The hit never landed. Instead, a voice called out from the road.
‘Twas Reade! He must have seen Blair’s palfrey, and his heavy footsteps in the wet grass as he came toward her were louder than the flicker of rain on the new tree growth. Paden must have presumed the same, and being alone, did not relish a fight with a MacDonald. He slipped back into the thicket of trees as she whirled around.
Blair did not know what Reade was thinking, but the expression on his face shifted from concern to confusion to anger. His eyes roved over her face, as if he was trying to unravel what had happened. His face was so shadowed, so angry, it sent a hard shiver down her back.
“Who was that in the trees?” His voice was hard, a tone she hadn’t heard from him in a while.
“No one —” she started to say, but Reade gripped her chin between his thumb and forefinger that it cut off the rest of her words.
“Then what’s this? Did ye strike yourself? Who struck ye?”
How could she answer? She tried to open her mouth to speak, but Reade beat her to it.
“Dinna lie to me, Blair. I saw the flash of Gordon plaid in the wood as I reached ye. Instead of giving chase, I came to your aid instead. Why might a Gordon strike ye? What did ye do? Or say to him? Unless ye were supposed to do something for him that ye did no’ finish?”
He had jumped to the worst conclusion possible, and the worst part was he was not entirely wrong. Blair hadn’t realized how badly this scene might appear, but then, she had hoped to speak with Reade before he learned any of this.
Reade released her face and grabbed her arm, dragging her back to their horses. He did not permit her to ride alone. Rather, he scooped her up like she was naught more than an itinerant child and plopped her onto the saddle, then swung up behind her. With his other arm, he grasped the palfrey’s reins to lead it home. His anger emanated off his body in a heat that contrasted to the cool rain.
“Reade, I—” she tried again, but he hushed her.
“Haut yer wheest!” his voice rumbled in her ear. His arm tightened around her, not in a caring embrace but like he had when she first came to Glenachulish, holding her as though she was a prisoner.
“Reade—”
“I said silence! I dinna want to hear your paltry excuses. After ye left, I saw Adaira. I presumed ye were riding with her. Imagine my surprise to learn ye rode out by yourself. And now I know why! Ye were conniving with the Gordons. We’ve had Campbells attacking MacDonalds on our own land, and the Gordons are aligned with them. Were ye a plant this whole time? Was your predicament a ploy in hopes that ye might play on the MacDonalds’ better nature and inveigle your way into our clan in someway? That ye might sway a MacDonald to fall in love with ye and share clan secrets?” He huffed behind her in a twisted, knowing bark of laughter. “Weel, your ploy worked, Mistress Gordon. ‘Tworked far better than ye, the Gordons, or the Campbells imagined.”
Sway a MacDonald to fall in love with her? Surely, he did not mean himself? Did he? Her jaw set as he handled her roughly. “MacDonald,” she murmured under her breath.
“What?” His arm lurched her back against his chest. His solid, powerful chest.
Blair sighed. “MacDonald. Mistress MacDonald.”
Reade growled low in his throat.
“We shall see for how long.”
