Page 32 of Bride of Mist
“Ah.” He resumed folding his gambeson. “Ye’re not my prisoner.”
“But you’ve forbidden me to run away.”
“Aye, for your own safety.”
“You’re not holding me here?”
“Nay.”
She cocked her head. “How do you know I won’t rob you blind?”
He smirked. “I have naught left to take. I spent the last o’ what I had on this chamber.”
Taken aback by his confession, she suddenly released her knees, letting her legs drop over the edge of the bed. “You did?”
“Aye,” he said. “So I’d prefer ’twasn’t wasted.”
“Why would you do that?” She sounded irked. “Why would you spend all you have on this?” She gestured to the chamber. “On me?”
He frowned. Perhaps she deserved an explanation. But he didn’t feel like baring his soul to her. He didn’t feel like telling her about his moral failings. He didn’t want to speak of the tragedy at Kirkoswald. And she certainly wouldn’t want to hear that he’d slain a woman.
So he simply shrugged. “Why not?”
She clearly wasn’t satisfied with that answer. “What do you want from me?”
Absolution,he thought.Forgiveness.He punched his gambeson-pillow into a comfortable shape and replied instead, “Naught. I want naught. Just enjoy a good night’s sleep.”
“But…” She seemed exasperated. “But how do you know I won’t take back my sword and…and slay you in the middle of the night?”
“Will ye?”
“Maybe.”
“Well, then…” He nestled into his makeshift bed, wrapping the plaid over him, and tucked her sheathed blade against his chest, in his grip. “I’ll just have to keep it in arm’s reach.”
Chapter 9
Feiyan bit back a curse, flouncing under the covers before he could see her frustration.
How had this happened?
Not only had mac Darragh completely defied all her expectations, but she’d blurted out her plans to him. And now he had her most lethal weapon in his grasp.
“Good night,” he called out to her.
She gave him a vexed mumble in return.
She supposed it should come as no surprise that he meant to sleep with a sword in his hand. So did she, most of the time.
It wouldn’t change her plans. She still meant to finish what she’d come to do. And she was fairly certain he couldn’t unsheathe and slash at her before she could deliver a killing blow.
But once again she was faced with the unsavory prospect of slaying him in his sleep. Something that went against everything she’d ever been taught. An underhanded, unfair, unchivalrous idea that turned her stomach and filled her heart with dread.
She tried to distract herself from the macabre details, watching the shadows of flames flicker across the plaster ceiling. She focused her breath—inhaling slowly for strength, exhaling evenly for calm—the way her mother had taught her when preparing for combat.
If she could breathe out anxiety and breathe in composure, she could find the steady mind and hand required to take the necessary action.
Quickly.
