“Do ye think I’ll let ye leave? Or trust ye to release her? Nay, she’s just a bairn. Let her be.”
“Get my horse ready to ride. I’ll no’ tell ye twice.”
Coira took a step closer, dismay making her belly roil. Could she calm him? Lull him into dropping the blade? She would try anything to save the lass, but she had to control herself first—the very thing she’d been unable to do that awful night in the Lathan hall.
After a deep breath, she stepped forward before anyone else could react. “Let her go. Take me instead.”
She felt the spike of surprise of the people in the room like spray splashing off of rocks. And Logen’s fear for her—an arc of lightning in a stormy sky. His gaze cut to hers, then back to the man he faced.
“Nay,” Logen waved her back. “Ye willna. No one will leave here.”
She ignored Logen’s order. She would save this lass to make up for what she had done at the Lathan keep. Her memory of the horror of that night overlaid what she saw now with her own eyes. Her hands trembled as she reached out to the lass. “Come away. I will take yer place.” She locked gazes with MacMakon. “I will ride with ye until ye are a safe distance from the keep.”
She fought to keep her voice low and calm, to find the lassitude that might ease the tension in the room. If anyone else rushed MacMakon, the lass would die before Coira could free her. She pictured the sea, flat and calm, the cloudless blue sky, nary a breeze to ruffle her hair.
As her belly settled, MacMakon’s tremors stilled. The lass in his arms looked heavy-lidded, ready to fall asleep, where moments before she had been wide-eyed with terror.
“Coira…”
She kept her gaze on MacMakon. She dared not look at Logen. All her effort must remain focused on the man and the child.
“Please release her,” she pleaded. “Ye can take me. We’ll walk out to the bailey. I willna fight ye. No’ a man will stop us.”
She sensed Logen moving nearer to her, but keeping his distance, not threatening MacMakon. Aye, Logen remembered, and knew what she was trying to do.
“Ye’ll slow my mount. The lass is lighter.”
Logen’s voice broke the sudden stillness. “Ye lads, go saddle his horse,” he commanded. “Quickly now.”
“It’s being done,” Coira assured MacMakon, never taking her gaze from his. She felt his tension ebb as his shoulders dropped and the blade moved a finger’s width away from the lass’s throat. Coira took a slow step forward. When MacMakon failed to react, she took another. She got close enough to touch him. But dare she do that, yet?
“Let the lass go. I am here.”
Suddenly, MacMakon shoved the child aside and grabbed Coira’s arm, pulling her close and laying the dirk’s blade against her neck. “Verra well. If the laird doesna want ye to go with me, then ye must be important enough to him to ensure he’ll do what I say.”
Time seemed to stop. Coira shoved aside her fear, took a breath and touched his wrist, as though seeking to defend herself, where his sleeve slid back to expose skin. She had braced against the flood of emotions, so she was able to maintain her composure, at least on the surface. She exhaled and slowed her breathing even further, seeking to regain the calm the touch of cold steel against her throat had disrupted. Calm, flat water. Not a hint of air moving over the dunes. Bright sunlight in a cloudless sky.
She and MacMakon stood that way for several minutes, until one of the lads Logen had sent for the horse ran back into the room. “’Tis ready, laird.”
“We can go,” Coira said, so softly she imagined only the man at her back could hear her. She met Logen’s worried gaze with a slight nod, careful of the sharp edge at her throat.
“Move yer men aside, laird,” MacMakon said. “Ye have the lass. And I have this one. Which one would ye have preferred to lose?”
Logen tensed and Coira didn’t need her new sense to know he was poised to answer MacMakon’s taunt with a refusal. If he did, MacMakon would likely kill her. Logen knew it. She held Logen’s gaze, not daring to narrow her eyes at him where others could see and react when he did nothing.
“We’re leaving.” MacMakon’s sudden statement startled her, but she fought for calm and breathed. At Logen’s gesture, the clan stepped to either side of the hall, opening an aisle through the middle. MacMakon lifted the blade from her skin and nudged her forward.
Nudged. Not shoved. Coira tamped down on her elation. She moved slowly, as if fearful of jostling the blade near her throat, buying time to judge how well her attempt was working. MacMakon did nothing to hurry her along. As they approached the spot where Logen stood by, she held his gaze and inclined her head ever so slightly. Did he understand what she’d done? He mirrored her slight movement. Aye, he did.
As she came abreast of him, Logen struck, first knocking the blade from MacMakon’s hand then delivering another blow that crumpled him to the floor, out cold. It had taken only seconds. Then Logen’s arms wrapped around her, speeding her heart. He pulled her out of the way as Darach and Ross surged forward to haul MacMakon to his feet and hustle him and his fellow conspirators to the dungeon.
“Ye brave lass!” A woman’s declaration pierced the low rumble of voices filling the hall as the men were led out. “Aye, she saved the bairn,” said another.
“Brave, aye. And foolish.” Logen’s voice in her ear was a balm to her senses as the rising tide of approval threatened to bring her to tears.
She hadn’t done this for the clan’s approval. She’d done it to atone for threatening another lass, not so long ago. But the people cheering for her now must never know that.
“Ye couldha been killed,” Logen scolded softly as the noise in the hall increased.
