Page 4 of The Highlander's Captured Bride
He looked at her quizzically. “Amiss?”
“I mean, do ye nay see something here that should be seen?” she clarified. “There are nay bruises on his body, his knuckles are nay marked, which means he dinnae fight back.”
“Aye,” her father agreed. “I saw that as well, but assumed he was drunk. There is a wineskin in his hand.”
“Even so,” Ethan shook his head and moved by her side, “me brother would nay let an attacker get off scot-free, he would fight back, drunk or nay. May I?” he asked, gesturing to the wineskin while looking at Violet’s father.
With a nod of permission, Ethan knelt and pried the wineskin from his brother’s grip and put it to his mouth. Instantly, he spat it out with a grimace. “This is nay wine, Faither…” he tipped the wineskin over and dark murky liquid spilled out. “This is sleeping draught… I ken it is because I’ve tasted it too many times. This is made fromourhealers.”
2
How the lass had seen the absence of injuries on Finley’s body amazed Ethan. She had seen something that had flown over his head, and all those around him. He had not been able tothinkabout his dead brother, much lesslookat him.
The wound that had lanced through his heart sank deeper and deeper, carving into his soul. To know that he would never see his brother again, to never feel his playful nudge on his head or Finley’s constant teasing remark that he should move out and live with the horses instead of in a house, made his heart feel slashed in half.
After their futile mission of finding the woman Finley had left with, he had come back to mere feet away from his brother, but those feet felt like miles. An invisible bolder had rested on his shoulders, dragging him down so heavily that lifting his head felt like he was breaking his neck.
But then…the lass. In her brown dress, she looked merged with the wood around her, but her mass of curls cascading around her neck and shoulders set her apart from her surroundings. Her bright eyes, dark like her tresses, were inquisitive but had a hint of shyness. But that bashfulness disappeared when she had examined his brother’s body.
Her words were so clear and concise, he began to wonder,are there two sides to the lass…or more.
Staring at the ground where he had spit out the drought, he stood and let the wineskin fall from his fingers, “This is why they were able…” he grimaced, “to kill him without trouble. He was asleep.”
The lass turned to him and gave a sympathetic smile; her eyes were brimming with compassion. Briefly, he wondered if she had ever faced something like this before. “Are our healers a part of this?”
“That is…” her father stopped, “…rather despicable.”
Laird MacFerson rubbed his beard and sighed heavily. “That is nay good news; now we have thirteen healers to question. That draught isnae able to keep storage, so it must have been brewed last night.”
“May I see his quarters?” Mister O’Cain asked. “Mayhap there might be some leads there.”
Ethan looked at his father, and the lines in the man’s face were deeper than he had ever seen them. “Why nay? If time passes, ye are welcome to stay the night.”
His eyes slid to the lass—Violet, was it?— and watched her. She did not move, but looked impassive while facing her father. He prayed time would spin past so she could stay. In the dimness of the forest’s cover, he had not seen her face but wanted to see her clearly.
“Faither?” she asked.
“Let’s see the room first,” Mister O’Cain said, tugging his coat off and folding it over his arm. “Violet, ye dinnae need to come with me—” Her mouth opened but his warning look had her closing it, “—Laird MacFerson, can ye give me daughter some food? We barely ate before coming.”
“Aye,” he said. “Ethan, take the lass to the kitchens and have them give her our finest roast.”
He walked closer to the lass and they stepped out from under the cover of the forest trees. Under the cooling sunlight, Miss O’Cain’s heart-shaped face came into focus and her dark lustrous locks, curling around the graceful curve of her neck, shimmered in the sunlight.
She had a pert nose, softly flushed cheeks and her full, lips—that she was nibbling at one corner—sent an unaccounted-for warmth of attraction thrumming through his veins but he could not jerk his gaze away. The brown traveling frock she wore was a bit shapeless, but still displayed her delicate bosom and nipped-in waist.
“Aye, Faither,” he said and extended his arm to her. “Please, come with me.”
Her hand rested on his softly. He guided her up the slope, through the side gate, past the rotunda, and finally into the castle. He felt the pride of his home fill him when her wide eyes traced over the three stories and the towers. He loved how she suddenly swung from shrewd to childlike.
The great hall was not filled yet, but it soon would be for supper, so he took her into the kitchen where he found a small table. The staff were bustling around them but did not stop to shoot them curious looks.
He drew a chair and sat. “Is there anything ye dinnae eat?”
“Pig meat,” she said wrinkling her little nose, “It tastes horrid to me.”
“Good,” he attempted to grin, but his motion fell halfway, “We don’t eat pork either.” Calling a servant over, he asked if supper was ready but was told it was not. However, there was bread and cheese and warm milk if she wanted. Violet opted for the milk.
He felt her eyes on him, but didn’t meet them, “Master MacFerson—”
