She tried to move past him, continue along the path, but he gripped her arm. “There are plenty of other dangers. Wild animals, strangers.”Men.“The Sinclairs have enemies, and you are—”Young, innocent,and lovely.Fair game.A man might come upon her walking alone, steal a kiss, or want to very badly. The wind carried a tendril of her hair across the small distance between them, and it caressed his face. The sweet scent of her surrounded him. Dair let his eyes fall to her mouth. It was a mistake.
She licked her lips as if she was thirsty, a nervous flick of her tongue that made his pulse pick up and his own mouth water. He wondered what she tasted like. He gritted his teeth against his body’s response to that. If she wasn’t afraid, she should be—he could easily overpower her, bear her down into the grass, toss her skirts up, take her . . .
She set her hand on his where it gripped her arm. Another jolt of lightning shot through his veins, made his cock rise higher still. “You’re here, and I’m safe enough,” she said.
Dhia,that was the kind of thing a lass said to someone old, or an invalid—not a man with an erection, half drunk, mad. He tightened his hold on her. “You are not safe,” he insisted. “You should not have left the confines of the castle alone. If you cannot stay put, then I will order you kept under guard.”
Something fierce sparked in the depths of her golden eyes, and her brows arched. “Am I a guest or a prisoner, Alasdair Og?”
He hesitated. Jeannie had been a prisoner. She’d been so easily hurt . . . Even if she’d had a dozen strong men by her side it would not have made any difference, and Fia MacLeod was all alone . . . “While I am in charge, the safety of my father’sguestsis my responsibility. I will assign Angus to accompany you . . .” Angus was a good choice, safely married, in love with his wife.
She tossed her nose into the air to show him what she thought of that. “I can take care of myself.”
She stepped back and lifted the hem of her skirt, showed him the dirk strapped to her ankle. “My father believes his daughters should know how to keep themselves safe.”
He brought his face close to hers, snarled at her. “I could snap you in two before you have time to reach for that dirk.”
Fire kindled in her eyes. “Care to try? We MacLeods are called fearsome for good reason, Alasdair Og Sinclair.”
Quick as a snake he drew his own dirk and pointed it at her—only to find hers was already raised against him, pressed to his throat. He stared at her in surprise. She gave him a smug wee grin.
“Satisfied?” She put her knife back in the neat little sheath, and he caught a glimpse of her slim and shapely calf before she lowered her skirt. “Now may I go?”
He nodded, not trusting himself to speak. “Thenfeasgar mathto you, Alasdair Og, good afternoon.” She slipped past him, leaving the scent of her hair to torment him as she continued back toward the castle.
He watched her go, her back straight as a ramrod, her head high, and he realized she had not asked her question. Och, if it was important, surely she would find him later.
He was almost looking forward to it.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Fia was awake at the sound of Dair’s first cry, before Angus Mor had even tapped on her door. By the time he did, she was fully dressed. She stepped out and put her finger to her lips, since Meggie was still asleep.
He carried her up the tower stairs and set her down inside the little room at the top. John Erly stood by the bed. “Shall I fetch Father Alphonse?” Angus asked.
Dair was caught in the grip of another nightmare, a dark labyrinth he had no way to escape. What could the priest do? “No,” she said, and went to kneel by the bed. Dair thrashed, turning his head toward her.
“Jeannie?” he muttered.
“Fia,” she whispered back, and put her hand in his. He grabbed it like a lifeline, held tight. His body was shaking so hard his teeth chattered.
“I’ll drown,” he said. “Burn in hell.”
Angus Mor crossed himself. John stood silently behind her. Fia swallowed, remembered her vision at the spring.
“No you won’t,” she whispered. He flinched when she touched his forehead. “’Tis all right. I’m checking for fever. There isn’t any.”
She let go of his hand and moved the sheet to check his leg. The bandages were gone. She followed the long jagged scar that marred his flesh from his knee into the shadow of his groin The rawness of it made her belly clench, and she resisted the urge to smooth the ruined flesh.
“Have I done wrong? He wanted the bandages off,” Angus said uneasily. “He said they itched, and the bone is set as well as it ever will be.”
She shook her head, the lump in her throat making it impossible to speak, and drew the sheet over him once more. His head tossed on the pillow, and he began to mutter again, about the sea, and swimming, and the danger of the tide and sharp rocks hidden under the water.
“All is well,” she whispered in his ear. He turned suddenly, and the stubble on his jaw brushed over her lips, made them tingle. His mouth was inches from her own, and she stared at it, wondered what it would be like to kiss him. The urge was powerful, flowed through her limbs like hot whisky. His breathing was harsh, uneven, as if he was running, or fighting for his life.
“Sing, Mistress Fia,” Angus said. “Like last time.”
She closed her eyes and began to sing. Not a lullaby this time—a song about a lass who goes out walking with a lad who wants to steal a kiss.
