“And rob travelers on the road,” Ismay added, needing more reason to resist him—hate him.
“Only the ones who ride in ornate carriages, foolishenough to take shortcuts through a forest. They deserve it. The rich send men off to battle because their pride has been wounded. Because of them, men—many of my own friends, have died on battlefields with no one to mourn for them.”
Ismay looked up at him while they descended the stairs. Aye, this was who he was—all sorrow and loss covered in impenetrable armor. But it was not completely impenetrable, was it?
“What if ye get caught?” she asked softly, part of her hoping he never did.
“Lochaber is a refuge fer cattle raiders and thieves, like myself. As long as I dinna leave the region, I willna hang.”
Hang? At the terrible thought of it, one of her feet tripped over the other and she began to tumble down the last four steps.
The chief’s arms around her and pulling her close, stopped her.
For the space of a torturous breath, she remained still, not even blinking her eyes that were staring into his. He was vitally warm pressed against her. She had thought he might be cold, like his gazes sometimes were. She could feel the lean muscles in his arms, like steel from which nothing could snatch her away. They both teetered on the edge of a step and Ismay closed her eyes, expecting to fall with him. But he was well-balanced and righted them before they fell.
When the torturous moment passed, and she was safe once again, he let her go and continued to the last step as if nothing just happened. As if he hadn’t turned her world on its axis and made her heart leap.
But his rejection was not too unbearable. In fact, she silently thanked him for stopping her from making an even bigger fool of herself by gushing and blushing over his closeness.
She stepped off the last step and practically into his arms, but he stepped back, out of her way.
She smiled, since her tongue felt as if it were stuck to the roof of her mouth, making it difficult to speak. What was this Highland chief doing to her? How was she allowing it? Did she have control over it?
They entered the Great Hall in silence. The Lochiel didn’t return the smiles or playful jeering of some of his men when they saw them together.
Ismay was about to blush and look away when she noted more than half of the rest of his cousins, both male and female, wore stunned expressions at seeing their Lochiel enter the Hall for breakfast with his guest.
He brought her to one of the more crowded tables in the center of the Hall and motioned for Geoffry to give up his seat for her. Geoffry left before she could stop him. She wanted no special treatment.
When the Lochiel sat at the head of the table in a large chair to her direct right, the others all stared, not a word uttered by one of them. What was so odd about his behavior? Ismay wondered. What did Bethia mean when she called himsuch a man? She should have asked instead of getting defensive on his behalf. Why would she defend him anyway? He protected her and saved her from the man who had taken her from the inn and no doubt would have done unthinkable things to her if she didn’t kill him first.
The Lochiel had put himself between her and danger on every occasion. She was grateful. She slid her gaze to him and almost sighed out loud. His hair dried over his shoulders, turning in large, damp waves around his face. He pushed them away, but they returned, insistent on flirting around his cheek and softening the chiseled cut of his jaw.
She swallowed, watching his lips close around his spoon.
He lifted his gaze from his bowl and looked right at her.
She coughed into her hand and died twice in her head at being caught admiring his mouth.
“Lass,” he said, sounding neither cold nor warm. “Eat.”
She was not hungry. For the first time in a month, she was not hungry. But she dipped her spoon into the bowl of porridge setbefore her.
“Miss Drummond?” Sitting across from her, Lachlan spoke, watching her while she ate. “Ye look verra bonnie this morn.”
She heard a sound to her right. The Lochiel had set down his spoon. She cast him a quick glance to find him staring at Lachlan.
“Thank ye fer keeping watch at my door,” she told him, ignoring his compliment. She was not unused to hearing such things about how she looked. Chief MacDonald had spoken of her beauty often, even as a child. Chief MacRae had told her she was like the sun rising in winter. Words meant little and usually were offered at a price.
Beside her, she sensed rather than saw the chief pick up his cup—for she refused to glance at him again. What had that glare directed at Lachlan been about? The chief had said nothing. Was he angry at his cousin or not? And if he was angry, did it mean he was jealous? Jealous of what?
She chanced another look at him, and this time, he was the one caught looking at her.
He didn’t cough into his hand as she had. He did not appear mortified at all.
Rather, he stood to his feet and raked his diamond-hard gaze on the others.
“Perhaps my orders were no’ clear. Miss Drummond is here under my protection. That means ye will speak to her with respect and ye willna try to win her favor. Is that understood?”
