Startled by this revelation—and if she were avoiding the inevitable confrontation with the laird, who could blame her?—she turned abruptly and stared up into Alaric’s eyes. He blinked then glared at her like he thought she was daft—and she was pretty sure he did think so.
“Your eyes are green, too,” she muttered.
Alaric’s scowl turned into a look of concern. “Are you sure you didn’t suffer a blow to the head you didn’t tell me about?”
“You will look at me,” Ewan roared.
She jumped and whirled around, taking an instinctive step back and landing once again against Alaric.
He muttered an expletive and hunched over, but she was too worried about Ewan to see what Alaric was cursing over.
Her courage had run out, and her determination not to feel pain, not to allow her spine to wither, promptly died a brutal death.
Her legs shook, her hands shook, and pain speared through her sides, making her gasp softly with each breath. Sweat beaded her forehead, but she wouldn’t allow herself to back down any further.
The laird was angry—at her—and for the life of her she couldn’t discern why. Shouldn’t he be grateful to her for saving his son? Not that she’d really done anything heroic, but he didn’t know that. For all he knew, she could have battled ten men on Crispen’s behalf.
It wasn’t until he stared back at her in astonishment that she realized she’d babbled her entire thought process aloud. The entire courtyard had gone silent and looked at her as if she’d pronounced a curse on all of them.
“Alaric?” she murmured, not turning away from the laird’s gaze.
“Aye, lass?”
“Will you catch me if I faint? I don’t think a fall to the ground would be good for my injuries.”
To her surprise, he grasped both of her shoulders and held her tightly. His hands trembled the slightest amount, and he made the weirdest sound. Was he laughing at her?
Ewan advanced, his astonishment replaced by that dark scowl again. Did no one in the McCabe clan ever smile?
“Nay, we don’t,” Alaric said in amusement.
She snapped her lips shut, determined she wouldn’t say another word, and prepared herself for the laird’s censure.
Ewan stopped a single foot in front of her, forcing her to crane her neck upward to meet his stare. It was hard to be brave when she was sandwiched between two hulking warriors, but her pride wouldn’t allow her to throw herself at his feet and beg for mercy. Even if she currently thought it was the best idea. Nay, she’d faced down Duncan Cameron and survived. This warrior was bigger and meaner, and he could probably squash her like a bug, but she wouldn’t die like a coward. She wouldn’t die at all if she had anything to say about it.
“You will tell me who you are, why you’re wearing Duncan Cameron’s colors, and how the hell my son came into your possession.”
She shook her head, backed up against Alaric, only to hear him curse again as she stepped all over his feet, and then quickly stepped forward again, remembering, belatedly, her vow to be courageous.
Ewan frowned even harder, if that was possible. “You defy me?”
There was a note of incredulity in his voice that she might find amusing if she weren’t bathed in pain and about to shake right out of the gown that offended the laird so.
Her stomach boiled, and she prayed she wouldn’t throw up on his boots. They weren’t new and shiny like Duncan’s, but somehow she thought he’d take great offense anyway.
“I don’t defy you, Laird,” she said in an even voice that made her proud.
“Then give me the information I seek. And do it now,” he added in a deadly soft voice.
“I …”
Her voice cracked like ice, and she swallowed back the nausea that rose in her throat.
She was saved by Crispen, who could obviously stand still no longer. He burst forward, inserting himself between her and his father, and wrapped his arms around her legs, burying his face in her bruised abdomen.
A low moan escaped her, and she reflexively put her arms around Crispen to pull him away from her ribs. She would have slithered straight to the ground if not for Alaric grasping her arms to steady her again.
Crispen turned in her grasp and stared up at his father who looked to be battling extreme shock and burning impatience.
“Leave her alone!” Crispen exclaimed. “She’s hurt, and I promised you’d protect her, Papa. I promised. A McCabe never breaks his word. You told me.”
Ewan looked down at his son in astonishment, his mouth working up and down as the veins in his neck bulged.
“The lad is right, Ewan. The lass is sorely in need of a bed. A hot bath wouldn’t be remiss.”
Surprised by Alaric’s support, but more grateful than she could possibly express, she chanced another look at the laird only to see him gape incredulously at Alaric.
“Bed? Bath? My son has been returned to me by a woman wearing the colors of a man I loathe more than life, and all anyone can suggest is that I give her a bath and a bed?”
The laird looked precariously close to exploding. She stepped back, and this time, Alaric accommodated her by moving aside so she could put distance between her and Ewan.
“She did save his life,” Alaric said evenly.
“She took a beating for me,” Crispen shouted.
Ewan’s expression wavered, and he stared again at her as if trying to see for himself the extent of her injuries. He looked torn, as if he really wanted to demand that she cooperate, but with both Crispen and Alaric staring expectantly at him, he snapped his lips shut and took a step back himself.