Her surprised gaze fell to me. “I beg yer pardon,” she murmured.
“Nay need to beg—yet,” I added, wickedness rising in me as it so often did these days.
A faint flush rose to her cheeks, but she didn’t drop her gaze or retreat. Instead, she lifted her chin higher, a gesture of defiance that stirred my blood in a way mere beauty never could. “I am Murieall Buchannan,” she said. “I’m in need of protection. I lost my brother on a journey, and I find myself utterly alone.”
Protection.The word hit me like a fist to the chest. I flinched, my jaw tightening as memories flooded back unbidden. Isabella’s face, pale and drawn after losing George. The fear in her eyes that I mistook for grief. The cliff where they found her body, broken on the rocks below. I had sworn to protect her, to keep her safe from all harm. And I had failed in every way a man could fail.
Rage and guilt twisted together in my gut, unwanted companions I fought every day to ignore. I looked at this woman—this Murieall Buchannan with her autumn hair and steady gaze—and saw only another promise I would break, another life I would fail to shield.
“Protection,” I said, having to unclench my teeth to speak. “What, precisely, do ye need protection from, lass?”
She hesitated, something flickering across her face too quickly to name. “From those who would do me harm,” she answered finally, her words measured as if chosen with great care.
“Ye’ll need to be more specific than that,” I said. “The world is full of those who would do harm, and I do nae have either the time or the inclination to battle phantoms.”
She took a step closer, and I caught the scent of her. She smelled of earth and rain and something sweeter beneath, like heather in bloom. “I can explain everything,” she said, “but nae here. Nae like this.”
Her gaze darted to James, as if she didn’t want to speak in front of him, as if she was unsure she could trust him, and then back to me. There was an earnestness in her voice that gave me pause. I had a sudden urge to let her speak her piece without the wall of mockery I’d erected between us. The thought terrified me. I didn’t lower barriers between myself and others. This woman could be no different.
“The price of my protection,” I declared coldly, “is one month in my bed.”
Beside me, James inhaled sharply. I kept my gaze fixed on Murieall Buchannan’s face, waiting for the shock, the outrage, the hasty retreat that would follow.
Her expression shifted, and I braced myself for her disgust. But what crossed her face was not revulsion or even surprise. Instead, she tilted her head as if weighing the cost against someneed I couldn’t fathom. My heart pounded against my ribs. I wanted her to refuse. I needed her to refuse.
And yet, as she stood before me, unflinching despite my cruelty, I felt something shift within me—some small piece of ice breaking free in the frozen river of my grief. It was unwelcome, unwanted. I reached for my goblet again, desperate to drown whatever her presence was trying to drag to the surface.
“Well?” I demanded, intentionally harsh. “Do ye need protection so badly that ye are willing to trade yer honor?”
The answer had to be no. Because if it were yes, my instincts told me the bargain I’d offered would demand more than I wanted to give.
Chapter Four – Murieall
The words hung between us like a physical thing, the heat of them burning my cheeks despite the damp chill of my clothes. One month in his bed. That was his price. I stared at Munro Ross, with his wine-stained tunic and unkempt beard, and disgust rose, but my desperation quickly smothered it. I needed him to break my curse, though he didn’t yet know it. My life’s carefully laid plans had crumbled to dust, and this broken, drunken laird was my only hope of rebuilding them.
I drew a steadying breath, feeling the weight of all I had risked coming here. My brother would be frantic, as would my parents. And I still had to travel to Liam after this. Imagining more nights in the dark woods alone, listening for any strange sounds, made a sob rise in my throat as well as gooseflesh pepper my arms. Yet it was easy to make a choice when only one led back to the future I had mapped out for myself.
“Fine,” I said, lifting my chin and meeting his gaze directly. “I’ll share yer bed.” I expected to see triumph flash in his eyes, but he looked more wary than anything. That gave me the courage to add what I’d intended. “But nae yer body,” I said, my voice growing more confident with each word I spoke. My innocence was for Liam. “Ye’ll have my presence, nae my submission.”
His eyebrows rose, and the wariness on his face gave way to what appeared to be grudging respect, but it was there and gone so quickly I might have imagined it.
“Bold,” he said, leaning forward in his chair, his gaze sharpening as he studied me anew. “Most women would slap my face and storm off.”
I had the oddest feeling that was the reaction he’d been hoping for. “I’m nae most women, Laird Munro,” I replied. His right-hand man shifted uncomfortably, his gaze flicking between us as if watching the uncertain outcome of a dangerous wager.
“That much is apparent,” he said dryly. “If ye’re to share my bed, ye may as well call me Munro, and I’ll need ye to tell me exactly what ye require protection from. Should I expect an army of warriors to come looking for ye? Will protecting ye drag me into a war?”
I hesitated, the carefully prepared explanation I’d rehearsed during my journey suddenly seeming woefully inadequate. The truth was impossible—he would think me as mad as everyone else did. But a lie might unravel with time.
“A witch’s magic,” I said finally, and winced internally at how I sounded.
His laugh confirmed my fears, a harsh bark of sound that echoed in the empty hall. “Magic? Ye expect me to believe in such childish nonsense? Next ye’ll be telling me ye fear the faeries will steal ye away.” He shook his head, bringing his goblet to his lips once more. “If ye wish for my protection, ye’ll need a better tale than that.”
The voices stirred then, as if summoned by my anxiety, a low murmur at first, like the distant rumble of thunder before a storm.
Bernard poisoned the well. Ye must tell his son before more die.
The bairn is nae Graeme’s. Tell him the truth.
