. “This is unexpected.”
Leona’s mouth went dry. She’d rehearsed a dozen explanations, a hundred excuses, but they all fled at the sound of his voice. It was deep and dark, like whisky and smoke, with an edge that suggested violence barely leashed.
“I…” She swallowed hard, trying to gather her scattered thoughts. “I brought supplies. For yer wounds.”
One dark brow rose. “Did the Laird tell ye to tend to me wounds?”
“If he kent I was here,” Leona managed, her voice steadier than she felt, “I’d probably be the one that needs tendin' to.”
Something flickered in those midnight eyes. Surprise, perhaps, or fury. He studied her more carefully now, and Leona felt her skin prickle under the weight of his gaze.
She forced herself to move, setting the basket down and lifting Nyx from it. The cat immediately slunk to a corner, yellow eyes fixed on Murdock with feline suspicion, tail twitching.
“Who are ye?” he asked.
Leona knelt beside the basket, pulling out clean cloths and the jar of salve she’d stolen from the healer’s stores. “I’m the real Laird’s daughter.”
“The real Laird?”
“Me faither.” The words came out bitter. “He died six months ago. And now his nephew, me cousin, has claimed the Lairdship.” She hesitated, then added quietly, “He’s made me his betrothed.”
Silence fell between them.
Leona could feel Murdock watching her as she approached the cell door, pushing it open with trembling fingers. She could sense the tension coiling through his body like a spring wound too tight, ready to snap.
“May I?” She gestured to his wounds.
For a long moment, he said nothing. Then, slowly, he nodded.
