Page 29 of Bride of Mist
With any luck, a night at the inn would throw the mac Girics off his scent. They were seeking a man alone, in armor, on a horse. They would pay no heed to a traveler on foot, lodging at an inn with his “sister.”
She still hadn’t finished eating. He got the impression the lass was trying to delay him. No doubt she’d drag her feet all the way up the stairs as well.
She needn’t fret. He had no intention of hurting her. He’d give her no cause to defend herself. He meant to keep his word. He also meant to keep her sword.
“Are ye nearly finished?” he murmured, eager to retire.
Being seen with a female companion gave him good cover. But enemies could be anywhere. He dared not linger in the common room.
Feiyan had done all she could to delay the inevitable. She could guess what would happen next. Once mac Darragh dragged her up the stairs and secured the door, he’d throw her onto the bed, intending to have his way with her.
She’d naturally prevent him. There would be a struggle. And in the midst of it, she’d slip out herbishou—in defense of her virtue, she’d later explain to the innkeeper—and drive it into his evil heart.
It was a perfect plan.
It was the perfect time.
The other guests had left, and the innkeeper had started banking the fire.
She kept one hand on the hilt of her hiddenduandaoas she rose from the table and began to climb the steps. He followed close behind her.
At the stop of the stairs, he unlocked the first door off the hallway and swung it open onto a chamber with a single bed.
The room was small, but decent and cozy. A modest fire already crackled on the hearth, warming the air.
The lecherous devil, wasting no time, immediately crossed to the bed and threw back the coverlet.
“The linens are clean,” he announced.
He pressed down on the pallet. A pleasant mint fragrance issued forth. The dried herb must have been sprinkled into the straw-stuffed mattress, assuring no fleas infested the bed.
That was good, she supposed. After she…did what she’d come to do…she might wish to steal a few hours of sleep before returning to Rivenloch.
On the other hand, how easy would she find it to sleep, with the Westlander dead on the floor of the chamber?
Sauntering toward the window, she casually opened the shutters and eyed the drop to the ground, in the event she had to make a more clandestine escape.
“Don’t even think of it,” he warned, closing the chamber door.
She lifted back her hood, affecting her most guileless expression while mentally calculating the distance between them. “Think of what?”
“Runnin’ away.” He shook his head. “I’m no fool. I paid a hefty price for this chamber. I won’t have it wasted.”
Her eyes glittered. He might not be a fool. But he was still capable of being gulled. Every man was. She’d already gulled him into thinking she was helpless.
She catalogued each weapon on her person—duandau, bishou, yan zi fei dao, sais—preparing to engage him at the first sign of aggression.
He looked anything but aggressive. Still, when he came toward her to secure the shutters, she moved to the corner of the room.
“I told ye I don’t mean to hurt ye,” he said.
“Oh aye. You only mean to swive me.”
“Swive ye?” he said with an irksome smirk. “I assure ye, ’tis the last thing on my mind. I’ll bed down by the hearth. Ye can have the pallet.”
She furrowed her brow. This wasn’t how things were supposed to progress. He was supposed to corner her, tear off her clothing, and try to have his way with her.
Then she would snarl in fury, pull out whichever lethal weapon was nearest at hand, and finish him in a potent and justifiable rage.
