She certainly didn’tlooklike a spy.
What she looked like was a lost, forlorn lass caught in a storm of political divisiveness.
But then, Reade knew the devil could take many forms, including the most enticing ones. The devil comes in the form of what one desires most.
And oh, did Reade have a surge of desire for this woman.
He tore his gaze from her and mounted his own chestnut steed in an easy movement of legs under his swinging ruddy red kilt — his plaid was well-made and thick against the chill, so unlike the thin material the woman wore, because he had family and kin to ensure those in their care were dressed and fed. What did that say about those who were entrusted to care for this poor lass?
Reade shook his head to clear it. Wrapping his reins around his hand, he directed his horse west on the broken road back toward Glenachulish, leaving his father to deal with the deceptively attractive spy.
The stronghold of Glenachulishrose against the horizon, a welcome sight after the long trek to retrieve the widow of presumed spy Mungo Gordon, at least in Reade’s view. Even in the misty afternoon, gray clouds were a somber backdrop to the brown stone tower keep. Glenachulish itself was warm and inviting, a tall tower complex that prided itself on the Highland comforts inside. A heavy stone wall surrounded the protected inner bailey and side courtyard, but the metal portcullis was wide open to MacDonald clansmen and visitors alike.
Well, open to most. Reade flicked his gaze to the side and took in the image of the haughty Blair Gordon. On her stout palfrey, she sat stiff-backed and stared straight ahead. Her plaid had slipped back off the crown of her head, but she kept her gaze fixed on the horizon, watching their approach to Glenachulish through raindrops that perched on her lashes like diamonds. She appeared unbothered by the trip, so unlike Reade himself, who had seethed the entire ride back. Slogging through miles of mud to retrieve a woman he wanted nothing to do with wasnothis idea of a fine day in the Highlands. The sooner he found a warm drink and a warmer hearth, the better.
All Reade wanted to do was dump Blair into her chambers and find a place to drown his misery. A warm place. He’d let his father deal with her in the meantime. This debacle was his fault, as it was.
His father and his infinite wisdom,Reade judged cynically. What made his father think a marriage to this woman was a sound idea? Why did he shackle his eldest son with such a task? Why not Maddock or one of his other brothers or cousins?
The idea of his cousins struck a memory in the dark recesses of Reade’s mind – about him and Camden – memories that Reade had tucked away deep so as not to let them strike when he was unaware. Those memories of his dead cousin, the man who was more like a brother, were too much for him to bear daily. Reade only drew out those memories rarely, when he drank well into his cups and numbed enough to think upon them. Otherwise, thinking on those memories was like grinding salt into an open wound, ones that brought tears to his eyes.
And he wasn’t about to cry in front of his father, his kin, or Blair Gordon. She didn’t deserve to see any weakness in him. Nay, to her, Reade would be as hard and stoic as the stone tower before them. His father might call him block-headed for not wanting to listen to his reasoning, but Reade would be damned before he shared his life with this woman.
Their horses picked up speed and kicked up mud as they drew near the gate, men and horses eager to leave the damp day behind them. In the inner bailey, Reade reined his horse left toward the stables, where the skinny stable lad Flint MacDonald took the reins with a slender yet capable hand. Reade planned to head toward the wide stone stairs leading to the door of the keep before anyone notices, but his father’s voice carried all the way to his ears. Reade’s jaw worked as he trudged back down the steps.
“Grab her reins and help the lady down. Your mother has set her in the northwest chambers.”
Reade had to forcibly stop the rumbling groan from spewing between his lips. With a rough hand, he did as his father bid, and handing her reins over to Flint, he took the cool, bony fingers of the woman spy and helped her traitorous feet to the ground. Against his wide girth, she appeared even smaller, as if she’d shrunk on the ride to Glenachulish. His first thought was the poor lass needed a protector to defend her, then he shoved that notion from his mind before it finished. She was aligned with the Campbells — the idea of this woman living under his roof made his skin crawl. It was an affront to Camden’s memory and to the rightful King James, and an insult to the MacDonald clan as a whole.
The woman slid off the horse with ease, and Reade was thankful. He wanted as little to do with her, including touching her. He grabbed her saddle pack off the horse as she swept her gaze around the inner bailey and took in her surroundings. Then he turned to lead her into the keep.
But he didn’t miss his father’s glare. Spy though this woman might be, Seamus and Sorcha MacDonald expected their son to give her the benefit of Highland hospitality.
Even if it galled him to do so.
“Follow me to your chambers, lass,” he grumbled.
She gathered her skirts, rather threadbare like her plaid, Reade noted, and lifted her slitted blue gaze to him.
“Blair,” she said in a clipped tone.
He hadn’t expected her to speak. “What?”
“My name is no’lass. I’m Blair Hamilton Gordon.”
Reade made to turn his back to her, not caring about her name or anything else, when his father approached and spoke loudly, as if the louder his speech the better chance they had of permeating his thick skull.
“Aye, Blair, then. This sullen lad is my son, Reade MacDonald. My wife, Sorcha, awaits us inside. Welcome to Glenachulish.”
Seamus bowed slightly, then shifted on one foot and leapt up the steps.
Reade clenched his jaw as he watched his father leave. “Come,” he ground out. “Serves us naught to tally in the rain. I’ll take ye to your chambers.”
Blair didn’t respond and followed him up the steps. Reade was grateful for her silence.
He didn’t want to hear anything this spying traitor had to say.
The rooms the wideman escorted Blair to were much finer than she’d anticipated. From the general tone of those riding to Glenachulish keep, she expected to be tossed in a cold, dank dungeon. Instead, the man who had been introduced as Reade MacDonald strode in front of her so fast she had to scramble to keep up. His long, powerful strides forced her to take two quick steps for every one of his. Everything about this man, from his flint-green eyes to his squared, set jaw, to his brawny chest, while pleasing to her eyes, screamedhardandpetulant.
