Page 9 of Rebellion's Fire

The boy did look rather pleased with himself, and in the flickering light of the sparking fire, he appeared to flush when she looked at him. She’d no idea what this meant, although she refused to let herself relax. Her body ached from the rigidity with which she’d held herself for hours now, to try to hide her trembling. She could no longer tell if it was due to ongoing fear or cold. But God help her, she was pathetically grateful for the blanket and the fire.

He stood at last, gesturing her closer to the blaze. She shook her head. She preferred her fires at a safe distance. There had been a time when, whatever the cold, she couldn’t bear even to see flames.

“More food?” he asked her in stumbling French, making eating gestures with his hand and mouth. “Water?”

She shook her head. “No, thank you.”

A moment longer he hesitated, then simply nodded and trotted back off to join the men, who were beginning to bed down for the night on bedrolls and blankets, some simply loosening their rough woolen clothing and wrapping themselves in it.

Surreptitiously, she moved an inch or two farther back from the fire. She could still wallow in its warmth.

Adam MacHeth, she noticed—and she noticed him a good deal from both fear and fascination, inextricably bound together—prowled the perimeter of the camp. He’d set watches, so she doubted there would be any sudden midnight rescue attempts. Supposing William could find them. Supposing he tried.

She drew the blanket around her shoulders and hugged herself tight. All would be well. They were preserving their asset intact for exchange. She hoped William was doing the same with Donald MacHeth.

What if William simply killed him?

Then she’d die, and that would be that. Only it would be a shame so close to her goal…

She’d wait until Adam passed her in his circuit of the camp, and then lie down, try to sleep and revive her strength and her courage.

She expected him to ignore her, as he mostly did whenever she wasn’t the direct object of his attention. As he moved around the camp, occasionally exchanging a word with one or another of his men, he scoured the land and hills, sometimes nodding at things she couldn’t see—perhaps his lookouts, perhaps illusions of his disordered mind. And yet, although she’d watched quite carefully since her capture, she’d detected no disrespect in the attitude of his men. Perhaps they were used to his oddness, even proud of it in a perverse kind of way, like others were proud of a leader’s cruelty. One or two of them watched him with a care that seemed almost fatherly.

For whose sake did the people of Ross adhere to the MacHeths, rise and fight for them against the lawful king? For whom did they die? The absent Malcolm? Or the turbulent sons?

Christian might rail against their cause as one already lost, for the MacHeths’ royal line would never claim back the throne now. The descendants of King Malcolm III and Queen Margaret had held it for too long. The old customs of varying the kingship between royal kindreds had long passed in favor of direct descent, son to son to grandson as was done in the rest of Europe. To themselves, and even to some others, the MacHeths might be royalty with a rightful claim to be kings of Scots. From the outside, they were disruptive and troublesome outlaws, and their recent fearful attacks only emphasized the fact. But here in Ross, the rest of the world didn’t matter.

Had she really imagined she and William could carve out a niche for themselves in the teeth of the MacHeths? Her right, her diplomacy, and William’s military skills…

In England, even in Perth, it had seemed such a good idea. Here in Ross, both she and William had been found wanting. And the strange, rough-looking man with the wild eyes, now walking toward her, was all that stood between her and oblivion. Or worse.

Something sharp clawed the inside of her stomach. Who else would Cailean have built a fire for but his leader?

The blood sang in her ears as Adam MacHeth closed the distance between them. Without looking at her, he passed behind her and every hair on her nape stood up in shrieking alarm. She held her spine rigid.

He was going to pass her, surely, continue his patrol…

He walked around the fire and sat down several feet from her. “You should sleep. We leave again at first light.”

She stared at him. “How can I sleep like this?”

His gaze slewed around from the hill behind to her face. “I had to tie you. You’d run if you got the opportunity.”

“You could have asked for my word,” she said with dignity.

His lip quirked. “Would you have given it?”

She sighed. “No. Maybe. I don’t know.” She drew in her breath and looked him in the eyes. “What do you want?” she asked with conscious bravery.

Surprise overlaid his guarded expression. “Nothing. I’m going to sleep.”

“Not here!”

“Here.”

“In case I bite through my ropes in the night?”

His breath hissed. “That I would like to see. But I certainly don’t discount the likelihood of you trying to untie yourself when you think no one will see your immodesty.”

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