timely interruption. The dark-haired warrior with green eyes was even more handsome up close—despite the scar that ran along his cheekbone—but he did not affect her in the same way that the other warrior did. He frightened her. She sensed a blackness in him that ran deep.
The greatest swordsman in the Isles, they said about Tor MacLeod. A long shiver ran through her as she recalled the intensity of MacLeod’s gaze. Like her father, he was probably furious with her for interfering in his fight.
Why
had
he stopped?
It was just the kind of thing Lancelot would do for Guinevere. She smiled at the ridiculousness of the comparison. This fearsome half-Norse, half-Gael,
Gall-Gaedhil
warlord was nothing like her Lancelot.
She thought of Lancelot atop his horse, his striking ice blue eyes, handsome features, and golden hair shining inthe sun like some gorgeous sun god…She bit her lip. Actually, the MacLeod chief fit her image quite well, except that he was much taller and more heavily muscled than she’d imagined Lancelot.
Lancelot would lose
.
She put her hand over her mouth, as if the unbidden thought might somehow emerge from between her lips. It was practically heresy. Lancelot had been the greatest knight in Christendom. There was no comparison.
Or was there? What if it
had
been chivalrous instinct that caused the MacLeod chief to spare the other man’s life? Had he stopped because of her?
She shook her head. There she went again, letting herself get carried away. Did a superficial resemblance to the knight of her dreams make her forget the cold ferocity in his glacial gaze? He’d looked at her for only an instant and his expression had never changed. She would not find kindness or chivalry from an Island warlord.
She trembled a little just thinking about it. Good gracious, she’d be terrified to say two words to him!
Stepping off the long causeway, she was relieved to have almost reached her destination. Christina didn’t like being out alone in the dark. What might be an everyday occurrence for a servant was a rarity for a lady.
She was about ten feet from the forestairs that led up to the entry to the castle when she heard the sound of voices above her. She glanced up and felt her heart slam to a sudden stop.
Father!
With MacDonald and at least a half dozen other men. They stepped out of the keep and started down the stairs.
What can I say? How can I explain?
Knowing she was only moments from disaster, she looked around for somewhere to hide. With only a split second to react, Christina did the only thing she could and ducked under the wooden stairs. Back plastered to the coldstone of the castle, she held completely still. Not one whisper of air escaped her lips as the men stomped down the stairs right over her head. They were laughing and joking as if they’d been drinking the entire time since the feast—which they probably had.
Her heart pounded in her ears.
Please, don’t look down
.
She dared to exhale only when the last men stepped off the stairs and the boisterous voices trailed off toward the nearby roundhouse. Forcing herself to wait until it was completely silent, she stepped out of the shadows.
Her body sighed with relief.
A moment too soon. Someone grabbed her from behind and spun her around. She gasped as her body collided with his massive chest.
“What have we here?” the man slurred, the drink as heavy in his voice as it was on his breath.
Christina looked up into the black eyes of a brutish-looking warrior who towered above her by at least a foot. A guardsman, by the looks of him. He was as big as a bear, his features thick and crude, with a thick mass of wiry black hair that spread from his head to his chin and limited neck in a seamless bushy stream. Instinctively, she recoiled, sinking deeper into the folds of her hooded cloak and keeping her face hidden in the shadows.
“Where did you come from?” he leered, revealing a chipped-off front tooth.
For a moment, Christina
The greatest swordsman in the Isles, they said about Tor MacLeod. A long shiver ran through her as she recalled the intensity of MacLeod’s gaze. Like her father, he was probably furious with her for interfering in his fight.
Why
had
he stopped?
It was just the kind of thing Lancelot would do for Guinevere. She smiled at the ridiculousness of the comparison. This fearsome half-Norse, half-Gael,
Gall-Gaedhil
warlord was nothing like her Lancelot.
She thought of Lancelot atop his horse, his striking ice blue eyes, handsome features, and golden hair shining inthe sun like some gorgeous sun god…She bit her lip. Actually, the MacLeod chief fit her image quite well, except that he was much taller and more heavily muscled than she’d imagined Lancelot.
Lancelot would lose
.
She put her hand over her mouth, as if the unbidden thought might somehow emerge from between her lips. It was practically heresy. Lancelot had been the greatest knight in Christendom. There was no comparison.
Or was there? What if it
had
been chivalrous instinct that caused the MacLeod chief to spare the other man’s life? Had he stopped because of her?
She shook her head. There she went again, letting herself get carried away. Did a superficial resemblance to the knight of her dreams make her forget the cold ferocity in his glacial gaze? He’d looked at her for only an instant and his expression had never changed. She would not find kindness or chivalry from an Island warlord.
She trembled a little just thinking about it. Good gracious, she’d be terrified to say two words to him!
Stepping off the long causeway, she was relieved to have almost reached her destination. Christina didn’t like being out alone in the dark. What might be an everyday occurrence for a servant was a rarity for a lady.
She was about ten feet from the forestairs that led up to the entry to the castle when she heard the sound of voices above her. She glanced up and felt her heart slam to a sudden stop.
Father!
With MacDonald and at least a half dozen other men. They stepped out of the keep and started down the stairs.
What can I say? How can I explain?
Knowing she was only moments from disaster, she looked around for somewhere to hide. With only a split second to react, Christina did the only thing she could and ducked under the wooden stairs. Back plastered to the coldstone of the castle, she held completely still. Not one whisper of air escaped her lips as the men stomped down the stairs right over her head. They were laughing and joking as if they’d been drinking the entire time since the feast—which they probably had.
Her heart pounded in her ears.
Please, don’t look down
.
She dared to exhale only when the last men stepped off the stairs and the boisterous voices trailed off toward the nearby roundhouse. Forcing herself to wait until it was completely silent, she stepped out of the shadows.
Her body sighed with relief.
A moment too soon. Someone grabbed her from behind and spun her around. She gasped as her body collided with his massive chest.
“What have we here?” the man slurred, the drink as heavy in his voice as it was on his breath.
Christina looked up into the black eyes of a brutish-looking warrior who towered above her by at least a foot. A guardsman, by the looks of him. He was as big as a bear, his features thick and crude, with a thick mass of wiry black hair that spread from his head to his chin and limited neck in a seamless bushy stream. Instinctively, she recoiled, sinking deeper into the folds of her hooded cloak and keeping her face hidden in the shadows.
“Where did you come from?” he leered, revealing a chipped-off front tooth.
For a moment, Christina
Similar Books
