Page 26 of Bride of Mist
“Shall I call ye Outlaw then? Thief? Murderer?”
She met his challenge with the proud, bold truth. “Feiyan la Nuit.”
“Feiyan,” he repeated.
It was a curious name, but appropriate. The lass seemed almost fey. She was a bonnie wee thing, with chestnut hair and shimmering silver eyes. Her dark brows were expressive, her chin came to a charming point, and her lips looked soft and full.
Yet it was no wonder, before glimpsing the delicate beauty of her face, he’d believed she was a lad. She was small in stature, and her close-fitting dark garb disguised whatever curves might have revealed her gender.
Feiyan wasn’t interested in his name, only his intentions. “What will you do with me?”
What indeed? If he let her go, he’d only give her a second chance to kill him. The wise thing was to keep her where he could see her.
Yet he couldn’t take her with him. She’d only slow him down. He didn’t have the resources to look after her. Besides, he traveled best alone.
His only choice was to leave her behind, just as he had his destrier. Stash her somewhere she’d be safe. Protected. Cared for. A nunnery perhaps. Or a noble household.
“I’m goin’ to help ye,” he decided.
“I don’t need your help,” she murmured, raising her chin with pride.
He expected she’d say that. Even if it wasn’t true.
Outcasts forced to live on their own grew fiercely independent. They relied on no one, trusted no one, living like orphaned hounds at the edge of starvation.
“Let’s find ye a real bed, aye?”
Her eyes darted to him, clouding with suspicion. Their bright silver dimmed to a cynical gray. “Yours?”
He winced. She may have earned her way in the past by selling her favors. But she would do so no longer.
“Nay.” He offered her a hand. “Come with me, Feiyan. I won’t hurt ye.”
She scrutinized his hand with mistrustful eyes.
“I promise,” he said.
She scoffed at that.
Lasses like her doubted everyone. They had faith only in themselves.
He would prove himself to her. Convince her that he could be trusted. That he was a man of his word. That he wasn’t a monster.
Maybe in convincing her, he could convince himself.
When Feiyan was a wee lass, she’d spied a heron in the marshes near her home. Fascinated by the beautiful bird, she kicked off her slippers and waded into the muck for a closer look. But each time she took a step forward, the bird edged a few inches farther away. By the time the heron tired of the game and flew off, Feiyan was up to her neck in the marsh, forced to cry for help as her feet stuck fast in the sticky, sucking mud.
That was how she felt now. Torn between curiosity, frustration, and the sinking feeling that she was being pulled under by shifting ground. Heading for perilous depths from which she might never emerge.
Yet, as always, she was unable to resist the allure of the unknown. She told herself she was no longer that wee lass. She was older and wiser. A woman grown. A deadly assassin. She could pull herself out of the mire if she started sinking too deep. What harm could there be in seeing where letting mac Darragh “help” her led?
She would never be in fear for her life, after all. Not really. She still had several weapons at her disposal.
Once she caught him off his guard, once she lulled him into complacency, she could easily subdue him.
Once he was subdued, she could easily finish him.
The earnestness in his eyes almost made her rue the wicked bent of her thoughts. On the other hand, she was certain he had some nefarious motive for offering her assistance.
