She looked her uncle in the eye. “Have you expressed these concerns to him?”
“Not yet.”
“Do you plan to?”
He turned and poured himself another drink. “I haven’t decided yet.”
* * *
Just before dawn, Amelia woke to the sound of birds chirping on the rooftop outside Duncan’s window. A few starsstilllingered in the violet sky. She was lying on her side, nude but warm beneath the heavy coverlet. Duncan lay behind her, also nude, his knees tucked into the backs of hers, his strong arms wrapped around her waist. She listened to the steady pace of his breathing and wishedallmoments could be like this—intimate and quiet, without the immediate threat of war, revenge, or prisoners in dungeons.
They had made love with great tenderness the night before, and it was unlike any other previous sexual encounter. Perhaps it was the release of Duncan’s goal tokillRichard. Perhaps now that he had faced him at last and resisted the urge, and Richard would be brought to justice, Duncan would find some peace within himself. She hoped he would be able to lay the pain of Muira’s death to rest andallowhimself to love again.
How quickly the world could change, Amelia thought. It was difficult to believe that not long ago she had imagined a happy future for herself as Richard’s wife. It was frightful to imagine where she might be right now if things had not unfolded as they had. Would she be lying naked in Richard’s arms?
Knowing what she now knew about his crimes against women and children, the thought made her skin crawl.
There was an eruption of noise just then. Voices shouting in the bailey. Someone blew a horn.
Duncan was out of bed in an instant, looking out the window. It wasstilldark outside, except for the faint pink glow of the sunrise on the horizon.
She sat up and hugged the covers to her chest. “What’s happening?”
Without answering, he disappeared into the dressing room and returned in a loose shirt with his tartan wrapped around his waist. He belted it and pinned it over his shoulder.
It was the first time she’d seen him in his kilt since her arrival at the castle. His thick sable hair was long and disheveled, just as it had been that first night when he stood over her bed, wielding an axe. He had not yet shaved; his jaw was stubbled.
Rugged and wild-looking, he dressed with deft speed, his hands working over buckles and brooches, his athletic legs taking him around the room with efficiency and purpose.
Amelia couldn’t seem to make her lips work in order to speak through her alarm. He was the Butcher again.
Transformed in an instant.
A knock rapped at the door as hepulledon his boots. He crossed to answer it. A kilted clansman stood outside, breathing heavily. “Bennett’s escaped.”
“When?” Duncan hardly seemed surprised. It was as if he viewed this as a natural consequence, typical of any rebel ion.
“Ten minutes ago.”
“Mounted?”
“Nay, on foot.”
“Go. Saddle my horse and wake Fergus and Gawyn in the garrison.”
The clansman departed at a run, and Duncan returned to the bed. He knelt andpulleda long wooden chest out from under it.
“Get dressed,” he said, “and you are not to leave this room, do you understand? Lock the door behind me, and don’t open it for anyone.Anyone.”
He removed his weapons from the chest—his claymore in a scabbard, which he belted around his waist, his axe and pistol, which he loaded in front of her. Last, he withdrew his shield and slung it over his shoulder to hang at his back.
“That incriminates you,” she said. “The stone—the Mullagate. There are tales about it.”
He frowned, then set it back in the chest. “I’llfind another.”
He handed her a dirk. “Take this.” He pushed the chest back under the bed and made for the door.
“I’llsend guards,” he added, in a belated attempt to reassure her thatallwould bewell; then he was gone.
