Attempting to right herself, the haziness that crowded her mind lingered and she fell flat against him once more. He sighed and scooped her into his arms, and she let out a squeal of protest. With quick strides, he navigated the few steps leading up to the keep and the short wooden bridge creaked and thudded as he carried her across it.
“Morgann, I am no sack of grain. Ye cannae cart me about so.”
He ignored her, his hold firm, jaw set tight. She dragged her gaze around as a familiar voice called out a greeting.
Morgann’s stepmother, Margot, approached, a slender eyebrow arched as she eyed Alana. Unease pricked across her and she clutched at Morgann’s shirt, knowing it was foolish to seek comfort from him but doing it anyway. Margot stalked across the Great Hall, footsteps echoing in the vast space. A fire pit crackled in the middle of the room and massive black chandeliers creaked lightly as a breeze blew through the open shutters of the hall.
“What in the Lord’s name are ye doing, Morgann?” the lady demanded as she approached.
Still as unerringly beautiful as Alana remembered, Margot cast cool grey eyes over her, mouth tight. The woman reminded Alana of a raven. Sleek black hair, darker than Morgann’s, white skin and refined, noble looks. But those looks hid something sinister, she was sure of it. She’d never seen proof of it but the woman always sent chills through her.
Alana shot Morgann an imploring look. “Morgann, put me down. ‘Tis most unbecoming.”
“Ach, if I put ye down, ye’ll fall down.”
“Then put me somewhere safe. ‘Tis yer fault.”
Margot’s eyes narrowed. “Sweet Mary, is that the Dunleith lass?”
Morgann stiffened but kept his hold on Alana. “Aye, this is Alana. She is injured and I have taken her into my care.”
Margot crossed her arms across her chest. “What are ye thinking of, bringing the daughter of yer enemy into my keep? She cannae stay.”
Feeling ridiculous draped across Morgann’s arms, Alana held her chin high, determined to retain even the smallest amount of dignity as she watched their exchange. The undercurrent of aggression on both sides made her wish the ground would swallow her up.
“She can stay and she will stay in my keep, and ye’ll have naught to say in the matter.”
“Yer keep?” Margot asked, a sly smile slipping across her face. “Yer father isnae dead yet.”
“Nay, not yet. A disappointment to ye no doubt, Mother.”
With that he spun on his heels, calling back to her over his shoulder. “Be sure to have some clean garments and a bath sent up.”
Shadows swallowed them as he stepped into the stairwell and easily carried her up the winding steps. His lurching movements forced her to hold on tightly and she buried her face against his chest as the dizziness in her head grew stronger.
By the time they reached the top, nausea welled in her stomach. Using a foot to press open the door, Morgann carried her into the chamber. She could hardly bring herself to study her surroundings as he placed her onto a red canopied bed.
He stood over her for a moment, unease etched into his features as he shifted on his feet.
“Ye need not look at me so, Morgann,” she grumbled. “I’ve no intention of dying on ye. Though…” her stomach lurched, “I believe I may be sick.”
His eyes went wide and he grabbed a chamber pot and thrust it in front of her as she retched. Awkwardly patting her back, he eased her hair from her face as her stomach emptied its contents into the bowl.
When she had nothing left, he discarded the pot to one side and poured her a drink. Alana took it gratefully, the tang of ale cutting through the taste of bile.
“Ye should never have run from me,” he scolded.
“And what did ye expect me to do? Offer myself up to ye?”
He gave a wry laugh. “Nay, I didnae expect that. I didnae expect much of what ye did.”
She scowled. Why was he speaking in riddles? The image of her entwined with him on the hills swamped her again. Had that really happened? Was that what he was talking about?
“If yer done pretending to care for my welfare, will ye no’ leave me in peace? No doubt yer father will have something to say about my capture. Mayhap he has more sense than ye and will send me home.”
“My father will have little to say on the matter. He is unwell. All duties at Glencolum are in my hands so yer pleading will fall on deaf ears.”
“Oh.” She sagged against the bed. “I didnae know yer father was ill.”
His expression twisted into a brief moment of anguish, quickly replaced with a cooler one. “Aye, well ‘tis nae something we want our enemies knowing.”
“Ye see me as yer enemy?”