“Ye dinnae have a plaid. I didnae see one.”
“Weel, I dinnae wear it all the time. I would use it to hide ye from their eyes, and I would hold ye close beneath it.”
“If ye held me any closer, ye would find yourself between me and the bairn.”
“’Twould sore grieve me,” he murmured, ignoring her tart comment, “to cover ye up so. I should wish to see your beauty with my own eyes.”
“Ere that happens, your eyes will have gone blind from aging.”
She was certain he was grinning. She could almost feel it, then wondered how that could be. Part of her acknowledged that he was a man she could trust. But that was pure madness. The man had come into Berwick sword in hand, desecrated a nunnery, then yanked her into his life, giving her no choice in the matter. He would now make her his whore. He meant to use her body to sate his lust as the Bruce’s soldiers had used her mother before cutting her throat. Every feeling she had toward the man ought to be a bad one, but that was not the case at all.
The way he moved his hand over her stomach was beginning to make her feel odd. Beneath his slow, idle caress stirred a heat that was curling up through her body. She wanted to make him stop but feared what he might do if she slapped his hand away. Her mother had fought her abusers and gained only more brutality. She must show a complete lack of interest, act as cold as the midwinter sun. She found herself wishing he would just take her and be done with it, then decided confusion was stealing her wits.
“Leave be,” she finally said, trying to wriggle free of his hold. “I want to go to sleep.”
“Do ye ken what I want, Jennet?” he whispered against her ear.
“Nay, and I dinnae care either.” She began to wonder how far she could push him, or if it was even wise to test those limits.
Ignoring that, he continued. “I want you—naked and warm in my arms. I want to feel the heat of you wrapped around me.” Propping himself up on his elbow he leaned over her and kissed her cheek. “I want to see this tempting mouth”—he slowly trailed his fingers over her lips—“soft and wet from my kisses. I want to see this sweet face flushed with desire—desire for me.”
“Weel . . .” She silently cursed, for her voice was higher than usual and revealingly unsteady. “I hope ye are a mon who has learned to accept failure with grace, for I dinnae intend to answer a single one of your wants.”
He settled back down on the sheepskin, still holding her close. “Not tonight leastwise.”
“Not ever,” she muttered.
Briefly she felt weak with relief, realizing that, for tonight at least, she was safe. What troubled her was the hint of softer feelings that stirred beneath her fear and relief. She had never had a man speak to her like that. There had been one or two who had expressed a wish to bed her, but always in much cruder terms. She did not know how to deal with Hacon’s soft, heated words. They put ideas into her head—tempting, sinful ideas.
Sin, she repeated in her mind. Rape. She would have to hold tight to those words and to the memory of her mother’s cruel fate. Even if by some miracle he had decided to seduce instead of rape her, what Hacon Gillard wanted was a sin. A sin that would costhera great deal more than it wouldhim.
Chapter 3
Hacon swore and struggled to get a firm hold upon a thrashing Jennet. He had barely gotten to sleep, finding the urge to possess his pretty captive difficult to subdue, when the nightmare had seized her. Her cries had brought his men to their feet, alert and ready to do battle. By the time he got Jennet securely enfolded in his arms, they had realized what had alarmed them and returned to their beds.
He scowled as her tears dampened his chest. This was not the loving embrace he had envisioned. Hacon sternly pushed aside his lust, stirred by the way she clung so tightly to him. It was too soon. They had barely passed one night in each other’s company. And now she was caught in the tight grip of a nightmare.
“Maman! Maman! Stop, please stop. Dinnae hurt her.”
“Sssh, lass. Hush now.” He dared to give her a slight shake. “Wake now, dearling.”
Jennet slowly fought her way free of her terrifying memories. It took her a moment to realize who she was clinging to, and then she feigned a continued confusion, needing to remain within his arms. Hacon felt warm, strong, and safe. The way he moved his large, callused hands over her hair and back eased her trembling. She wished he could as easily smooth away the painful, blood-soaked memories that haunted her.
“Sometimes I can even smell the blood,” she whispered, and made no complaint when he tightened his hold.
“Ye were recalling the time your mother was murdered?”
“I have seen hundreds murdered.”
She realized the man she clung to was one of those responsible for all the bloodshed. Jennet sighed and eased free of his hold. He did not let her move far, keeping one arm wrapped snugly around her waist as she turned her back to him. Her eyes widened when he tucked her up against his body. Pressed against her back was proof that he was feeling far more than mere sympathy for her troubled dreams. The man’s lusts were stirring. Fear battled her curiosity. The memory of her mother’s brutal death was still fresh in her mind, and a fear of rape quickly banished all else.
“Be at ease,” he murmured, and pressed a kiss against her hair. “Go to sleep, my wee plunder. Nothing more will trouble your slumber this night.”
What immense arrogance, she mused as she closed her eyes. Surely even he could not be so cocksure as to think he could fend off nightmares. Therefore he had to be assuring her that he was not going to press his attentions on her—this time. She viciously cursed the tickle of disappointment that rippled through her.
“There, ye sleep,” he whispered, and kissed her shoulder when he felt her begin to relax. “There is a lot of work to be done in the morning.”
Although she was curious as to what work he meant, Jennet did not ask. She was feeling too pleasantly sleepy to continue the conversation. She would know soon enough.
