He brushed soft kisses over her forehead and cheeks. “Ye will be weel protected.”
“I said, no more kissing,” she whispered in an unsteady voice.
“Now, lass, what is the use of a mon taking a wee bit of plunder if he cannae enjoy it now and again?”
Before she could respond, his mouth was on hers. She tried to fight how it made her feel, tried to think of disgusting things such as slugs and leeches. She even tried to invoke the painful memories of her mother’s brutal death. As ploys to halt how his kiss heated her blood, they all failed miserably. Instead, all she became aware of was how good he tasted and how each stroke of his tongue increased the heat of desire curling through her body.
“If it pleases you, Sir Gillard, we thought we might start upon our way now.”
The deep, lisping voice cut through the fog with which Hacon’s kiss filled her head. Jennet needed little time to recover her composure when Hacon abruptly ended the kiss. She watched Sir James Douglas as Hacon turned to face the man. There was something about him that chilled her soul, and it was not only because of the bloodthirsty tales told about him. At the moment, she was heartily glad that Hacon stood firm at her side.
“I am ready to ride, sir,” Hacon replied.
“Ye still mean to take her with you?”
“Aye, sir. She will stay to the rear with the extra ponies, with the plunder we may gather, and mayhaps with the wounded.”
“See that she does.”
When Douglas and his grinning companions had ridden away, Jennet breathed a hearty sigh of relief. “I cannae like that mon.”
“Good.” Hacon grasped her arm and tugged her over to the pony he had brought for her. “Then ye will stay far away from him and his men.” He hefted her up into the saddle and idly helped her fix her skirts over her legs. “Ye may have heard a tale or two about the mon.”
“Aye, dark tales.”
“Believe them, lass. I have ridden with him for ten long years.” Holding the pommel of her saddle with one hand, he held her gaze with his eyes. “Have ye ever heard of ‘Douglas’s larder’?” She shook her head. “The English held his castle. He sneaked into the place and slew most of the garrison while they were at mass. He killed those who remained while they supped in the castle. He threw the bodies, the food, the wine, and aye, even the live prisoners and the wounded into the pits of his castle and burned the place down o’er them. Remember that, lass. It tells ye a great deal about the mon Sir James is.”
“At mass?” she whispered, shocked by such sacrilege.
“Aye, at mass.”
“Weel, it fits what else I ken.”
“Which is?”
“’Twas Douglas’s men who murdered my mother. I recognize the colors now.”
“My regrets for your mother’s death come late, but trust in their sincerity. And learn from that tragedy. Dinnae forget those colors.” He went and gathered up the goats, and was tugging them back to her just as Ranald rode up. “Good lad,” he murmured as he tied the goats’ lead rope to the pommel of Jennet’s saddle. “Stay close by her, Ranald, and try not to lag too far behind. Even the lowest, most timid of serfs will set upon you if ye are caught alone.” He grinned at Jennet. “Now, how about a wee kiss ere I ride off into danger?”
He reached toward her chin, but she slapped his hand away. “I think not, sir knight.”
“Ye are a hard-hearted lass, Jennet of Liddesdale,” he said as he mounted his horse, then winked at her before riding off.
Glaring at his broad back, Jennet muttered every curse she could think of. If rape and death did not lurk at every turn, she would be gone before he could blink. Instead she had to stay with him despite knowing, after only a few kisses, that his plan to seduce her was rapidly drawing to a successful conclusion.
“Jennet?” Ranald nudged his mount alongside her pony. “We must ride now.”
“Aye, I ken it.” She gently kicked her pony to start it on its way. “Into England so I can see more fields burned.”
“’Tis war,” said Ranald as he kept pace with her. “We must harry the English and try to stop them from gathering their army and assaulting Berwick in force. The English would do the same.”
She shook her head. They all said that, sounding like sullen little children. As far as she could see, it was a thin excuse for wanton destruction. She had seen little else in her life and was heartily sick of it.
And yet, she mused with self-disgust, my blood heats for a knight who lives by all I find so abhorrent. It was a dilemma she had no answer to. She knew Hacon would continue to take full advantage of their enforced proximity. Getting out of his reach was the only way to avoid succumbing to his wooing and her own weakness, but that was not yet possible. She could only pray that a chance came before Hacon won the game.
Trying to hide a wince, Jennet eased herself down to sit on the ground and watched as the Scots’ army set their plain, rough camp amongst a scrub forest of hawthorn and birch. The pace of the advance had been grueling. Jennet was sure they had covered at least forty miles in their first day of riding. She had barely snatched enough time to see to Murdoc’s needs. It had been hard on the poor child. It had been even harder on her. She did not think there was a part of her that did not ache, but one part in particular was in agony. Despite Hacon’s efforts to soften her seat on the pony, her backside throbbed. She did not want, even, to look to see what her thighs had suffered.
Hacon arrived with their meal, sitting next to her and handing her the metal plate and a rough wooden spoon. She almost threw the food in his face. Hunger won out over anger, however. Wearily she ate, barely tasting it. Since it was only porridge again, Jennet decided it was no real tragedy.
