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There was a traitor in the castle, and they were searching for the secret tunnel.

Someone wanted to kill him.

The only person he knew about who would want all those things was his dear wife.

Chapter 11

Amy could actually see the broad muscles on Craig’s back stiffen as he talked to the kid in the corner. Craig turned to her, his eyes dark. His grimace of fury made her stomach flip. He walked right to her—his expression would make the devil himself pale in fear.

Her feet froze. Her pulse skyrocketed. Her lungs contracted. The walls were closing in on her like they had that night long ago, when her dad had been coming at her just like Craig, furious and powerful. And there was nowhere to go.

And something bad was about to happen.

He grabbed her by the upper arm and tugged her after him amid the hoots and wolf-howls of the men. He led her away from the great hall, out into the freezing night, with gentle snow falling. The mud of the courtyard had frozen and was hard underfoot. Snow was turning the blackness into a gray blanket.

The hum of voices seeped from the great hall, but otherwise, it was quiet.

So quiet, she could hear her own breath rushing in and out.

“Where are you pulling me to like a goat?” she growled.

“I must have a word with ye, wife dearest. Alone. In our bedchamber.”

He opened the door to the Comyn Tower—the air was warm from the torches on the wall.

“Our bedchamber?” Amy said.

He began climbing the curved stairs and pulled her after him.

“Why of course, our bedchamber. We are marrit, or did ye already forget?”

They passed the door to the lord’s private hall on the first floor and continued climbing.

“I don’t think I’ll ever forget.”

“Good.” He opened the door on the second floor. It was pleasantly warm in the bedroom—the fireplace burned, and the room looked homey. Suddenly, the bed took up all the space in the room.

He closed the door and turned to her.

“Good that ye remember, dear.” He took a step towards her, and there was such dark promise in his eyes, that she stepped back. “Because this”—he held a small paper in front of him—“suggests that ye might have forgotten.”

“What’s that?” Amy said.

“Oh. Nothing much. Just yer regrets ye sent to yer father that ye didna kill me yet.”

Amy shook her head. “Excuse me?”

He took several slow steps towards her and stopped so close she could feel the heat of his body, could smell him—all manly and delicious—could see the vein in his neck throbbing.

“Ye want to kill me,” he said. “Don’t ye, Amy? ’Tis the perfect opportunity for yer clan. Ye’re close to me.”

Amy’s mouth was suddenly dry. “I don’t want to kill you, Craig,” she said, careful not to let the shaking in her fingers slip into her voice.

“Hm.”

In one swift movement, he reached for his dagger and held it out, handle to her. Flames from the fireplace were reflected in the long, sharp blade.

“We might as well see, shall we?” he said.