Taming a Wild Scot: A Claimed by the Highlander Novel Read Online Free PDF

bait the bear. Who knew what he was capable of? “That night. While escaping a castle guard.”
    A grimace flitted over his face. “Filthy wretch.”
    She studied him with curiosity. Was that a hint of chivalrous anger in his eyes? Or was her fertile imagination seeing something that was not there? “I survived. That alone is a miracle, I’d say.”
    “Indeed.” His expression cooled. “Why were you tossed in the oubliette? What crime did you commit?”
    “Should you not have asked that question
before
you freed me?”
    He said nothing, just continued to stare at her with an unforgiving look.
    Ana relented. “I was accused of murdering the earl of Lochurkie.”
    “A very serious charge.”
    “Aye.”
    His eyebrows lifted. “The man had six stone on you. How would a waif like you bring down John Grant?”
    “Poison.”
    His gaze slid to the sheaves of dried herbs on the wall. “Are you recounting the truth? Did you really kill the earl?”
    Ana had no desire to be tainted by even the slightest suggestion that she would take a life. “No, I did not. But someone did.”
    “With poison.”
    “Aye.”
    A dark look stole over his face. “What were the manifestations of this poison?”
    “Wide eyes, delirium, rapid heartbeat, raspy breathing, and convulsions.”
    He pinned her gaze. “Can you name the cause?”
    “Dwale, or some infusion that included it, most likely. It’s a well-known poison, and there are curatives. Had I been permitted to continue tending the earl, he might not have died. Instead, because I had recently paid a visit to the apothecary, I was dragged to the dungeon at the first rumblings of poison.” No need to mention the accusations of witchcraft.
    “I’ve heard that dwale is an easy way to poison a group of people—all who sample a specific dish, for example.”
    The bitter cast of his words gave her pause. An example? Or a piece of personal history? “Perhaps,” she said softly. “’Tis rumored that King Duncan used it to poison an army of invading Danes. Ground to a fine powder, it will dissolve well in ale or whisky . . . or even children’s mead.”
    He said nothing, but the muscles of his jaw tightened.
    “I’ve tried many a time to reason out Lord Lochurkie’s murderer,” she said. “Only three people tended him in those last hours before he took grave—myself, his sister, Isabail, and his personal attendant, Daniel—and I cannot believe any of us were eager to see his end. He was a good man.”
    Her companion snorted. “A good man? Come now. Does one good man brutally torture another?”
    Ah, yes.
The other prisoner he’d given aid to that night.
MacCurran.
“I cannot speak to why he would have tormented your friend, but I can tell you that the John Grant I came to know would never have done such a thing without righteous cause.”
    “Then your judgment is sorely lacking,” he snapped. “My friend did nothing to earn such abuse. He was dragged to Lochurkie’s dungeon, accused of a crime he did not commit, and beaten near to death when he would not confess.”
    Ana stiffened. “Perhaps there was some misunderstanding.”
    “The events were deliberate, I assure you.”
    “How can you know that? Grant is dead. He cannot speak to his deeds.”
    He favored her with a hard stare. “Because my friend is alive to tell the tale. No thanks to Lochurkie.”
    “But—”
    “Enough,” he said, throwing up his hands. “Defend the man further at risk to your life.”
    She bit her lip. After a year spent in Lochurkie, tending the lord and his family on numerous occasions, she was confident in her assessment of John Grant. But pursuing that hare would be unwise. All foolish daydreams aside, her rescuer was clearly a dangerous man.
    Ana’s hand slid to the stag-antler knife she kept on her belt.
His
knife, given to her in kindness. Her fingers tightened on the hilt. Which only proved that even a blackguard could be generous on occasion.
    “No doubt my faith was