Page 41 of Bride of Mist
Feiyan knew she’d made a grievous mistake the instant the words left her lips. Which was one instantbeforemac Darragh’s eyes darkened, his brows lowered, and his lips pressed together into a grim line.
In the damning silence that followed, his deathly quiet whisper rang in her ears like the bells before an execution. “What did ye say?”
She bit her lip. It was too late to take back her words. Too late to pretend she didn’t know exactly who he was.
“How do ye know my name?” he demanded.
“The…innkeeper,” she improvised. “The innkeeper told me.”
He shook his head. “’Tisn’t the name I gave him.”
She gulped. Of course it wasn’t. And he didn’t need a soothsayer to work out how she recognized him.
“Ye were there,” he accused in a harsh whisper. “At Creagor. Ye were there. Ye’re one o’ them. Ye must have found my claymore. Ye’ve been trackin’ me.”
There was no point in denying the truth. He’d already figured out that she wanted to kill him. It didn’t matter if he knewwhyshe wanted to kill him.
But now she was helpless. And he was armed.
Her eyes flitted to the jeweled dagger. His knuckles had grown white on the handle. At her glance, he loosened his grip. But he didn’t lower the dagger.
“Don’t fret. I won’t murder ye,” he said through his teeth, reading her thoughts. “I’ve got a much better use for ye.”
She swallowed the bitter tang of dread. What did that mean?
Mac Darragh might have feigned to care for her welfare when he assumed she was a hapless outlaw lass. But now he knew she was more than that. And Feiyan knew who he was. She’d seen him at Creagor. She knew the violence of which he was capable.
She’d lost the element of surprise.
She’d lost her disguise.
And she’d lost her weapons.
The only way she could survive now was by her wits.
She raised her chin with smug assurance, bluffing for all she was worth. “They know where you are.”
“Who?”
“My clan.”
“So ye’re a scout?”
“That’s right. I’ve been following you. And they’ve been following me.” She beamed up at him. “In fact, they should be here any—”
She ended with a gasp as he swept the dagger down to her throat. She felt its steely tip against her throbbing pulse.
“On your belly,” he commanded, lifting an inch off of her.
She hesitated for an instant. But she had little choice with his weapon at her throat. He might notintendto kill her. But she was damned sure, given the option of her sacrifice or his own survival, his dagger could make a swift decision for him.
“Slowly,” he said, releasing her wrists.
She obeyed. But for one instant, she still thought she might be able to gather her limbs beneath her and leap away.
That instant was short-lived.
The moment she rolled over, he pressed his knee into the small of her back. She felt the point of his dagger at the nape of her neck.
