“Nae,” he assured. “But he is more merciful than I. if ’twere my son, I would settle fer nothin’ less than his life.”
Ismay paled. Would the MacKintosh chief want Constantine’s life?
“Dinna go,” she said, doing her best to conceal her fear, but she failed.
“Lass,” he said huskily, taking a step toward her. “Are ye worried over me?”
She nodded.
“I should be insulted that ye think the MacKintosh worm can harm me.”
She returned his warm smile and let her gaze welcome him closer. “No man is unbeatable, Chief.”
“I am,” he boasted.
“Do ye promise?” she asked with a thread of demand tainting her voice. “Do ye promise to come back to me?”
She knew it was an unreasonable request, but his smile widened and he nodded. “I promise I will come back.”
His neglect of the last two words did not go unnoticed by her. He would come back…but not necessarily to her. Still, at least he promised. After all, she wanted him to live and not only for her selfish desires.
With a smile she suspected affected him more than he would admit, she gave his forearm a pat. “I shall see ye again when ye return.”
He suddenly clasped his hands behind his back, gave her half a smile that nearly buckled her kneecaps, then turned to leave.
“Constantine,” she called out, stopping him. He turned.
“Will ye be verra long?”
He shook his head, his gaze going soft. “Nae. No’ long.”
And then he left her chambers. She stared at the door for a few moments, without him for the first time in days.
She realized with a sinking heart that she relied too heavily on him. Were her emotions deepening because her time with him reminded her of the last sixteen years of her life, when she had felt safe and cared for? Did the Lochiel represent a time when she was happy? Was she confusing her feelings of familiarity and happiness with something else?
She thought of his jaw, chiseled with determination to remain loyal to a ghost. His chin, slightly dimpled beneath the shadow of gruff, his nose, mayhap the first perfect thing she noticed about his face. Straight but not sharp, a bit flatter at the soft contoured tip, his lips—oh, even now, the memory of them made her heart flutter. They were decadently full, scandalously plump—almost always set in somber disregard.
Almost always.
When his eyes, her favorite thing about him, settled on her, his mouth softened and went from somber to curious and amused. She liked having the power to bring warmth to his soul. She liked him. She liked a man. A chief. Impossible, she told herself, shaking her head and leaving her chambers. Impossible. But true.
Chapter Twelve
Constantine sat atophis warhorse with thirty-seven of his men around him, excluding Lachlan, mounted and ready for a fight. Facing them were MacKintoshes, sixty strong, swords polished and ready to stain Glen Loy with blood.
To Constantine’s left, Lewis laughed, eager to fight. Constantine also was eager to fight and get back to the castle.
“Lochiel,” one from the MacKintosh clan called out. “Where are my cattle? Where is my son?”
This was John MacKintosh, the chief coming forward. Constantine watched him with contempt in his eyes. “Yer son took a woman from my care and meant to rape her. He is with the devil where he belongs. As fer yer cattle, ye were warned no’ to bring them through my land. Yet ye sent one of yer sons to the task. What? Did ye no’ care if I killed that son?”
“Who is this woman ye claim is in yer care?” MacKintosh shouted, ignoring his question.
Constantine was not about to tell him. There was only reason the MacKintosh chief wanted to know who she was. Constantine frowned at him from across the unseen barrier. Alas, here was the threat he had hoped his enemy would refrain from making.
“Allow yer other sons free rein to go anywhere near her and ye will find oot before ye put them in the ground.”
“Ye’re a bastard, Cameron!” the chief bellowed and pointed his sword at him.
