“I didn't realize Annie had sent love-struck lads to spy on me.”
Robbie fought to stave off the color that rose high on his cheeks. The young warrior's infatuation with Patrick's younger sister was well-known. But equally well-known was that the hardheaded Annie had given her heart away long ago to Niall Lamont. Patrick liked Niall well enough, but the Lamont of Ascog's second son was an ambitious man intent on making his name as a warrior. When he married, it would be to further his clan's alliances. An outlawed MacGregor wife would not be his choice. Poor Annie was doomed to heartbreak and disappointment, but the chit wouldn't listen to reason.
“Since it was Annie who stitched you up in the first place, she simply didn't want to see all of her hard work go to waste,” Robbie pointed out.
“My stubborn sister should mind her own blasted business.”
Robbie snorted. “Runs in the family,” he added under his breath.
Patrick eyed him, brow raised. “What's that?”
“Nothing.” He looked around and lowered his voice. “At least your plan seems to be working.”
“So far.”
“No problems?”
“One,” he admitted. He should have realized that she would know Tullibardine and his lady. It was lucky that Patrick's memory of the child's age had proved close enough. He'd met the laird only once, and that was some time ago. “It was nothing I could not handle.”
As he'd intended, the invention of a dead wife and bairn had played upon her sympathies, deflecting further questions. But the deception didn't sit well with him, even if it was necessary.
Robbie nodded and looked around. “Where did she go?”
He glanced through the trees and frowned, seeing no sign of Lizzie. “I don't know. Ready the horses. I'll fetch the lass.”
He started walking in the direction he'd seen her leave. She'd been gone for no more than ten minutes, but even allowing for the inordinate time women took to tend to personal matters, she should have been back by now. Although he was loath to disturb her privacy, a private conversation in the secluded forest might help further his cause.
He took a few steps in the direction in which she'd disappeared and called her name. The sound that came back to him sent ice storming through his veins. Drawing his dirk from the scabbard at his side, he plunged into the darkness.
Chapter 3
Lizzie sat on her knees at the edge of the loch, dipping her hands in the icy water, removing the last stains of the battle from her fingers. If only the memories were as easily washed away. She mourned the men who had died today, and pitied the suffering their families would endure when she brought them the news. She would never shirk her duties, but some were harder than others. She sighed, thinking of the conversations before her. Much harder.
At first she thought the rustling sounds she heard behind her were leaves being tossed about by the wind. But then she felt the distinct weight of eyes upon her. The hair at the back of her neck stood on end, like tiny sentries alerting her to danger, but she forced herself to stay calm.
It was probably nothing.
She dried her hands in her skirts, got to her feet slowly, and turned around. Her entire body went perfectly still, frozen with fear. It wasn't “nothing.” Standing not twenty feet from her in the shadows of the trees stood a lone wolf. His golden yellow eyes were fixed on her with cold calculation—not unlike the MacGregor warrior's gaze had been earlier. It was the look of a hunter. It was a look that promised no mercy.
He was close enough for her to see the dampness shining on his black nose and the gray streaks in his black coat. His mouth was pulled back in a sinister impression of a smile, revealing long, sharp teeth. Was it possible to see hunger in a gaze? Because the wolf was looking at her as if he were starving and she were a tasty feast. Though from his immense size, he certainly didn't appear to be suffering from any lack of sustenance. His head came up to her waist, and he was built thick and solid, easily outweighing her.
Her heart was beating so fast that it hurt, straining against the tight confines of her chest.
She heard Patrick call her name, and the wolf howled in response. She wanted to scream for help but dared not do anything to startle or provoke the vicious beast.
Hearing the sounds of footsteps coming toward them, the wolf growled and his fur bristled. Spit slid in heavy sheets from his mouth as he crouched low to the ground, ready to pounce.
She held her breath, praying that someone arrived—
“Don't move.”
The sound of Patrick Murray's deep, steady voice was the sweetest thing she'd ever heard.
Move? She couldn't even if she wanted to. Her feet seemed to be stuck in a bog. “I w-won't,” she whispered, fear carrying her past caring about her stammer. Patrick tossed a rock in the wolf's direction. Rather than scare him off, however, it seemed only to make him angrier, thinking that Patrick was infringing on his territory. The beast had claimed Elizabeth as his prey and wouldn't let her go without a fight.
Tiring of Patrick's efforts, the wolf attacked without warning, leaping forward and closing the distance to Lizzie in a matter of seconds. She didn't even have time to breathe, let alone get out the scream that strangled in her throat, before two front paws hit her square in the chest and knocked her harshly to the ground, taking the air from her lungs.
For one terrifying second, she felt his suffocating weight on top of her; the horrible stench of his fur and breath enveloped her in a sickening noose. His teeth were so sharp. They were going to hurt….
