She pressed her own lips together to ensure no more words escaped her. This was horrid. But then again, if she was going to convince Brodee she was mad, her inability to control her inner thoughts and odd, ill-timed nervous giggling might very well do the trick. The Slayer—No, Brodee—heaven above, she was unsure how to think of this man—held his hand out to her, and she grasped it. Strong, warm, calloused fingers closed around hers, and then he pulled her up as if she were a feather.
She fully expected him to release her, but instead, he brought their interlocked hands between them and faced her. “Were ye injured in yer fall?”
The concern glittering in his eyes and strumming through his voice sucked the air from her lungs. Was this a wishful imagining? She squeezed her eyes shut, sure she must be seeing what she wanted to, and when she opened them again, he was looking at her with a mixture of pity and wariness. This man could not be what people said he was. That didn’t mean he couldn’t be other things, things that made one cower in his presence, but a coldblooded murderer? No.
“Were ye injured in yer fall?” he asked again, slower this time, as if he spoke to a person who was cracked.
She had to bite the inside of her cheek not to smile at how well her pretense seemed to be going. “Nay.”
“Good. Where is William?”
Patience winced. She’d told the man she’d seen Silas’s ghost in the solar as he dragged her past it on the journey to the great hall, and when he’d stepped inside, she’d locked him in. “I only wanted a cape to cover myself,” she said.
“Where is he?” Brodee demanded, his tone turning hard.
“I’m here,” William said, his voice coming from behind Patience. She whirled around to find the man standing in the doorway of the great hall. His gaze narrowed on her. “Ghost, indeed.”
She notched her chin up. “I could nae verra well allow ye to drag me in here in naught but my léine. ’Tis indecent.”
“Will, explain,” Brodee said, the command lashing the air.
“The lass said she saw a ghost, and—”
“See there!” someone called out. “She practices black magic if she sees ghosts!”
“Nay!” Patience cried out. She moved to flee, but Brodee shot his hand out and grabbed her. The bottoms of her feet had just healed from Father Bisby’s latest “soul cleansing.” The man enjoyed delivering physical pain, that much was for certain. And he seemed to have an endless imagination in regard to ways to drive the Devil from her. Funny, they all involved watching her writhe in excruciating pain. “Let me go,” she hissed and tried to twist away.
Brodee’s fingers curled around her arm, the grip a steel vise she knew she’d not escape, which made her only try harder. As she maneuvered her arm in an attempt to break free, he said, “Ye, Alfred, fetch this Father Bisby. Now I will decide why my betrothed is thought to beban-druidh.”
Alfred gave her a mocking smile as he rushed to do Brodee’s bidding. William, on the other hand, frowned. “Brodee. I dunnae ken, the lass—”
Brodee simply shook his head at William, and much to her dismay, the man fell silent.
“Go fetch Father Murdock, William. He’s in the kitchens with the wine.” William smirked at that. Apparently this Father Murdock had a known proclivity for wine. “Apprise him of what has occurred, and tell him that after I have dealt with this, he will perform his duties, and I expect him to do so without slurring a single word.”
William gave a brief nod as his eyes alighted on her for a brief moment, but she could not read the man’s emotions. He nodded to Brodee and left the room.
Excited chatter hummed through the great hall. Thanks to Silas, none here would stand up for her. None here liked her.
Oh God. What duties does the new priest perform? Is he like Father Bisby? I think I’d rather die than face more fire and water.
Brodee jerked his head toward her, and his blue gaze captured hers. His eyes seemed to probe to her very soul as he stood there staring at her. “Be calm,” he ordered.
Calm?
He nodded at the thought she’d apparently voiced again.
“We should burn her!” one of the men shouted, capturing her attention. Her blood roared in her ears as she skimmed the crowd.
“Or drown her!” another man yelled.
Her heart exploded, and she looked back at Brodee. She jerked on her arm as he seemed to be assessing her.
“Be still,” he said, the words soft, spoken only for her.
“Please,” she said, unable to keep the rising hysteria from her voice. “I’m naeban-druidh, I vow it.”
“Laird, we can tie her to a chair so ye dunnae have to hold her,” someone suggested.
