He peered about for some sign of her companions but the woods were empty save for the woman, hermangy hound and Broc. “Because,” he said, “we Scots dinna like outlanders in our home.”
“Your home?”
She ventured out from behind the tree, looking more contrary than she had a right to and threw her arms out to indicate the surrounding woodlands. “I would hardly callthisanyone’s home!”
Her long, copper hair was bound in a single thick braid generously woven with luminous golden ribbons. The style was thoroughly ruined by the wayward curls that escaped confinement and framed her lovely face.
And she was, indeed, lovely.
Broc experienced a surge of lust so unexpected that it took him aback.
Christ, but were all these Sassenach women alike?
“Every tree in these woods is mine!” he enlightened her. “Every leaf you spy upon the ground belongs to my brothers.”
She cocked a brow. “My what a possessive family you have!” She stood straight, hands on her hips, challenging him, and Broc tried not to laugh. “Perhaps you should tell yourbrotherswhen you see them that it is far more blessed to share.”
The wench was taking him far too literally. “I dinna have any brothers, woman.”
“Nay?” She lifted her brows. “Then you should have listened to your mother when she advised you never to lie.”
“I dinna have a mother, either,” he said more sullenly than he’d intended to, though she seemed to appear far more offended than compassionate over his declaration.
“Everyonehas a mother!”
“Aye, well, mine is long dead,” he informed her, hoping to shut her up. The subject remained a painful one even after all these years. He had, in fact, just come from the cairn he had built in her memory. No matterhow many years passed, it never lessened the pain of his loss.
“So is mine!” she argued. “But I would never be so ungrateful as to claim I had none!”
Broc merely stared at her, bemused. Only Page FitzSimon had ever dared speak to him so impudently—and not since first meeting his laird’s wife had he encountered a tongue so bloody sharp.
What the hell did they feed these English lasses to make them so bitter—and for once he couldn’t blame it on Seana Brodie’s damnableuisgethough there must be something in the water there.
He nearly laughed out loud at the absurdity of it all. She was hardly small for a woman, but neither was she any match for any man—much less him—yet she stood there, antagonizing him as no man ever dared.
Broc scratched his head. “Who the hell did you say you were?”
She hitched her chin. “A substitute for your manners, since you seem not to have any!”
Stubborn wench.
Broc resisted the urge to walk over and toss her lovely bottom over his knee. God’s truth, if he were some ruffian, she would lose more than her tongue for her impudence. “Speaking of manners, lass, did no one ever warn you to mind yourself before strangers?”
She ignored his rebuke.
“Thatismydog,” she informed him tautly, pointing at the dirty beast at his feet. As though it understood, the animal turned to face her, but didn’t move. “Come here, Harpy!”
Harpy sat stubbornly.
Broc quelled his laughter, but his shoulders shook with mirth.
In his present mood, he nearly called the hound just to spite her. He’d always had a way with animals, and he had no doubt the hound would come to him, particularlyif he were to pat the pouch at his waist, tempting it with more food.
“For the last time, wench, who are ye?” he asked, more firmly this time.
Little good it did him.
“Who I am is none of your concern!” She puffed her breast in a show of bravado that merely managed to draw his eyes to her luscious bosom. Broc blinked.
