What did she have? Nothing. Only her dirty shift, her stained dress on her back, and her small sack of belongings. That was everything she had in this harsh world.
She sat up in bed, eying her sack on the chair, then pulled herself up to begin the meager process of unpacking. Her bones ached from the ride, so long a ride after so many days stuck in a room. Even bending over the chair made her backside scream in protest, adding to the ache of her tender bruise. She grimaced at the sensation.
All this aching for what? To unpack one other shift, a comb for her hair, and her only prized possession – a nicked penannular silver brooch, embossed with a thistle, that had been her mother’s. Blair sat in the chair, staring at her lone treasures in the harsh world. Everything else in the house had been Mungo’s, and the MacDonalds assuredly raided it the entire place to learn all they could about Mungo and his vile activities. She guessed they had even searched this sack before putting it with the horse.
Blair and her brooch against the world. What chance did she have? Especially against the MacDonalds and their fate for her?
On a whim, she rose and strode to the door. The handsome, stocky laird’s son hadn’t exactlysaidshe was a prisoner, and she didn’t recall seeing any locks or bolts on the outside of the door. Was she a prisoner in truth then? Or could it be –?
Tucking her belongings in the crook of her arm, Blair rose and strode to the door. She was disbelieving as she lifted the latch and pushed on the door. It opened.
“Huh,” she breathed.
The narrow stone hallway was empty and dim, as it lacked window slits to provide any light. Two burning torches hung in metal rings near the stairwell. The quiet and empty stairwell.
No guards. So,nota prisoner then?
Blair didn’t hesitate. This was her chance, her only chance to take her fate into her own hands and avoid any requital from the MacDonalds. She ran from the door, down the two sets of stairs, then waited at the bottom, listening as she swallowed her panting breaths. Subdued noise came from her left and sounded like the kitchens. No way to leave Glenachulish in that direction. She peered around the edge of the stair into the main hall at the same pair of heavy wooden doors that Reade had escorted her through earlier.
The hall was empty. That was almost more surprising than her unlocked door and guard-less hall. Wherewaseveryone? Wasn’t it close to the evening meal? Blair didn’t care. If the hall was empty, then that was her opportunity. Lifting her skirts, she rushed across the smooth stones to the door.
She expected someone to stop her the entire time. But they didn’t. With all her might, she pulled on one of the doors, opening it far enough to slip outside into the misty early evening. Gloaming cast the sky a deeper gray, paving the way for the night sky to darken the land. If she was going to run, it had to be now, while she still had enough light to make it to the main road. She’d be lost in the dark otherwise.
As Blair hustled past the barn, she kept her head down and tried to form a plan. Her best idea was to hide in the woods until morning. The gate was her sole obstacle – she had to do was make it past the gate before it closed for the night, and then hope no one checked on her until sunrise.
If she could do that, then maybe, just maybe, she could escape and start her life over. Somewhere, anywhere.
As long as it wasn’t with the MacDonalds, the Gordons, or the Campbells. South then, and west, away from the conflict in the Highlands. Away from anyone who might recognize her.
The animosity in the Highlands had taken enough from her. She wasn’t going to suffer any longer.
She was going to take her fate into her own hands for once.
Blair’s luck held outuntil she reached the gate. Without even a plaid against the crisp air or to hide her face (she’d mistakenly left that on the bed she had rushed from the room), she had to hope her thick russet hair hid her face from any overly observant eyes. And it worked – at least she thought it had.
She was almost there, so close to freedom as she walked past the gray stone wall. A strong arm grabbed her around her waist and flung her backward. She would have landed square on her arse had the arm not crushed her against the hard body of her captive.
The hardwallof a body.
“Ugh!” she grunted against the man from the impact and the muscled arm squeezing her around her waist.
Even as Blair knew it was fruitless, she wasn’t going to give up without a fight. Not when freedom, as relative as that might be, was right there – just beyond the gate. She pounded hard on her captor’s arm and kicked back at his legs.
She didn’t think her soft leather slippers did any damage, but her heel must have caught his shin at the right angle because he hissed sharply into her hair. Her captor tightened his arm around her waist and lifted her off the ground, so her feet dangled and kicked nothing but air.
“Cease! Stop wiggling and I’ll set ye down!”
Everything inside her screamed not to do as he bid, but dangling in his one arm like a sack of turnips, Blair really had no choice. Her body went limp, and he loosened his grip. She slid to the ground, tried to inhale deeply, and turned to face her captor.
It was a good thing she was breathless from his iron grip under her chest because she would have gasped otherwise. She faced a large, barrel chest, and when she raised her eyes, the burning green gaze of the laird’s son, Reade, glowered down at her. His anger sharpened his face under the dark brown scruff along his jawline and burned off his entire body in a heat that enveloped her like a blanket and pushed away the evening chill.
Though she wanted to recoil, she didn’t. Instead, Blair lifted her chin in her own show of defiance.
“Do ye mind explaining what ye thought ye were doing?” Reade asked, his voice as hard as the rest of him.
Blair chewed at her lip. How could she begin to explain what she’d been through that led her to this point, standing in the bailey with a MacDonald, trying to flee for her life? She couldn’t. Instead, she dropped her gaze, praying that whatever retribution his fury might have with her would not hurt too badly. His arms, though, did frighten her. Reade was so much larger than her dead husband, so much more fearsome. His hand would be much heavier against her skin.
A cold raindrop struck her hand, followed by a series of raindrops in her hair and on her shoulders. Reade breathed out a heavy sigh and took her arm in a surprisingly light grip – a gentle touch that she was so unaccustomed to that she had to stop herself from flinching away in surprise.
