Chapter Three
Flora came hurrying down the stairs of the keep. “Alex! What happened? Peigi’s inside her new babe, and Aggie’s wee ones are . . .”
She caught sight of the young woman standing beside Alex’s garron. “Who—”
“She says her name is Cait MacLeod,” Alex told his aunt. “She was with the raiders.”
Flora put her hand to her mouth. “Her face—did ye do that to her?”
Alex frowned at her. “Nay, of course not.”
He looked at the young woman now it was fully light. Her white face stood out amid a cloud of tangled copper curls. The bruises and scratches looked all the worse for her pallor, and there were dark rings of exhaustion under her eyes. She looked like she might snap in two from the tension in her slim body. Still, she held herself with pride, with her back straight, though her dress was stained and torn, and her hands were bound. She was doing her best to hide her fear, and he knew she was afraid—he could see the strain in her jaw, the pounding of the pulse at the base of her throat. She was swaying on her feet, and he fought the urge to put his hand on her waist to steady her. She was his enemy . . .
Hector came forward and grabbed her arm roughly and yanked her toward him. Cait MacLeod stumbled, and her eyes widened. Hazel eyes, Alex noted, soft and wide, green, gold, and bronze. “I’ll take her to the dungeon,” Hector said.
The lass blanched, but she said nothing. She lowered her gaze quickly, but not before Alex saw the fear in her eyes. He hesitated. He remembered her courage, the way she’d fought him. The dungeons were no place for a lass . . .
Hector scowled at his hesitation. “Her kin took six cows last night, Alex, and burned out two families. She tried to steal a child.” Hector grabbed her chin, lifted her face roughly, oblivious to the bruises, and stared at her. To her credit, she didn’t wince. She held Hector’s ferocious glare evenly. “She’s probably bonny when she’s cleaned up and not dressed in rags. Think of the ransom she’ll bring. Maybe Baird himself owns this one . . .”
She twisted her head out of his grip. “No one owns me!”
Hector laughed. “I see she has some spirit to her.”
“Is she so important, worth so much to the Sutherlands?” Flora asked her nephew.
“She says not,” Alex replied, folding his arms over his chest, resisting the urge to pull her away from Hector. “She says she’s a MacLeod.”
“Are ye?” Flora asked the girl.
She nodded. “My name is Cait MacLeod. My father is Laird of Glen Iolair. He’ll pay any ransom. He’ll help—”
Hector jerked her arm, silencing her. “Liar!”
“She also says Baird Sutherland is her cousin,” Alex told his aunt.
Cait MacLeod blushed a deep scarlet and dropped her gaze. To Alex, it suggested there was something she was not telling them . . . Perhaps she did belong to Baird Sutherland after all, was his woman, his leman. Alex hated the Sutherland laird even more. He looked at Hector’s fist, clamped around her arm. She’d have yet another bruise.
Flora spoke first. “Hector, let her go. Her hands are bound, and she’s surrounded by a dozen Munro warriors. She can’t escape.” She turned to her nephew. “Alex, the MacLeods are not our enemies. Whoever she is, ye can’t put a lass in the dungeons.”
Alex frowned at his aunt. “What do ye suggest? Should I offer her the best chamber, welcome her as a guest?”
Flora looked at the bedraggled lass. “That might be difficult. The, um, lasses we spoke about will begin arriving this morning. We’ve prepared all the guest chambers for them.”
Alex felt a headache starting, and he rubbed his temple.
“Alex, ye promised me ye’d follow the seanchas,” Flora murmured.
He sighed and nodded. “Aye.”
With that, Flora came forward and put her hand under Cait MacLeod’s elbow. “Now, I’ll take charge of your prisoner for the moment. She doesn’t belong among your men, or in the dungeon. I’m sure Janet can find somewhere suitable for her to sleep.”
“There’s to be a guard on her door at all times,” Alex said. He looked around at his men, every one of them exhausted and dirty. Assigning them to guard duty now would be harsh.
“Perhaps Coll can guard her,” Flora suggested.
Coll Munro had seen more than seventy winters, and most of those had been long and hard. He’d once been Alex’s grandfather’s captain of the guards, and the clan champion. He’d been a mighty oak tree of a man, clear-eyed and dangerous. Now he had only one eye left, and he was nearly toothless . . . But his men needed rest and food. There was nothing Alex could do but nod.
Flora wasted no time in leading the lass up the steps and into the keep as everyone watched. Cait MacLeod moved with an innate and fascinating grace, despite her torn gown and bedraggled condition. Alex couldn’t tear his eyes away.
“Ye’d do well to remember that she’s our enemy Alex, for all she’s bonny,” Hector said beside him. “Hold her for ransom. There’s no need to be soft with her.”
But there was. She was still a woman, and as such, she was now under his protection as much as she was his prisoner. He had no idea how she’d come to be hurt and bedraggled, or if she was telling him the truth, but there was something unusual about Cait MacLeod, something intriguing.
He heard a cry behind him before he could reply to Hector. Aggie rushed forward and took her kettle off the garron’s pack. “My kettle!” Alex was surprised by the joy in her face, the relief. She gave him a broad smile even as her tears began to fall, and she grabbed his hand and kissed it.
“Thank ye, Laird. This kettle was my mother’s. Having it back means I haven’t lost everything after all. I have one thing left, and I can start again. The Sutherlands haven’t won yet.”
He watched her hurry away, hugging her kettle, and wondered how Cait McLeod knew such a small kindness would mean so much.