“Och, Motcha. Time to ride for all ye’re worth. Better to deal with this Gordon now and no’ wait for the other men to finish eating. There’s work to be done and blood to spill.”
Reade had grabbed his sword from its place by his chair when he’d left, and now he lifted his claymore over his head and shoved it into his shoulder sheath. With hissgian-dubhsheathed on his belt, he had everything he required to meet with his enemy.
His soon to be dead enemy.
He tugged at the strap that held his sheathed sword at his back, as if its weight was a charm against his enemy.
With an easy sweep of his leg over Motcha’s back, Reade mounted his steed and wrapped the reins around his hand. He reared his steed around, keeping an observant eye on the courtyard to make sure he exited unnoticed, then rode for the gate.
The sooner they dispatched this Gordon rat and bring relief to his wife, the sooner he could come home and make his way into their bed.
And into Blair.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Blair sunk into theheavy, wing-armed chair at the main table. Her tea had settled her stomach, and she found the presence of the engaging MacDonalds calmed her nerves. Their light chatter and amiable behaviors helped keep her mind off her aching stomach and her life-changing news.
Thoughts of Reade, however, and of his burly, muscled body, were much more difficult to displace.
That had been the one constant at Glenachulish – her attraction to Reade and her body’s response to him, even against her will. The day before, when he opened the door to her cell, though her mind despised him for his rash behavior and suspicious nature and she had forced an icy reception to his arrival, that same, now familiar flare of raw, throbbing desire surged through her. She had not wanted it to happen – she had been furious with him after all – yet her body reacted of its own accord, not caring if Blair was angry or not.
As she studied the MacDonalds finishing their midday meal, a sharp movement drew her attention back to Sorcha and Seamus. Reade’s other brother, Maddock, had rushed in from the kitchens to his mother and father, speaking to them with frantic, pointing sweeps of his arm. He kept pointing at the kitchens. Blair flicked her eyes toward the archway that led to the kitchens. The same way that Reade had departed.
Her eyes shifted back to Maddock, his hard stance, his furious eyes, his frantic pointing to the kitchens, and the kitchen door that led to the courtyard. And the stables.
Maddock, who was supposed to have left with Reade.
Reade!
Her aching stomach sank to her lap. He hadn’t waited for his men – they were still here! And the only reason Blair could surmise for Maddock’s angry movements and his pointing at the kitchens was that Reade was not awaiting them in the stables.
He’d ridden off in search of Paden by himself.
Ye rash, thick-headed fool!
No matter how mighty a warrior Reade might be, Paden was no simpleton. He’d know he could never best Reade sword to sword in a fair fight, so Paden wouldn’t fight fair. He was borne of the same Gordon blood as her repugnant, dead husband, after all. She yet bore the evidence of his behavior on her cheek.
