Nora wordlessly held up her leather knapsack, which carried her limited clothes, spare boots, a few books, and, of course, her herbs and medicines.
Laird MacColl blinked, taken aback.
“What, is that all ye have?”
“What else is there for me to have?” she responded defensively.
“I daenae ken. Fancy gowns. Jewels. Trinkets. Do ye mean to say that cloak is the only one ye have?”
She tugged self-consciously at her cloak. “Well… well, aye.”
He grunted and turned away. In a few brief words, he said his goodbyes to Evander and his cousin. Laird Bryden glanced briefly at Nora, eyebrows flickering with an unspoken question. She nodded firmly, and he returned the gesture, turning back to Skye.
That was that, then. Laird MacColl placed a firm hand on the small of Nora’s back. She wasn’t expecting that, and the touch took her by surprise. His hand, large and warm, seemed to burn right through her clothing and onto her bare skin. She could almost trace the outline of it. Why was his hand so warm? Not sweaty or damp, justhot. Tingles spread across her spine. Healers, of course, spent their days touching others and avoiding being touched themselves. What would it feel like if his hand slid up her spine to the nape of her neck? If he touched her side, perhaps curling around to cup her hip, or…
Shut up,she hissed at herself.Are ye goin’ mad? Daenae think of him touchin’ ye at all. Why do yewanthim to touch ye?
Her brain steadily refused to offer any answers.
He easily pushed her off the podium and back onto solid ground. It wasn’t a shove, but there was no chance she would resist him. That thought sent a spark of unease through her stomach, mixed with... with something else, something she couldn’t quite identify.
It seemed wise to put that thought aside.
Without the thick canvas walls of the three-sided tent, the wind raked at her, tugging at her hair and ruffling her gown. The MacColl men had prepared a path from them, grimly pushing festival-goers out of the way. The path snaked around the tent toward the forest, and she spotted a group of horses all clustered together, guarded by more MacColls.
“I brought a horse for ye, I assumed ye wouldnae have one,” Laird MacColl said briskly, his gaze fixed ahead of him. It’s a good few hours’ ride back to the Keep. Ye can ride well, I take it?”
“Of course,” she responded, insulted that he might think otherwise.
He grunted in response, glancing down at her. He did a double-take and frowned.
“The mask. Might as well take it off.”
She paused. Did he mean forherto take off her mask, or…
The answer came shortly. He reached up to the ribbons of his own mask, deftly unlacing it and tugging the wood away from his eyes.
They weren’t black, she could see now in the light. They were brown, a dark peat-brown, the color of a burn running right beneath an overhanging tree, the water brackish and deep. The same color as his mask, in fact. He had heavy, dark brows curling over his eyes. Those brows flickered as she watched them.
“Now ye,” he added, and before she could say or do anything, he reached forward, tugging once at the knot at the back of her head. It came loose immediately, flopping forward and away from her face. He snatched it up, tossing the fabric back at her. She caught it reflexively, trying not to flinch under the sensation of his eyes raking over her. He made no effort to hide how intently he was looking at her, inspecting her.
To her annoyance, a blush crept over her cheeks, warm and prickling. He would notice that too, no doubt. There wasn’t too much she could do about her blushes; she’d learned that.
His eyes dropped lower, inspecting her mouth.
The scar.
Nora’s hand twitched, wanting to press over her mouth, wanting to cover it. But that was foolish. There’s no way he could have missed it, the sharp line which started right above her top lip and raked down across her mouth, coming to a pointed stop halfway down her chin.
Laird MacColl blinked, his brows knitting together. Suddenly, so quickly that it made her jump, he turned away.
“Ye said ye can ride?” he demanded shortly, striding off toward the horses. Two horses had already been taken out of the group, led by a groom each, and some of the soldiers were busily preparing to mount up and follow.
“Aye, I already told ye,” she answered, missing a beat, and hurried after him.
“Good. Ye can mount up yerself?”
“Aye,” she responded, more piqued this time. Itwasthe scar. He’d seen it and disliked it.
