Her presence teased him like a delicious meal ready to be devoured while her irritated fuming charged the air until it crackled. Her repeated low mutterings, indiscernible as a witch’s chant, hissed through the shadows. The chains of her shackles softly clinked the entire time.
He prided himself on his powerful restraint and control, but she threatened both. A yearning stronger than the need to breathe possessed him, and the minx damn well knew it.
When he had ordered Tasgall to stake the fiery temptress in his tent, he had never expected the show she would provide. He sensed she wouldn’t cower, but never had he thought she would toy and tease. ’Twas more than a little obvious; the lady believed that allGallóglaighwarriors thought with nothing other than their cocks. And many did. But not him. Even though this night he wished he could. But nay, he could not trust her. She would use any of his weaknesses to escape.
Another of her deep huffing sighs made him swallow hard. She continued with whatever she was doing longer than he ever expected. Probably angry because he foiled whatever plot she stewed. He struggled to keep his breathing slow and steady to convince her he slept as deeply as a babe in its mother’s arms. Thank God above that Tasgall had staked her with a chain too short to reach his bed. If she stayed out of his reach, he might get through this night without succumbing to the wants of his aching manparts.
“Jævlatemplar,” she muttered, then it sounded like she spit. Probably at him, no doubt.
He had to hold his breath to keep from laughing. If that word meant what he thought it meant, she had just called him afeckin’ templar. Not bloody likely. He was far from being celibate as a monk. And if all went as he planned, she would discover that for herself. But not just yet. Not before a bit of trust had grown between them. As of right now, he considered her a cunning adversary, willing to make use of any weapon at her disposal—and her current weaponry was more powerful than any blade.
Her irons clinked louder, accompanied by what he thought sounded like a muted grunt. A moment of silence, then whatever she was up to repeated itself, followed by more Norwegian mutterings. While he didn’t understand what she said, he would bet his best dagger her words weren’t the language of a proper lady. The need to know what she was doing nagged at him. If he rolled to his stomach as though shifting in his sleep, he could turn his head without her thinking him awake. Aye, that was a plan.
At the next rattling of her shackles, he moved, adding a low mumbling groan to lend a more realness to the act.
Silence fell faster than an executioner’s axe.
He cracked his eyelids the barest slit.
The lovely Adellis was on her feet. Somewhat. The woman had threaded the chain of her wrist shackles around or through the chains connecting her ankles to the post. He couldn’t tell for certain because of the shadows. The sputtering candles from earlier had nearly burned out. Only a few remained lit. Frozen in a defensive crouch, she watched him. Waiting. It looked as though her current plan depended on leveraging the stakes out of the ground.
He admired her determination but wondered at the plot. Did she mean to escape under the tent wall or through the door? Let him live or kill him in his sleep? Of course, a proper warrior would kill him. He supposed if she succeeded in slipping out of the camp, the nearby village would get her back to her clan. The craftsmanship of her armor showed her people knew enough about metalworking to rid her of the shackles. That is—if she made it that far. The encampment of his twoscore and ten warriors would be quite the snare to escape.
Apparently, after satisfying herself that he still slept, she started rocking back and forth while pulling on the chains. Good tactic. Since Tasgall had hammered the pair of stakes at opposing angles, she had her work cut out for her. It all depended on the willingness of the ground to release the twisted bits of iron that were the length of a man’s forearm.
With a disgruntled huff, she plopped down on her shapely arse, untangled her wrists from her feet, and propped her arms atop her bent knees. Poor lass had worked herself out of breath. Either that or decided the effort futile. He couldn’t stand it any longer. Pushing up from the bed, he made his way to the table and divided what was left in the pitcher of ale between two tankards.
“Here.” He offered her one, unable to keep from grinning at the daggers in her eyes. Lord help him, what a delightful mix of fire and ice she was. “Were ye able to loosen them at all?”
“Brenne i helvete!”
“If ye are going to curse at me, do ye not feel it would be more effective if I understood ye?”
“Burn in. hell,” she repeated, drained the tankard, then threw it at his head.
He easily dodged the cup before finishing off his own. “I probably will burn for all I have done.”
“I will be there with you.” She blew out a heavy sigh and propped her chin back on her forearms.
The wily temptress from earlier had disappeared, leaving in her place a quiet, pensive woman. Perhaps her thinking him celibate as a monk might enable a truthful conversation between them. He lowered himself to one knee but remained ready to retreat should it prove necessary. He trusted neither her nor himself.
“Who are ye, Adellis Bjørnsdóttir? Why do ye waste yerself in such a useless fight?” For that was what this was. These small incursions to void a treaty that had already lasted seven years? Madness itself. Besides, little changed for the tiny Isle of Mull, no matter what kingdom held it.
“I battle for the same reason you do,” she answered while staring off into the darkness. “My life and my sword belong to my liege.”
“And who is yer liege?”
Whether it was from the failing light or her sagging spirits, another dimension to her loveliness made itself known. She suddenly looked years older. No less comely, but somehow less fierce than before. A haggardness shrouded her. Something akin to a flinch escaped her before she wrestled her control back into place. “My liege is my brother, Alrek Bjørnsson.”
Thorburn knew the name. That fool still claimed allegiance to Haakon even though Magnus, King Haakon’s son, now ruled Norway. But where Haakon had been an aggressive and warring monarch, Magnus politicked and bartered. He had traded away the Hebrides, not only saving resources but gaining a fine bit of silver in the process. “Magnus denounces yer brother’s actions. The agreement between Scotland and Norway has thrived for years now. What can he possibly hope to gain?”
“What all men crave.” She rubbed the corners of her eyes, then pulled her focus from the darkness and settled it on him. “Power.” Her tone made the word more lethal.
“He seeks power by controlling wee Mull?” He couldn’t stop a disbelieving grunt. “Is yer brother that great a fool?”
“My brother believes himself to be the Viking descendent meant to revive their glory.” The woman sounded ready to spit again. It was clear she bore no admiration or love for her brother.
“Why do ye serve him?” The question begged to be asked.
