“I meant what I said,” Una whispered. “My neck is on the line. Ye might not like me, but it’s only fair?—”
“Who said I don’t like ye?” Struan responded, his voice low and deep. He took a step forward, eyes still intent on her face.
Una felt as though she were frozen in place, the damp wood of the door pressing against her back. Struan leaned forward, pressing two fingers against the underside of her chin. It was the lightest of pressure, barely more than a skimming touch, but Una’s breath stuttered in her throat anyway.
“Without ye, I’d have been dead long ago,” Struan whispered, leaning closer. Una did not move, either towards him or away. Her brain seemed to have switched itself off. “And while I might have insisted the opposite, I do not want to die, Una.”
Before she could summon the courage to say something—anything—in response, he leaned forward and kissed her.
It was a strange kiss, soap-scented, and Una could taste the faintest hint of lavender on her tongue. His lips were warm and soft, applying only the softest pressure. His fingertips danced across her jaw, the pads of his fingers sliding down her throat. His forefinger brushed the place where her pulse hammered against her skin…
It was too much. Una broke away, gasping for breath. Had she been holding her breath? She stared at him, probably looking wild-eyed, like a cornered deer. Struan’s expression was difficult to read in the gloom, but the best word she could think of waswary.
Without another word, Una abruptly wrenched open the door and tumbled out into the safety of the hallway outside. Pressing a shaking hand against her mouth, she glanced around to see if the world was still spinning normally after such a thing.
The guards were still playing their card game.
When one spoke, it gave her the fright of her life.
“When he’s done in there,” one man said, eyes on his cards, “Laird Kenneth wants to see him.”
Chapter 9
Half-Lies for the Wrong Questions
It was clear that the guards hoped that Struan would be weak after his various ordeals. They set a cracking pace down the hallways, gripping his elbows tightly, clearly hoping that he’d struggle to keep up and maybe fall and have to be dragged.
Struan took pleasure in keeping up easily, his long-legged stride carrying him down the hallway, matching them pace for pace.
The breathless hurry and silence helped Struan clear his mind.
That was a mistake. What was I thinking, kissing her like that?
It could have ended badly. Itshouldhave ended badly. She should have punched him in the face, or screamed for help, or both. Laird and Lady Kenneth’s willingness to give him a chance would evaporate instantly once they knew he’d tried to kiss Una in a secluded washroom. It would be over for him. Laird Kenneth would probably tear him apart with his bare hands.
If only I still wished to die. It would be convenient.
It didn’t matter. She hadn’t screamed, hadn’t struck him. She’d just scurried away, wide-eyed and horrified, and he hadn’t seen her since. She hadn’t come to collect him with the otherguards. He half-wondered whether he’d see her when they reached Laird and Lady Kenneth’s private rooms. He assumed that was where they were going. A study, perhaps.
Closing his eyes briefly, Struan forced himself to breathe evenly, in and out. He hadn’t planned the kiss. But might it work in his favor? After all, it had been made pretty clear how helpful Una could be to him. And she hadn’t pushed him away. Perhaps…
Stop it,he told himself, cutting off the thought. Hadn’t his father warned him about runaway thoughts? Aboutfeelings? They got in the way. Anger was useful. Desire for revenge—that was useful.Ambition. But the rest of the feelings were nothing but a waste of energy.
I’ve thought of her every day since the day she shared her bread with me.
He gave his head a tiny shake. Thinking of this wouldn’t help him. Not at all. Objective thinking was what would save him. Logic would save him, along with brute force and ruthlessness.
Regret and uncertainty would kill him.
There was visible irritation in the guards’ faces when they reached their destination, a small door with a rounded top, plain wood with a heavy lock on it.
One of them hammered on the door, and the other scowled at Struan.
“In fine fettle, aren’t ye, lad?” he hissed. “Fine fettle for a man who’s done what ye have. And while our people starve. Disgusting.”
Struan was saved from giving a reply by the door being jerked open. Laird Kenneth stood there, glaring balefully.
Struan, of course, had known him as Kai. Kai Alcorn, last of a destroyed clan.
