“Of that I have little doubt.” He stood up, placed his hands on his trim hips, and looked down at her. “Howbeit, I will keep you with me.”
“Now, why should ye wish to do that?” She had a very good idea of why but wondered if he would tell her the truth.
Reaching out, Hacon took a thick lock of her hair in his hand, idly caressing it with his long fingers. “Ye Jennet, who can be from Liddesdale, are my plunder.”
That was an answer in itself, she supposed. She told herself that anger would gain her nothing; nevertheless she clenched her hands into tight fists at her sides. Escape was still possible if she did not act too rashly, did not give in to the fear that threatened to conquer her anger. From the corner of her eye she saw the other man stealthily move to flank her. She had to be certain the move she finally made was unexpected.
“I am plunder, am I?”
“Aye—my plunder.”
“Wee and skinny though I am?”
“Och, weel, one cannae always have the pick of the litter.”
There was a tone in his voice that told her he thought he was being funny. He was grinning, and a soft chuckle came from his companion. A guffaw from behind them told her that other men were enjoying her predicament as well. That knowledge sent her temper soaring. The rape of Berwick and her own undoubtedly impending ravishment were not laughing matters.
Muttering a curse on all men, she struck out with both fists, neatly and forcefully hitting each man who flanked her square in the groin. Both howled with pain and cursed roundly as they bent over, clutching themselves. She raced for the door—and ran straight into a tall, armored man who blocked the long, narrow opening.
Staggering backward, she was roughly grasped at the shoulder by Hacon, who had stumbled after her. Still dazed, rubbing her nose, which had collided with the man’s mail-clad chest, she found herself swiftly yanked behind Hacon. Curious as to why, she took a good look at the man who had ended her attempt to escape, and tensed, fear gripping her. It could be none other than Sir James Douglas, the one some called “the Good Sir James” but many another called “the Black Douglas.”
And not simply because of his swarthy coloring, she thought with a shiver, her gaze fixed upon the bloodied sword in his hand. The nuns had told her many a chilling tale about this man whom they had dubbed “the Bruce’s godless lieutenant.” There was something about the colors he and his men wore that added to her fear, but that flicker of a memory was doused when Douglas spoke. As the words came from his mouth, she hid herself more completely behind Hacon, terrified that she would reveal her astonishment. The Black Douglas, the scourge of the North, the man who made many an English soldier tremble, spoke with a lisp.
“You are having some difficulty, Sir Gillard?” asked Douglas.
“Nay, only a brief quarrel.”
“She is for ransoming?”
“Nay. She is my plunder.”
“You and your men choose strange plunder.” Douglas signaled to someone behind him, and a young soldier was roughly shoved into the room. “I hold the belief that the only live plunder worth taking is that which can be ransomed.”
Accustomed to the man’s speech impediment now and curious as to why Hacon had grown so tense, Jennet dared to glance around him again. The youth in question had obviously been cruelly handled. His beardless face was bruised and scraped. He looked ready to collapse, swaying slightly as he stood clutching a bundle of cloth protectively against his chest.
“Has the boy caused some trouble, sir?” Hacon asked.
“Some. He nearly killed one of my men and was nearly killed for it. He would be dead now had I not arrived to pull him free.”
“And now?”
“And now I give him back to you. Talk some sense into the lad. I have no doubt you and your men are loyal. You have stood for the cause for ten long years. Howbeit, I believe you may carry a softness of heart. Mercy, Sir Gillard, has no place in this fight.”
As abruptly as he had appeared, the Black Douglas left. Jennet breathed a sigh of relief and was startled to hear it echoed by the others in the room. Hacon shoved her toward Dugald, who grabbed her arm none too gently. Ignoring her glaring human shackle, she watched the youth as Hacon approached him.
“Your first battle, Ranald,” said Hacon, “and ye try to kill one of Douglas’s own men? Are ye that set upon dying, laddie?”
“I didnae ken they were his men,” the youth replied, his voice hoarse and unsteady.
“They are weel marked. I weel recall pointing them out to you.”
“Aye, uncle, ye did. I wasnae thinking clear.”
Uncle, Jennet mused and inwardly nodded. There was a strong resemblance, although the boy’s hair was not as light as Hacon’s.
“Ye are lucky Douglas was in a good humor or that thoughtless head of yours would be rolling about in the street now.”
“I ken it.”
