weak again. It was time to get her away from the hole and show the lass some light. She wanted for little more than light. And water. And air. An easy woman to please if ever he met one.
He picked her up and headed back out of the passageway. “Ye were in there. In the tomb. Ye ken Isobelle’s no’ inside, nor what would be left of her. Ye even said ye ken I helped her escape.”
She nodded, but her eyes were wide. Did she not believe she was safe enough with him?
“And who told ye my secret, lass?”
He wouldn’t have believed her eyes could open any wider, but they did. In case he was clutching her blue-clad legs and thinly clad torso too tightly, he relaxed his hold. Instead of being crushed to his chest, she had plenty of space to breathe.
It didn’t help.
She looked up at him with owl’s eyes, serious as the live long day.
“Ye won’t believe it.”
God’s blood, had she forgotten how to blink?
“Tell me, lass.” He needed to know the man who had the power to ruin his clan. “Jillian, who told the tale?”
She looked down at her belt while he carried her up the last of the steps, but her brows stayed high. She took a deep breath and puffed it out quickly.
“The same one who helped me into the tomb.”
So, he could silence a wagging tongue and kill the bastard who had buried alive his future wife, all in one swing of the blade.
“The same one who handed me Isobelle’s necklace.”
It was fortunate he had moved into the Great Hall, away from the stairway for his knees went weak as a sapling in springtime. The Almighty help him but he’d forgotten to ask about the damnable necklace. He’d sworn to his sister the thing would never be removed and now he hardly dared learn its fate.
“And where is the necklace now, Jillian?” he croaked.
“Oh, it’s still inside. In the dark.”
The Great Hall was also dark without the cooking fires and the windows shuttered, but he made his way to the Ross chair on the dais as if the stones beneath his feet had been worn to guide his steps. He collapsed in relief, holding his wee MacKay wench close to his heart.
It was safe—the necklace at least.
“And who was it put ye in there, sweet lass?”
She smiled and hunched her shoulders up around her ears in the oddest of expressions. Endearing, but odd nevertheless.
“It’s lucky you’re sitting down. His name is, or rather will be...Laird.” She cleared her throat. “Ross.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
For a moment, Jilly thought the man may just put her back in the hole after all. His head pulled back, his brows scrunched in confusion.
About time she had his attention.
A minute later, he nodded as if he had it all figured out, which more than likely meant he understood she must be out of her mind. Soon after, he frowned as if in pain.
Did it bother him so much that she was insane? For a moment, she thought it was sweet, unless of course, he considered the proper treatment for insanity was to lock someone away in an unpadded, unlit stone cell.
“I am not insane,” she insisted, just in case she was right about the treatment. “Although this is going to sound pretty crazy. I’m here to help Ivar and Morna—”
His hand clamped gently over her mouth. He looked deep into her eyes and shook his head.
“Have a care, lass. We don’t talk of such things here.”
She lifted her chin, nudging his hand and it fell away.
“You don’t talk about Isobelle’s prophecy, or you don’t talk about the possibility of someone being insane?” Jilly whispered. His frown was nothing compared to the fire in his eyes and Jilly quickly picked up his hand and pushed it back against her mouth.
He moved his fingers over her lips for just a moment before removing his hand.
“Sweet lass. I’ll apologize again for frightening ye so badly, but that be the last. And I’ll allow time for ye to recover from yer fright. But come the morrow, ye’ll give me the mon’s name, whether he be dear to ye or no. Let him
He picked her up and headed back out of the passageway. “Ye were in there. In the tomb. Ye ken Isobelle’s no’ inside, nor what would be left of her. Ye even said ye ken I helped her escape.”
She nodded, but her eyes were wide. Did she not believe she was safe enough with him?
“And who told ye my secret, lass?”
He wouldn’t have believed her eyes could open any wider, but they did. In case he was clutching her blue-clad legs and thinly clad torso too tightly, he relaxed his hold. Instead of being crushed to his chest, she had plenty of space to breathe.
It didn’t help.
She looked up at him with owl’s eyes, serious as the live long day.
“Ye won’t believe it.”
God’s blood, had she forgotten how to blink?
“Tell me, lass.” He needed to know the man who had the power to ruin his clan. “Jillian, who told the tale?”
She looked down at her belt while he carried her up the last of the steps, but her brows stayed high. She took a deep breath and puffed it out quickly.
“The same one who helped me into the tomb.”
So, he could silence a wagging tongue and kill the bastard who had buried alive his future wife, all in one swing of the blade.
“The same one who handed me Isobelle’s necklace.”
It was fortunate he had moved into the Great Hall, away from the stairway for his knees went weak as a sapling in springtime. The Almighty help him but he’d forgotten to ask about the damnable necklace. He’d sworn to his sister the thing would never be removed and now he hardly dared learn its fate.
“And where is the necklace now, Jillian?” he croaked.
“Oh, it’s still inside. In the dark.”
The Great Hall was also dark without the cooking fires and the windows shuttered, but he made his way to the Ross chair on the dais as if the stones beneath his feet had been worn to guide his steps. He collapsed in relief, holding his wee MacKay wench close to his heart.
It was safe—the necklace at least.
“And who was it put ye in there, sweet lass?”
She smiled and hunched her shoulders up around her ears in the oddest of expressions. Endearing, but odd nevertheless.
“It’s lucky you’re sitting down. His name is, or rather will be...Laird.” She cleared her throat. “Ross.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
For a moment, Jilly thought the man may just put her back in the hole after all. His head pulled back, his brows scrunched in confusion.
About time she had his attention.
A minute later, he nodded as if he had it all figured out, which more than likely meant he understood she must be out of her mind. Soon after, he frowned as if in pain.
Did it bother him so much that she was insane? For a moment, she thought it was sweet, unless of course, he considered the proper treatment for insanity was to lock someone away in an unpadded, unlit stone cell.
“I am not insane,” she insisted, just in case she was right about the treatment. “Although this is going to sound pretty crazy. I’m here to help Ivar and Morna—”
His hand clamped gently over her mouth. He looked deep into her eyes and shook his head.
“Have a care, lass. We don’t talk of such things here.”
She lifted her chin, nudging his hand and it fell away.
“You don’t talk about Isobelle’s prophecy, or you don’t talk about the possibility of someone being insane?” Jilly whispered. His frown was nothing compared to the fire in his eyes and Jilly quickly picked up his hand and pushed it back against her mouth.
He moved his fingers over her lips for just a moment before removing his hand.
“Sweet lass. I’ll apologize again for frightening ye so badly, but that be the last. And I’ll allow time for ye to recover from yer fright. But come the morrow, ye’ll give me the mon’s name, whether he be dear to ye or no. Let him
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