Somewhere in the faulty rafters an owl, or other roosting bird perhaps, flapped its wings loudly, and she held her cloak around her more tightly. She shivered and closed her eyes, only to open them again at the noise. The scrape of a boot.
Heart in her throat, she reached for her dagger, but cowered silently in the corner, hoping whoever was outside would pass. Her heart stilled and she swallowed against a throat as dry as winter leaves. Fear tasted like metal in her mouth as she saw him enter, a big figure, dark and tall, with wide shoulders and long legs.
Despite the cold, her hands began to sweat as her fingers curled over the hilt of her knife. She hardly dared breathe and stared in awe as he dropped his sword on dirt that had once been the floor. Biting her lip, she watched him take something from a pouch, then leave. Her stomach rumbled at the thought of food, and yet she didn’t move. Whatever was in the pouch would have to stay there for a while.
He returned with sticks, and her heart dropped clear to her knees. He was going to build a fire! Though she longed for the warmth of flames, she would be discovered in the glow of the blaze. For all she knew, this man could be one of the men who had chased her down, or if not, the light from the fire would attract her enemies.
She had to escape or stop him.
He placed the bundle of sticks in the hearth, then worked with his flint.
Sorcha barely dared breathe as she slowly advanced. His back was to her, and the distance was not great, and he seemed absorbed in his task, so she stepped forward, her dagger raised, her eyes centered on the back of his neck. She’d grab him there, fling herself onto his shoulders, and lay her blade at his throat. If h
e valued his life, he wouldn’t dare move. She could then tie him, rob him of whatever food he had with him, steal his horse, and be off.
One more step. She sprang, and at that moment he turned, grabbing her around the middle with one arm and capturing her upraised wrist with the other. He shook her wrist and the dagger flew into a pile of rubble.
“Oof!”
“Damn you to hell,” he roared, and she nearly laughed aloud as she recognized his booming voice.
“Lord Hagan?”
“Bloody Christ. Sorcha?” Was there relief and joy in his voice? “By the gods, I found you!” His arms tightened possessively around her, and suddenly his lips captured hers. He kissed her wildly, as if he couldn’t stop, and she clung to him, refusing to give way to the hot tears of relief that burned against her eyelids. Hot, hungry, breathless kisses that didn’t stop. The warmth of his body invaded hers and she sagged against him.
His voice was rough. “I thought I’d never see you again.”
“I guess, m’lord, you’re not that lucky.”
He snorted a laugh, but his arms didn’t loosen, and when he pressed his lips to her grimy forehead, she wanted to melt inside, so gentle was the kiss. “Tonight I feel as if the fates have cast good fortune to me. I thought you might be dead.”
She shuddered thinking how close he was to the truth. Her teeth chattered and he held her tight again. “You must tell me what has happened.” Then, as if suddenly realizing that she was chilled to the bone, he said, “Here, talk while I build a fire.”
Relieved, she settled on one of the stones that had fallen from the walls and told him of the attack.
“I warned you not to leave the castle,” he said with a sigh. “Yet you disobeyed me, turned the stableboy against me, stole my horses with the intention of running back to Prydd and starting a damned war.”
“I do not think—”
“ ’Tis the problem. Sometimes you act before you think.” He rubbed the flint, frowning deeply as he tried to start a spark.
“You were keeping me prisoner.”
“I was only waiting until I’d talked with Tadd.”
“Which might have been a long while.” Finally a spark sizzled and caught on some dry moss. Carefully he set the burning ember atop some twigs in the fire.
“You needs learn to be patient,” he reprimanded as the flames crackled against the dry wood. Golden light reflected on the decaying walls.
“Think you not that our fire will attract the huntsmen?”
“ ’Tis too late. They have already made their own camp,” he said. “Asides, no one comes here. ’Tis rumored to be haunted.”
“By Tullia?”
“Aye.”
“But you are not afraid?”