“And why should I care a farthing about the brat’s fate?”
His voice was low and sneering, but she sensed a softening in his demeanor. “He has done ye no harm.” She felt an emerging spark of outrage. “Nor have I. I even tended your wounds.”
“Aye, and your mon nearly cut my hand off.”
When his gaze fell to her breasts, she stiffened. It was all too easy to read his thoughts, his changing plans for her. Having guessed the new threat, she was not surprised when he placed his gauntleted hand over her breast.
“Now that I think on it,” he drawled, “he isnae here to stop me this time.” He kneaded her breast. “I could take my fill of you right here. That would sorely cut at the mon’s great pride,” he muttered.
“Ye need to spite a dead mon?” she asked with ill-disguised disgust.
“Dead? Would that God deigned to give me such a gift.”
“He died in Ireland, in Dundalk. Ye yourself sent my rosary beads back to me.”
“A strange, fanciful gesture, was it not? Born of false hope too. The mon didnae die. Months later he had the cursed ill taste to return to Scotland. It quite soured my day.”
Jennet was stunned. She forgot that her life was in danger, that the man sitting on her chest held a sword to her throat. Even the chilling threat of rape was banished from her thoughts. She finally moved, no longer keeping still out of an attempt to remain safe, and grasped the front of his jupon. She was only briefly aware of his look of utter astonishment.
“Sir Hacon Gillard is alive?” She could only whisper the question, afraid she had misheard him.
“Aye, curse his hide.”
“Oh, praise God!” She closed her eyes, fighting the tumult of emotions raging inside of her until all that remained was the need to see him. “Ye must take me to him.” When Niall did not move, she snapped, “Weel? Get off of me, ye great oaf.”
“We have some unfinished business, wench.”
“Ye cannae still mean to rape me! Sir Giliard and I were handfasted ere he left for Ireland. I am his wife.”
“Then he will more keenly feel the bite of shame when he kens another mon has ridden you.”
“And ye will keenly feel the bite of his sword.”
“Let him challenge me. I dinnae suffer from a head wound as I did last time he and I fought o’er you.”
Jennet wished she could give him a wound he would not soon forget, but she struggled to calm herself. She studied her captor for a moment. Deciding he suffered from bravado— or, more likely, an inability to find a way of retreating from his threats without losing face—she tried to think of one. Praying her judgment was right, she went limp, lying beneath him with no sign of resistance, her eyes closed.
“Weel? Get on with it then. I wish to return to my husband.”
She forced herself to remain limp when she felt him awkwardly run his hand over her breasts. When, a moment later, he stood up uttering a foul, vicious oath, she was strongly tempted to gape at him. She remained in the same position until he roughly grabbed her hand and yanked her to her feet.
“Changed your mind, Sir Niall?” she murmured, brushing herself off.
“’Twould be like rutting with a corpse,” he grumbled. “I bet ye would have stirred had I continued.”
“We will ne’er be sure, will we?” She held his gaze, thinking that he looked both sulky and surprisingly young. “Ye may escort me back to my husband now.”
“Oh, aye, that I will do, and I will demand a verra dear price for you.”
“Ye would ransom me?” She glared at him as he grabbed the reins of his mount. “Ye cannae do that.”
“Nay? Why not?” Lightly slapping her on the backside with the flat of his sword, he ordered, “Start walking.” He fell into step behind her when she picked up Murdoc, retrieved her dagger, and began to walk back toward Boroughbridge.
“Hacon is your ally, one of Douglas’s men. Ye cannae demand ransom from one of your own.”
“I can and I will. I will empty his purse. He lost you. I found you. That will cost him dearly indeed. Aye, and ye were on the wrong side of the border again. Sir Gillard should choose his wenches with more care.”
Jennet swallowed her angry words. He had backed down. In truth, she began to think he had never been wholeheartedly serious about raping or killing her. She would allow him his swaggering to soothe his pride. Especially since, she mused with an inner smile, she doubted Hacon would pay the man a farthing.
