Page 42 of Bride of Mist
A shudder of horror passed through her. Every assassin knew the fastest way to ensure death was a deep stab to the base of the skull. She dug her fingers into the soil, afraid to move, afraid tonotmove.
He didn’t kill her. Instead, he cut through the ties of her mask and dragged it from around her neck. Seizing one wrist and then the other, he wound the cloth of the mask to bind her hands together behind her back.
Satisfied she was helpless, he quickly gathered up her weapons, all except theyan zi fei dao,which he left stuck in the tree. Then he sheathed herduandaoand stuffed the rest into his pack.
She’d almost inched her knees forward enough to make a final spring for freedom when he thrust an arm under her belly, picked her up bodily, and set her on her feet.
“Let’s go.”
He grabbed her by the arm and propelled her forward. But the long-legged warrior walked at so brisk a pace, it was difficult for her to keep up.
“Where are we going?” she asked. She didn’t expect an answer. He didn’t give her one.
For nearly a mile, the only sounds were the leaf-scuffing passage of their boots, the flap of cloaks, and her labored breathing.
Finally he muttered, “How did ye track me?”
She lifted her chin with pride. “You have a crack in the heel of your boot.” Then, just to twist the knife, she added, “A child could have tracked you.”
“Maybe. But ye’ve had no contact with your clan,” he reasoned. “So I’m guessin’ they’re still lookin’ for a man on horseback.”
She bit back a curse. He was right about that. No one would guess he’d abandon such a fine warhorse.
In truth, she wondered if her clan was in pursuit at all. Once they found his claymore, they would know who he was and where he was headed. They would see no need to rush when they could simply let him return home and march on his castle as an organized army.
Only Feiyan had recognized the need for expediency. A sheer madness in the Westlander’s manner. An otherworldly rage that couldn’t be reasoned with and had to be addressed without delay.
To her, mac Darragh was an arrow loosed in a wild wind. No one could predict where he would land. He might well return to finish what he’d started at Creagor. To triumph where he’d failed. And next time, he might send Hallie to her grave.
She couldn’t let that happen. She couldn’t wait for the Rivenloch army. Which was why she’d gone after him herself.
Now, however, she regretted leaving no crumb for her clan to follow.
If only she’d killed mac Darragh when she first had the chance. While he was sleeping helplessly under a tree…his face pale in the moonlight…his hair as dark as a raven’s wing…his mouth curved up slightly in the sweet depths of slumber…
“How many are there?” he asked, startling her from her reverie. “How many o’ your clansmen are in pursuit?”
She arched a defiant brow. “All of them.”
He smirked. “How many mac Giricsarethere?”
She blinked. “Mac Girics?”
All at once, she realized that his hostility wasn’t against Rivenloch at all. How could she have been so wrong? Mac Darragh had turned up at Creagor, not because it was the site of the Rivenloch tournament, but because it was amac Giricholding.
That changed things.
“Aye,” he said. “How many are there?”
“Thousands.”
He scoffed at the obvious lie.
“They… We’re scattered all o’er Scotland,” she boasted. That was almost true. The main Giric stronghold was in the Highlands. Then she asked carefully, “What grudge do you have against…my clan?”
The sudden tightening of his jaw and the blaze that flared in his eyes made her regret her question. His stony cold silence for the next mile was the only answer he gave.
The sky reflected his mood. Dark and ominous clouds lowered like his brow, stormy and threatening. The quiet was not the quiet of calm, but of the uneasy stillness before a violent maelstrom. The sharp chill in the pregnant air was as unsettling as his frigid gaze.
