“If he was wise and cared aboot his men, he would have. It doesna’ matter, I’ll make a new offer—”
He felt the pulse of air flash over his head and then watched his bonnet, pierced by an arrow, fly away.
The look of horror on Janet’s face was almost comical. An inch lower and it would have missed his bonnet and gone through his temple.
It wasn’t an accident. The arrow was Roddie’s and he had just made a point.
Darach plucked another arrow from its quiver, nocked it, took aim, and without any interruptions this time, fired it into the heavens. It landed, after a moment, in the chest of the rider directly to Roddie Menzie’s right. Whoever he was, he was Roddie’s kin and he fell to the floor in a dead heap. If the bastard wanted a war, he’d get one.
“They’re going to attack us now,” Janet told him, looking rather hopeless.
“Nae,” Darach promised her, readying one more arrow. This time, he had her brother fetch him the oiled rag and torch he’d left just inside the stairway.
“I’ll keep them oot ’til the morn,” he told them. “Tonight, I’ll visit their campsite and convince the chief that attackin’ wouldna’ be to his advantage.”
Before she had time to question him further, William returned. They tied the rag to the tip of the bow and then set it ablaze. As Darach took aim, the Menzies, watching from across the moat, scattered in every direction.
The fiery arrow landed with a thunk in the soil and instantly caught fire. They watched, a safe distance away on Ravenglade’s battlements, the wall of flames rise up as it swept across the ground in a huge circle around the castle.
“Yer brother and I and a few others laid out tar last eve, did we no’, Will?”
“Aye, Darach, we did, indeed.”
“Well then, come.” Darach ushered them toward the entrance. There was nothing to be done for now. They might as well fill their bellies. They’d caught plenty of game yesterday, much thanks to Janet’s skillful arrow. Tomorrow he would send word to some folks he knew in Breadalbane, questioning Henrietta’s whereabouts. “Does Kevin how to prepare any French dishes?”
William laughed, and Darach noted that it was the first time the chief had laughed since Darach arrived. “If rabbit stew is French, then aye, he knows.”
“Chocolate mousse tarts?” Darach pressed, hopeful. “’Tis made with eggs and cream and chocolate.”
“What the hell is chocolate?” Will asked.
Darach lifted his gaze to Heaven. Well, fresh rabbit stew was better than month-old mutton.
He had to find Henrietta soon.
Chapter Nine
He gives me nae rest, day or night.Janet’s quill danced lightly over a parchment.Before he returned I was tortured by the memory of his glib smile and confident gaze. Now, I am tortured by the sight of him, the sound of him, the scent of him, close to me, kissing me. What am I to do? I am a prisoner to him, held captive by nothing more than the deep, melodic pitch of his voice, the slant of his lips, longing for his mouth on mine just once more.
How can my thoughts, my heart, be utterly obsessed with a man whose arrogant habits make me want to slap him most of the time? What has he done to me that I cannot control my own desires? Oh, if he would only promise me what he’s clearly given to no one else. But I can already see the desire in his eyes to leave.
Janet dropped her quill on the table and stared down at her writing. How could her heart pound so fiercely just thinking about him? She was in trouble. She hated admitting it, but there it was. He wouldn’t leave her thoughts the first time he barged into her life and she knew the second time was going to be much harder. She’d never forget the sight of Roddie’s arrow just missing his head. If he had died, would she have fallen at his body?
Thank God, supper had been uneventful, with little or no talk of Roddie Menzie. After sharing smiles with Agnes and the rest of her female cousins clucking around him, eager to serve him whatever he wanted, Darach had finally turned his attention to her.
She wondered throughout the entire meal if he worried about anything or if his cocky self-assurance was a natural part of his demeanor. She hadn’t thought he could, but he made her feel safe.
She let out a gusty sigh and picked up her quill.
I feel foolish at the way I sat enthralled watching him eat, as if his lips and his tongue peeking out every now and then are part of some fairy glamour he possesses to make me tremble in my skin. I cannot—
A sound coming from above made her lower her quill again and leave her seat. Was that… bagpipes?
She left her room and looked around the cavernous hall. The music was coming from the battlements. Who was it? She knew her uncle Amish played, but he hadn’t picked up the pipes in years, and he’d never sounded like that! Why, whoever was playingthesepipes was a master. Could it be Darach? She almost laughed as she made her way up the stairs. Darach playing pipes? He was a warrior, not a musician.
The closer she got to the sound, the more convinced she was that it wasn’t Darach playing. It couldn’t be. The music was too… delicate, too haunting and serious, like the sorrow-filled wails of a lover who had just lost the one his heart treasured.
Darach didn’t treasure anyone, did he?
