Pride of the Clan by Anna Markland Page A

assassin’s sword in the dirt. He dismounted briefly to retrieve it. This cursed weapon had slain a king. What to do with it wasn’t his decision to make. He would deliver it to the Queen.
    He handed his prisoner over to Logan who was coming out of the stables, several pieces of rope in his hands.
    He dismounted, slipped into the stable, climbed the rickety wooden ladder to the hayloft and secreted Robert’s sword under a mound of hay.

    ~~~
    Margaret danced around in the turret room like a child at Yuletide festivities, oblivious to the discomfort of her lacerated hands. All would be well. Robert Stewart had been captured. He would surely swear she’d had no involvement in the plot. It was likely he’d forgotten his betrothed far away in Oban.
    But would anyone believe him? He’d murdered a king. He was a man without honor, a pariah.
    However, Robert wasn’t her concern at the moment. Rheade may have been injured. Stewart hadn’t surrendered without a fight and only God knew what had transpired in the Hall below.
    She rushed out to the landing, lifted her skirts and nigh on skipped down the steps. She paused on reaching the Hall to catch her breath, daunted by the prospect of having to pick her way through numerous bloodied bodies to get to the door. Most of the men lay as still as death, but some moaned in pain.
    She heard Rheade’s voice outside, issuing commands. She dithered, afraid one of the injured might grab her as she passed. Braden's favorite phrase floated into her wits. “Bollocks,” she shouted, then quickly threaded her way through.
    At the door she collided with Rheade, relieved to see a smile on his handsome, if bruised face.
    “Bollocks, is it?” he teased, folding her in his embrace. “Now what’s a nice girl from Oban—”
    “Three brothers,” she reminded him before pressing her lips to his, ravenous for the taste of his saliva, desperate to breathe with him, to be certain he still lived.
    He cupped her bottom in his big hands and pressed her body to his. “I’m happy to see ye too,” he drawled when they broke apart. “As ye can no doubt tell.”
    She grinned like an idiot and traced a fingertip over a deep scratch on his swollen cheek. “Ye’re cut.”
    He took hold of her wrists. “Good grief, Margaret, you’ve spilled more blood than the rest of us put together.”
    “The window,” she said. “I broke it.”
    He chuckled. “The remains of the chamber pot lie in the bailey.”
    She ought to apologise for screaming at Robert like a common harlot, but the words stuck in her dry throat. Rheade was easing the plaid off his shoulder and unlacing the front of his léine . It fell open. Seeing a man’s bare chest wasn’t a new experience for Margaret. She’d grown up with three older brothers for goodness sake, all rugged and fit. But Rheade’s chiseled beauty was different. Her nipples went rigid at sight of his darker ones. She blinked away an urge to brush her thumbs over them. A faint dusting of golden hair underlining powerful muscles wandered its way in a fine line down his belly to disappear into the folds of his belted plaid. She should ask him what he was doing, but feared she might babble like a lunatic.
    Her puzzlement was resolved when he tore a strip off the front of his léine, then ripped it in two . He inspected her wounds. “Making sure there’s no glass in them,” he explained.
    Seemingly satisfied, he carefully wrapped her lacerated hands. She watched in stunned amazement. “There,” he said softly as he tied off the ends.
    He was too near. “Ye’ll catch cold,” she muttered, probably sounding like his mother. Then she compounded her discomfort. “Ye’ve ruined a costly léine .”  
    He shrugged. “’Tis of no matter.”
    She avoided his gaze lest she succumb to the urge to pounce on him and lick off the sweat still sheening his body. “There must be more serious injuries.”
    He kissed her fingertips, the only part of her hands not swathed