When a Laird Takes a Lady: A Claimed by the Highlander Novel by Rowan Keats Page B

contentment and snuggled deeper into his arms. Somehow, he’d earned a small measure of her trust, and he was loath to toss away that precious gift. If he followed through with his intent to seduce her and then betrayed her trust, there would be no going back. Her hatred would be well earned.
    But how else was he to get the names?
    He sighed.
    Tomorrow would tell.
    * * *
    When Isabel awoke, she found herself swathed in furs and blankets, completely alone on the mattress. The MacCurran had departed, though she had no idea when. She peered under the covers. The delicate material of her chemise was intact, and her body felt well rested, not abused. Perhaps her faith in him was not so careless after all.
    Midstretch, she had a sudden thought.
    Was she free to leave? She sat up and stared at the door. It was shut; did that suggest that she was imprisoned? Scrambling to her feet, she wrapped a blanket about her shoulders. There was only one way to find out.
    Her feet made short work of the cold floor to the door. Hand on the iron latch, she pulled the door open. No one called halt. She peered out. Seeing nary a soul in sight, she lifted the hem of her shift and dashed across the close to the hut she’d originally been given.
    Muirne greeted her with wide-eyed relief. “Oh, my lady, I feared for you the whole night.”
    “I am fine,” Isabail assured her. “Is my gown dry?”
    The maid nodded. “And I was able to retrieve one of your shifts. Offered up my recipe for honey bannocks in trade. Replace the one you’ve got on, and you’ll be fresh from tip to toe.” Muirne’s face fell. “Would that I could’ve protected you from that cur.”
    “Fear not. I slept. That is all.”
    Her maid arched a brow. “He did not force himself upon you?”
    Isabail yanked her shift over her head, the chill of the morning air encouraging speed. “Nay.”
    “Did ya give willingly, then?”
    “I slept,” Isabail repeated. The look of skepticism on Muirne’s face almost coaxed a smile to Isabail’s lips. “Come,” she said. “Let us see what the cook is preparing to break the fast.”
    “Nothing appetizing, I’ll wager.”
    “He’s not a master of spices,” Isabail agreed, shoving her feet into her leather boots. “I miss the sumptuous fares of our dear cook at Lochurkie. No one has as deft a hand as he.”
    They ducked under the furs hanging over the door and stepped into a brisk winter breeze. Raised voices drew them toward the central fire, where a group of warriors had gathered. Some poor soul had been dragged before the MacCurran, and the faces of the men were angry.
    “Did he give his name?”
    One of the warriors, a handsome lad garbed in various shades of green and carrying a beautifully carved ash-wood bow, shook his head. “Not before he swooned.”
    “Fetch Niall’s healer,” MacCurran said, staring down at the body. “Fool must have stumbled upon a badger sett.”
    Isabail caught a glimpse of the bloodied clothing amid the men’s legs. None of the MacCurran men were tending to the fellow; they were simplyletting him bleed all over the ground. Highland brutes. She elbowed her way between them. “If he’s bleeding, his wounds need immediate attention. Step aside.”
    The men parted, letting her through.
    Isabail avoided the MacCurran’s gaze as she gained the center of the group. What do you say to a man with whom you had shared a bed but no wedding vows? The flaxen-haired man on the ground was a more suitable target for her attentions—his back, arm, and hip were shredded by something with vicious teeth. Isabail crouched and rolled the poor fellow over.
    A gasp escaped her lips. “Daniel!”
    His eyes flickered open, his expression dazed. “Lady Isabail?”
    “Dear Lord, Daniel. What befell you?”
    A large hand grasped her arm and hauled her upright. “You know this man?”
    Isabail faced MacCurran, a flush rising in her cheeks. A vision of lying next to him clad only in her shift wreaked havoc with