She made that little mouse squeak that only made him harder, and he groaned against her lips before pulling away, looking down into her eyes.
“Ye belong to me, lass. If any man dares even look at ye, he will die by me hand.”
Jeane stared at the closed door for a long moment after Fergus left, her heart still hammering in her chest. She pressed herfingers to her lips, remembering the way his mouth had felt against hers, the way his hands had touched her so intimately.
What am I doin’?
She changed into her shift with shaking hands, her body still humming from his touch. When she finally lay down on the furs, pulling them up to her chin, she found sleep elusive. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Fergus’ dark gaze looking down at her, felt his fingers sliding across her skin.
Eventually, exhaustion won out, and she drifted into an uneasy sleep.
“Come now, Jeane. Ye’ll be a good lass and put on yer weddin’ dress,” her father’s voice echoed through the stone halls.
Jeane ran, her bare feet slapping against cold floors. She didn’t know where she was going, only that she had to get away. Had to escape.
“There’s nowhere to run, daughter,” Bennet called, his voice closer now. “Laird Fraser is waitin’ for ye.”
She burst through a door and found herself in a great hall. At the end of it stood a man in fine clothes, his back to her. When he turned, his face was shadowed, but his smile was cruel.
“There ye are, wife,” Lord Fraser said, his voice oily and wrong. “I’ve been waitin’ for ye.”
“Nay,” Jeane whispered, backing away. “Nay, I willnae marry ye.”
“Ye have nay choice,” her father said from behind her, grabbing her arm hard enough to bruise. His fingers dug into her flesh like claws. “Ye belong to me, and I say ye’ll marry him.”
Fraser approached, and as he got closer, Jeane could see his previous wives standing behind him like ghosts, their eyes hollow, their throats slit.
“Daenae worry, me dear,” Fraser crooned. “It only hurts for a moment, and then ye’ll join the others.”
“Nay!” Jeane screamed, struggling against her father’s grip. “Please, nay!”
Fraser’s hand reached for her throat, and she could feel his fingers closing around her windpipe?—
“Nay! Please, I willnae marry him!”
Jeane bolted upright in bed, her shift soaked with sweat, her breath coming in harsh gasps. Her hands flew to her throat, feeling for fingers that weren’t there.
It was just a dream. Just a nightmare.
But her heart wouldn’t stop racing, and tears streamed down her face.
The door to her chambers burst open with a bang, and Fergus rushed in, sword drawn, his eyes wild as he searched for a threat.
“What happened? Who’s here?” he demanded, and when he saw her alone in bed, trembling and crying, his expression shifted from warrior to something softer.
He sheathed his sword and crossed to her in three long strides.
“Jeane?” His voice was gentle now, concerned. “What’s wrong, little mouse?”
She couldn’t speak, could only shake her head as sobs wracked her body. She felt foolish crying over a dream, but she couldn’t seem to stop.
Fergus sat on the edge of her bed, and after a moment’s hesitation, he pulled her into his arms. She went willingly, burying her face against his chest as he held her.
“Shh,” he murmured, one large hand stroking her hair. “Ye’re safe. I’ve got ye.”
“I’m sorry,” she gasped between sobs. “It was just a dream. I dinnae mean to wake ye.”
“Daenae apologize,” he said firmly. “Tell me what ye dreamt.”
