Page 60 of Bride of Mist
“Gaufrid, the Laird o’ mac Darragh.”
She lifted an impressed brow. “You’re kin to the laird himself.”
“Aye.”
“Oh.” That was surprising. She’d assumed he was a lawless mercenary. She’d never dreamed he was…the son of a laird?
Bloody hell. She’d tried to assassinate thesonof alaird?
The truth hit her like a blow to the belly. For a moment, she feared she might lose her supper.
Halting on the trail, she bent forward, bracing her hands on her knees.
“What’s wrong?” he asked. “Are ye ill?”
She waved one shaky hand in dismissal.
“Weary?” he asked. “Should we stop awhile?”
“I’m fine,” she choked out.
But she was not fine. She was mortified.
What if she’d succeeded at her mission?
What if she’d killed Dougal mac Darragh, the son of Laird Darragh himself?
Could she have instigated a full-scale clan war? One that might last for decades? For generations?
“Maybe we need to rest,” he said.
“Nay, nay,” she said, straightening and waving away his concerns. “I’ll be fine.”
She supposed there was no point in dwelling on what hadn’t come to pass. But she’d have to be more careful in future about who she tried to kill.
“Are ye sure?”
“Aye,” she said, mustering up a reassuring nod. “It’s just struck me we’re practically peers. You see, my mother is sister to the laird of Rivenloch.”
Now the blood drained fromhisface. He looked ill, as if he’d eaten bad meat.
“Ye’re…niece…to the Laird o’ Rivenloch himself?”
“Herself.” She smiled proudly. “Aye.”
Dougal pressed at his temples, where his head had begun to ache, and let out a long sigh.
Ofcoursethe Rivenloch lass he’d managed to capture wasn’t a lowly foot soldier.
Ofcourseshe couldn’t be one of the laird’s distant cousins thrice removed.
Ofcourseshe was in the direct line of the laird. The Laird of Rivenloch. The most esteemed warrior of a warrior clan.
And ofcoursethat laird was a woman.
He was beginning to think he might have been better off to let Feiyan kill him quickly. If her aunt the laird suspected he’d mistreated the lass in any way, he was certain his death would be slow and painful.
He promised himself, once they got to The Stag’s Head Inn, he’d order her a bath reeking of lavender, a meal fit for a king, and a pallet made of the down of a thousand swans.
