She swallowed as he walked, his shoulders tense and his head held high. He carried himself with the air of a man who had a deep-rooted inner strength. It was fascinating, but she feared it would be his undoing.
He either hadn’t noticed her or was ignoring her, so she allowed herself to unabashedly track his progress all the way to the flogging pole, remembering belatedly that Deirdre might be looking at her, judging her, but when she stole a glance at her sister, she was staring open-mouthed at the man. Maggie found herself relieved that she was not the only one the stranger was affecting.
When they reached the pole, Baron Bellecote gave an order that Maggie could not hear, but his men immediately untied the stranger’s hands, keeping one sword pointed at him. Once his hands were untied, they motioned for him to do something, and when it became obvious he would not comply, the warrior closest to the man slashed his sword down the front of the man’s chest.
Maggie cried out, and Deirdre whispered, “Hush.” But it was too late. Maggie had drawn the baron’s attention, as well as the stranger’s.
Even from a distance, the intensity of his gaze seared her and more of her mother’s words came to her:A warm gaze means a warm heart, Maggie May. Her mother used to call her that because Maggie was always askingMay I?and not particularly caring if the answer was no. Mother had called her “gloriously headstrong,” which Yearger and Deirdre had told her had not actually been a compliment.
The stranger’s dark eyebrows rose as his focus seemed to lock on her and delve into her.
“Lady Margaret,” the baron said, “come closer and watch as we flog the prisoner.”
Maggie wanted to decline, but as it was her fault he was going to be flogged, she deserved the horror of having to watch. At first, her feet did not want to move, but then Deirdre nudged her, and she reluctantly followed her sister across the courtyard. When she was standing so near the stranger that she could smell the scent of the sea, blood, and sweat that clung to him, she began fidgeting with her gown and her hair, a feeling of uncertainty and nervousness sweeping through her. She’d never cared what a man thought of her before, so why now? Why him? Perhaps it was the combination of his fearsome masculinity and chiseled beauty, or perhaps it was simply due to the fact that he surely must hate her for what her words had gotten him.
“McCaim,” Bellecote barked, and the man suddenly turned his gaze from her to the baron.
She jerked as if she’d just been released from a grip of steel, only realizing how entranced she’d been by him once he had broken their eye contact. So he was a McCaim? She knew the McCaims, of course. They were a strong clan in the Highlands, whose main holding was in Oban by the sea. Except he certainly didn’t sound Scottish. Blood seeped through the man’s shirt where he’d been cut, and her healer instincts, as well as basic human kindness, were screaming at her to aid him.
“Take your frock the rest of the way off or I’ll have my man cut it off you,” Bellecote ordered. “And the next cut will not be a mere flesh wound.”
McCaim started to comply, though by his jerky movements, she could tell he was not happy about it. He was still looking toward the baron so she could not see his face, but she imagined his eyes were filled with rage. He paused in his movements and asked, “Are you afraid to face me man-to-man?”
Maggie held her breath in hopes that Baron Bellecote would accept McCaim’s challenge, as she felt certain he would handily defeat the baron, given the stranger’s much larger size.
“Afraid?” Baron Bellecote repeated, amusement lacing the word. “No. But you are no man. You are the Devil’s servant. Once you have been cleansed, I’ll be happy to fight you with swords or fists, as it pleases you. Now rid yourself of the frock so my betrothed may see your fear, as she surely feared you when you dared lay hands on her.”
“Nay,” Maggie burst out, which brought both the baron and McCaim’s eyes to her. Baron Bellecote looked livid, but whatever McCaim felt about her outburst, she could not tell. His face was expressionless, as if he’d locked all his emotions away.
“No?” the baron said, his tone incensed.
“Nay,” she repeated. “He was trying to save me from the snake, just as he told ye. He did nae scare me, nor hurt me.”
“My lord,” Deirdre spoke up, grasping Maggie by the wrist and giving her a squeeze, “she knows nae her own mind. He has likely set a spell upon her.”
“Nay!” Maggie burst out again, unable to let that lie stand, no matter the cost. “He—”
“You’re right,” Baron Bellecote said, looking at Deirdre. “Lady Margaret has been bewitched.” Baron Bellecote’s turned his eyes to her, and they cut into her like shards of ice. “I fear I’ll have to cleanse her next.”
“You bastard!” McCaim roared. He started to lunge at the baron, but one of the guards brought his sword to the man’s throat and he stilled.
“Shall I slit it, my lord?” the guard asked.
“Nay,” Deirdre spoke up, surprising not only Maggie but the baron, too, by his raised eyebrows. “My lord, I’m certain McCaim could be useful to ye, aye? The flogging and the cleansing should surely suffice to put the man on the right course again.”
Maggie felt a rush of relief at her sister’s quick wits.
“You’re certain, are you?” The baron raised a brow at her.
“Verra,” Deirdre replied, and astonishingly, that seemed to satisfy the man.
He nodded, then addressed his guards once more. “Rip off the frock, and tie him to the pole, chest out.”
McCaim’s gaze was locked on the baron now, and for one breath, his mask slipped and murderous rage shone like honed steel in his stormy-gray eyes, but when they tore away his clothing, her attention was jerked to his chest. Shock rippled through her, along with curiosity and an odd tension that seemed to make her blood rush faster. His stomach was made of sinewy muscle, which seemed to dip from one slab to the next with shadows that begged to be explored. His chest was covered with strange black and blue designs, almost like paintings. No, not almost, she decided on closer inspection. The image was definitely like a painting. As her eyes surveyed him, she noticed that the color appeared to have been purposely stained in other places, too. It was on his shoulder and his forearm, running almost all the way down to his left wrist. It looked like swirls and lightning—possibly a storm? She had never seen the likes of it before.
“He’s a heathen,” Deirdre muttered.
McCaim’s gaze came to Maggie’s sister, and to her astonishment, an amused smile tugged at his lips. “I’m not a heathen, I assure you. I’m a—” He stopped speaking and frowned fiercely. “I’m a Scot,” he finished.
