“Hugh,” Constantine said, moving closer, “if the MacKintosh chief canna control his bairns, they become trouble fer Lochaber. Fer me. I willna put up with them much longer.”
Without waiting for Hugh’s response, he turned his attention to Miss Drummond. “Where is Joan?”
“She had an urgent matter to attend with Lachlan.”
Urgent, as in she needed to tell him she loved him. She wasn’t the only lass who did.
Taking Miss Drummond’s hand, he turned one last time to Hugh. “Find Joan and tell her she is nae’ longer needed at the castle.”
Hugh nodded and risked a quick glance to Miss Drummond, who glared at Constantine just before he tugged her away from his steward. He didn’t need someone putting him in an unsavory light.
“Damn it, what do I care aboot the light?”
“’Tis quite clear,” Miss Drummond remarked. Making him bite histongue. He wasn’t used to anyone besides his closest cousins being with him all the time. He didn’t realize that he had spoken out loud.
“How could ye let Joan go when all she did was fancy yer cousin?”
He stopped and turned to her, letting her go when he realized that he was still pulling her along. “I need the obedience of everyone who lives in this castle,” he found himself explaining. “If I ever need her to help keep someone safe—” her, for instance—“and Joan is more concerned fer Lachlan, it could cause terrible trouble.”
She met his gaze with the same intensity he offered to her. “Are ye letting her go because of me?”
He picked up his steps. His only reply was a low growl.
“Chief!” The cool authority in her voice stopped him. He pivoted slowly to face her, surprised that she had used such a tone with him. “Why do ye give them a reason to speak about ye as if ye were a tyrant.”
“Mayhap that is what I am,” he answered.
She shook her head. “I have known some tyrants, and ye are not one.”
What was he supposed to say to that? Sometimes he was indeed a tyrant. Sometimes he was exactly what Hugh made him out to be: the kind of man who could kill another man’s son.
“Ye dinna know me, Miss Drummond,” he told her and then continued on to one of the chambers in the tapestry-lined, northerly wing of the castle.
“Nor do ye know me, Chief,” she countered, hurrying to catch up. “And yet ye stayed outside my door at the inn fer two days to protect me.”
“I didna stay ootside yer door,” he argued, not wanting things to sound more complicated than they were.
“Ye risked yer life to find me when that MacKintosh absconded with me.”
He looked around at the hall then drew in a deep breathbefore he gave her a brooding look. “I didna risk my life. I should feel insulted that ye think so.”
“Ye agreed to stay here at the castle,” she went on, ignoring his offended pout, “so that I would stay here where ’tis safe.”
Constantine couldn’t help but notice the little spark of excitement in her eyes. Did she enjoy challenging him? He had the ridiculous urge to laugh at her fanciful notions.
“Aye,” he told her, his voice sounding too deep and too warm for his liking. “I want ye to be safe. Ye’re a wee thing with a bold tongue and a bonnie”—he scowled and let his dark gaze rove over her—“face,” he choked out.
She stared up at him and blew a curl off her forehead. “Does my bold tongue anger ye?”
Odd lass, Constantine thought she would question him about him blurting out that she was bonnie. “Why would it anger me? Does it do me any harm?”
“Only to yer pride,” she answered.
“I may be prideful, lass,” he told her, leaning in with a slight smile not many witnessed, “but I am more confident.”
“That must be why I was so certain ye would come fer me.”
Her breath smelled sweet, like the berries she’d picked and ate on the way here.
