by Rowan Keats
Nausea rolled in Isabail’s belly. Dunstoras was home to the MacCurrans—the clan whose chief had robbed the king and murdered her brother. The same chief who had escaped Lochurkie’s dungeon and absconded to parts unknown. If the man seated across the fire was Aiden MacCurran, she was in far more dire straits than she thought. A murderous traitor to the Crown would hardly follow the unwritten rules of hostage taking.
She lay stiff and silent, unable to sleep.
MacCurran deserved to pay for his crimes. John had been a fine man and a good earl. Far more noble and worthy than her father had been. If only she could escape to the hunt bothy, she could ensure MacCurran was brought to justice. From the standing stone, she could find her way to the hut with ease—she and John had stopped there a dozen times over the years.
The challenge was getting away from MacCurran and his men. It might be possible for one of the women to sneak away, but two? Unlikely. Yet she could hardly leave Muirne behind. No, if an escape was to be made, it would be both of them or neither of them.
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