Page 118 of Enchantment of a Highlander

Scared.

Saraid entered then, pulling her father’s attention toward the front of the room, along with the gaze of every other person. Her hair was brushed smooth and her face was bright in a manner suggesting she’d never been sick a day in her life, let alone with belladonna poisoning only a few hours prior.

She wore a silk dress so brilliantly red it reminded Alec of glistening blood.

Though all stared at her as she entered, she kept her gaze fixed on him.

“I see ye’re much recovered,” Alec said when Saraid approached the table. Keeping the bitterness from his tone took serious effort.

She cast him a charming smile. “Indeed. She must not have given me enough to cause serious harm, just enough to have distracted me so she could escape.”

Her eyes widened to an innocent expression and she regarded her father with the look of a child who’d done something bad.

Like let his prized prisoner slip through her fingers.

And suddenly Alec understood.

Saraid hadn’t known of his affair with Celia and wanted to make him question her integrity. Certainly she’d not become sympathetic to Celia’s plight.

Celia had outwitted Saraid, and to keep her father from finding out, Saraid had outwitted him.

“Where’s the witch?” Saraid asked with a toss of her head. “Why is she not here on display for us?”

Fear curled icy cold in Alec’s heart.

“I’ll no have her casting a curse in this hall,” MacDougall said before tearing off a bite of bread.

“But father, she poisoned me.” Saraid’s pout deepened.

Alec reassessed the room.

It was only a matter of time before Saraid convinced her father to bring Celia out to view and then Alec might not get another chance.

A good number of guards remained in the hall, most staggering with drink.

The noises around them were loud with banter and celebration, for when a laird was pleased, so too were his men.

The situation was not ideal for Alec to rescue Celia, but if Saraid got her way and had Celia brought to the hall, there would be no rescuing her.

Ever.

Alec drew in a deep, steadying breath.

He got to his feet and let exhaustion pull his balance slightly off in an effort to appear drunk.

MacDougall turned and looked up at him questioningly. “Going so soon, MacLean?”

Alec shrugged. “Tired.”

MacDougall snorted. “Drunk, more like.” He swiped his hand through the air in a show of dismissal. “Off with ye then—ye’ve earned a good rest.”

Alec nodded once to the other laird and Saraid before winding his way among the revelers from the great hall.

The time had come to save Celia.

Chapter Thirty-Six

The weight of Alec’s sword was reassuring against his back. Solid, thick, Scottish-forged steel, ready to taste the blood of his enemy and save the woman he loved.