“Now that I’m not blind, I can see your lies clearly.”
“You saw better when you were blind,” she said, giving a frustrated groan and turning away from him.
“How you must have laughed at me,” he said with a mixture of anger and sorrow.
She swiveled around, her long blond hair bouncing wildly to fall in riotous waves around her face. “Hope would never laugh at you.”
“Stop!” he yelled again. “There is no Hope. There never has been.”
She held her head high. “You’re right; there’s never been any hope.”
“Finally, you speak the truth.”
She turned away from him again; though this time she went to the table and began preparations for a stew.
“We’re not finished discussing this,” he said.
“I am.”
“I want to know more,” he insisted.
“There’s no more to tell.” She continued cutting wild onions and potatoes. “Besides, it changes nothing. My fate had already been sealed just by being Mordrac’s daughter.”
“This makes your fate all the more justifiable.”
She laughed. “So you tell me that I am to die because I lied?”
He glared at her. “You’ve done much more.”
“What have I done?” she demanded.
Her query set hard over him. What did she actually do? She had not accompanied her father into battle, and she had raised no sword against the Sinclares. Were her crimes, as she said, being the daughter of Mordrac and lying about Hope?
He didn’t care for what such a conclusion meant. She couldn’t very well be put to death for minor matters, and his brother Cavan would agree. She should be punished, though was it his pride that called for justice?
“We will let the Sinclare laird decide your fate,” he said, knowing it was the only reasonable decision to make though he didn’t feel like being reasonable.
“I saw only hate for me in your brother’s eyes,” she said.
“Perhaps, but Cavan will judge fairly. You have my word.”
“Why should I trust you?” she asked.
“What choice do you have?”
She nodded slowly. “And if Cavan judges me innocent, I will be free to leave, free of the Sinclares?”
“Yes, you’ll be free.”
“Then I will go willingly with you,” she said. “The snow has stopped over a full day now, and the skies are clearing. If this continues, we should be able to leave in a few days. So you had best rest.”
He answered by going to the bed and stretching out. He had grieved once when he had learned of Hope’s death, but he refused to grieve over a love that was never real. He much preferred anger. It churned in his gut, and he knew that, by the time it reached his heart, he would again hate Carissa as much as he had loved Hope.
When Carissa heard a light snore coming from the bed, she quietly slipped her cloak on and sneaked out the door. She made her way through the snow, the air feeling more chilled than it had that morning.
Dykar had made his arrival known to her yesterday when she had gone outside to retrieve ice from the water barrel. She had heard him approach, though most people probably would not have detected his light step. She, however, could always tell when he was about. It was almost as if she sensed him, and she had turned with a flourish to greet him.
He had come to rescue her and grown annoyed and frustrated when she refused to leave until Ronan was well. He had made it clear he believed the Highlander didn’t need her concern or care. He certainly wouldn’t give it back to her.
Dykar was not going to be happy when he learned of the recent turn of events, but knowing him as well as she did, she assumed he would understand.
It wasn’t long before she came upon a makeshift lean-to with a campfire roaring in front of it. She signaled to the two men to remain where they sat, and when she was close, she hunched down and warmed her outstretched hands by the fire.
“Are you ready to leave?”
Carissa smiled at Dykar. “Ever so patient.”
“You know me well,” he said, and stood.
He was an inch or so taller than Ronan, with long auburn hair and dark eyes that almost matched his hair. He was broad and heavy with muscles, and his stern expression made him appear more formidable, when actually he truly was a thoughtful and good-natured man.
Though the man who remained seated was more strikingly handsome than most men, Septimus was an enigma to Carissa. He appeared too handsome, too knowledgeable, and too aristocratic to have joined the mercenaries.
But he had, and she still wondered why.
“You are like a brother,” she said, staring up at Dykar. “And a sister would know her brother.”