Page 136 of Promised to the Forbidden Laird

“Are ye hurt?”

“Nae.”

His gaze moved to the blood.

“Not mine,” she said quickly.

He did not believe reassurance until he confirmed it for himself. His hands moved over her shoulders, her arms, the sides of her face. He saw the reddened skin beneath her jaw where Cormac’s dagger had been pressed. Blood marked her lower lip. Her wrist was already bruising where the attacker had held her.

Roy’s anger returned so swiftly that for one impossible moment he forgot Cormac was dead.

Donaldina caught his hand. “Roy.”

He looked at her.

“I am here.”

The words tumbled out beneath his anger. He knew men watched. He knew a laird should display more dignity in front of two clans and half the visiting Highlands. He could not bring himself to care.

Roy pulled her close without hesitation. For a moment, the courtyard, the fire, and the voices faded away. Donaldina’s forehead pressed against his chest. Roy cupped the back of her head, feeling the heather intertwined in her loosened hair.

She was alive.

Cormac was dead.

The certainty should have brought peace. Instead, Roy felt the delayed terror of how narrowly he had almost lost her again. He remembered the blade against her throat, the blood appearing beneath its edge and the six paces between them that had seemed wider than any battlefield he had crossed.

His hold tightened. Donaldina’s arms closed around his waist. Her cheek pressed against his coat near his heart, and Roy wondered whether she could feel how violently it beat.

After several breaths, she lifted her face.

“The attackers?” she asked.

“Captured or driven north.”

“The gates?”

“Secured.”

“The guests?”

“Being accounted for.”

“The fires?”

“Nearly contained.”

Donaldina nodded. The questions appeared to restore something within her. With each answer, she gathered herself again, not hiding the fear, but placing duty around it until she could stand beneath its weight. Roy understood then that this, too, was survival. Not merely breathing after danger passed, but turning back toward the work that remained.

Her gaze dropped to his shoulder. “Ye’re bleeding.”

“It is shallow.”

“That is what men say when they mean painful.”

Roy almost smiled. The expression did not fully form, but Donaldina saw the attempt. Her fingers tightened briefly in the torn cloth of his coat.

Father Maol emerged from the hall with one hand pressed to the bruise forming beneath his jaw. His robes were torn near the collar, and soot streaked the white of his hair. A younger priest attempted to support him, but Father Maol shook off the assistance with injured dignity.