Page 17 of Bound to a Highland Beast
“Aye,” said Tiernan. “Ye are.”
“I am in some danger,” Isabeau admitted, throwing her hands up in the air in frustration. “But nae any immediate danger, so it is different.”
Tiernan had heard plenty of times about Isabeau’s skills in debate. It was said that she could convince anyone to do anything, regardless of how reluctant they were at first, but he refused to fall into this trap. Perhaps Isabeau thought she was making perfect sense, but Tiernan knew both Beag and Constantine better than she ever would and he knew he couldn’t let her near them.
“Have ye considered what will happen tae me if somethin’ happens tae ye?” he asked her. Perhaps if she couldn’t understand the danger she was facing’s then he could convince her by pointing out that her brothers would have his head if neither Beag nor Constantine did so first. “Say I survive this an’ ye dinnae. Laird MacGregor will have me hanged.”
“Perhaps,” said Isabeau, undeterred. “But ye run a bigger risk dyin’ because of Sinclair or Constantine. I think ye should take yer chances with me.”
“An’ I think ye should go home.”
They were at an impasse. Neither of them was willing to back down, and Tiernan couldn’t see a way out of the situation. It was true that, in order to send Isabeau home, he first had to find someone he trusted to accompany her and then arrange passage for her while ensuring Beag wouldn’t find out. It was far from an easy task and he didn’t yet know how he would manage it. He only knew that he had to. But also, she was part of the deal that Beag had offered him, she was his guarantee that Tiernan do what was asked of him.
“I’ve already sent a letter tae me braithers, tellin’ them that I am safe,” Isabeau said and it was then that Tiernan almost lost his mind, his knees weakening at the thought of what that letter could cause. He closed the distance between them, not stopping until they were face to face, his lips pressed into a thin line.
“Why would ye dae that?” he growled. “Ye should have told me afore ye did anythin’!”
Isabeau narrowed her eyes, a muscle in her jaw ticking. “Why should I have tae ask ye fer permission? Is it nae me right tae write tae me braithers whenever I wish? Would ye have me leave them in the dark? They’d think somethin’ happened tae me!”
“Somethin’ did happen tae ye!” Tiernan reminded her. “Ye were taken!”
“Aye, perhaps it is so,” said Isabeau, “but I’m fine now, am I nae? They have nay reason tae be concerned. An’ if they thought somethin’ terrible happened tae me, then they would try tae find me an’ it would only make yer task even more difficult.”
Tiernan let out a frustrated groan as he pushed away from Isabeau, pacing around the room. He thought about the moment Laird MacGregor and Alaric would receive that letter and it occurred to him then that they would get a very different idea regarding what had happened than the truth.
They would think he and Isabeau had left together. They would think they had eloped and they would surely come after him with pitchforks and swords.
“I cannae believe ye would dae somethin’ like this,” he grumbled, mostly to himself. What was done was done. There was no taking it back, but now Tiernan had to also prepare for the possibility of facing the wrath of two men who thought he had taken their sister so he could marry her.
I am doomed. Doomed!
“Ye must go home,” he repeated when he came to a stop, turning to look at her. “Ye must.”
“I willnae,” Isabeau insisted. “If I go home, I will only be puttin’ ye, me family, an’ everyone in the castle in danger. I’m sure ye realize Beag will ken if I leave, right? He said he would be watchin’ us. What happens when he finds out I’m gone? I’ll tell ye… he’ll come after me an’ after me clan. An’ then ye’ll wish I had stayed.”
She has a way o’ bein’ convincin’.
Tiernan had thought himself immune to her tricks, but it turned out that he wasn’t. She was right when it came to this; if Beag found out, they would all be dead and then it wouldn’t matter if Laird MacGregor and Alaric chased him. But the thought of Isabeau there with him was enough to put him in a state of constant panic, Tiernan looking over his shoulder at all times to make sure no one was there to harm her.
The woman standing in front of him now was not the timid, shy, and proper girl he thought she was. This side of her was different from anything else she had shown him before and he found that he was suddenly speechless, unable to come up with an argument or even insist that he was right without proof. Isabeau was incredibly cunning, more clever than her own good, and she had managed to render him speechless.
“That’s what I thought,” she said. “Sit now. Let me look at yer wound.”
She spoke as though the matter was over and perhaps it was. Tiernan was still determined to find a way to keep her away from all this, maybe even convince her to return home, but for now, hewould let it go. She was right; she was in no immediate danger as long as he was around.
“I’m fine,” he said, but he took a seat anyway, mainly because he was still exhausted. The bath had done wonders to revive him, but what he truly needed was some food and some sleep—and perhaps some good ale. “It’s only a scratch.”
“I said let me see it,” Isabeau insisted, her voice so stern that Tiernan had no choice but to take a seat on the bed, baring his arm for her. Isabeau came to sit next to him and he noticed for the first time the small basket she was holding in her hand—with clean cloth and several jars filled with pastes he didn’t recognize.
Along with the injury on his arm, Tiernan revealed the scars, old and new, that were scattered over his arm. He had such scars everywhere, the signs of a life lived in danger, and though he rarely gave them any thought, he now wished he didn’t have them, for they were a testament to the life he had lived, proof that he was not a good man, and now it was all on display for Isabeau.
Gently, she began to clean his wound, dipping the cloth in some hot water to wash away the few beads of fresh blood that had welled up through his flesh, and sending a shiver down his spine.
“What are all those jars?” he asked, his voice sounding oddly quiet to his ears now that they weren’t arguing.
“They’re fer wounds,” Isabeau said. “Tae keep them clean an’ help them heal.”
“But why dae ye need so many?”
