“I am your captive, sir. I’m hoping for kind treatment.”
She had no idea how very kind he was being to her, considering the purpose his idiot brothers had in mind for her, and how much blunt handing her over to Dunncraigh would likely earn him. In fact, the only thing that would likely earn him more would be to keep her for himself. That would definitely set him against Dunncraigh, but at least he’d have the income to make it a good fight. Could he do it, though? To her?
He certainly didn’t owe her anything; she was a foolish, self-important Sassenach who would have fared far worse if someone else had found her. As for him, an heiress would provide what he required. After she gave him an heir he could go elsewhere for sex, and he’d never looked for anything beyond that. He never would. “Do as ye’re told and I’ll be kind enough,” he returned belatedly.
A female with any sense would have curtsied and gone over to sit by the fire until he could fetch her breakfast. This one, though, stood her ground in the center of the room and continued gazing at him with those eyes the color of the midday sky. For Lucifer’s sake, he would be tempted to marry her whether she had money or not. “And what is it I’m to do, then?” she asked. “No one’s told me anything about why I’m here except to say that my brother and I are English and you’re all from clan Maxwell. Surely we aren’t the first Englishmen who’ve ever ridden through Maxwell territory.”
“That would be the problem, yer highness,” he said, wishing Cowen would hurry the devil up and find some shoes for the lass so he could go away somewhere and catch his breath and his wits. Just standing there in her presence he couldn’t seem to pull enough air into his lungs—and he couldn’t blame it all on his contemplation of a marriage. He’d gone bride hunting once or twice before, after all, only to be thwarted by Dunncraigh and one of his many sons and nephews. He hadn’t noted the lass’s appearance, then. Now, though, he couldn’t seem able to look away. That aside, Marjorie Forrester was someone the Maxwell didn’t know about. Nor would the duke, until it was too late. If Graeme found her physically attractive—and he damned well did—then he would count that as an unasked-for bonus. “Ye arenae the first English to cross our path. And the previous… visitors, we’ll call ’em, werenae very kindly.”
“Out of curiosity, did you kidnap any of these so-called visitors? That might explain their lack of friendliness.”
Damned impossible woman. “Nae. Nae me personally, anyway. But I reckon ye’ll do fer the moment.”
Not him personally. He was trying to be flippant or sarcastic, no doubt, but Marjorie seized onto those particular words with all her strength. Her kidnappers—his younger brothers, she now knew—had been full of derogatory statements about her fellow countymen and her in particular, but despite his threats and arrogance and intimidating presence, Maxton seemed mostly to view her as… She wasn’t certain, but it made her breath quicken.
But he didn’t seem to have anything against the English in general, or her in particular. Her first thought after making that realization was that perhaps she could convince him, then, that setting her free would be to everyone’s benefit. She needed a plan first, though. He wanted to protect his brothers, and so she would have to figure out how to convince him that they wouldn’t be blamed for this—whether she meant to keep her word or not.
“Nae response to that, yer ladyship? Have I broken yer spirit, then?” he prodded.
Ha. Not likely.“My continued well-being would seem to be at your whim, sir,” she returned. “I wouldn’t call that level ground for an argument.”
A slight smile curved his mouth. “Ye do have a point.”
Arrogant man. Smiling at her as if he knew exactly how handsome he was and meant to use that to sway her weak little female brain into think him charming.Ha. Andhaagain. “I know I do.”
Another man, this one younger and taller than the one she’d assumed to be the butler, appeared in the doorway. The scent of the tray he carried made her stomach rumble, and for once she didn’t care how unladylike that might be. She should probably refuse to eat as a protest against her captivity, but if she starved herself she wouldn’t be in any condition to escape when an opportunity presented itself.
“Ye requested breakfast for the lady, sir,” the young man said, his clearly curious gaze fixed on her. “I’ve brought it while Cowen’s searching fer shoes.”
“Thank ye, Ross,” Maxton said, taking the tray. “Oot with ye.”
The young man fled down the hallway, and with one foot her captor hooked the door and pushed it closed behind him. “It isn’t proper for you to be in a room alone with me,” Marjorie stated, mostly to see how he would react to that. By London standards she’d been ruined the moment she vanished from the inn. Of course by London standards she wasn’t qualified to be in any of their fine ballrooms and parlors, anyway. This man didn’t know that, though. And anything she could do to keep her distance from him had to be to her benefit. It seemed like it should be, anyway.
“So ye say,” he muttered, and set the tray down on the small table beneath the two overstuffed chairs. “Sit doon and eat.”
“I prefer not to dine with you standing over me and glowering.”
He sat down in one of the two chairs and with his boot kicked the other out for her. “Sit doon and eat,” he repeated.
“But I just said it isn’t proper for—”
“Ye’re a damned captive, lass. Ye dunnae make the rules here. And I’ll nae ask ye again. If ye dunnae sit doon, I’ll eat yer breakfast myself. And I’m damned hungry, so dunnae think I wouldnae do it.”
With a stifled sigh, dragging one foot a little so the unbuckled shoe wouldn’t come off and trip her, Marjorie sat at the table opposite him. A cloth covered the plate, presumably to keep the items beneath it warm, and she removed it to set it across her lap. Despite her hunger she poured hot tea into her teacup first, then dropped in one lump of sugar while he frowned. Hm. Was sugar dear here? Deliberately she took a second lump and stirred it in the tea. Then she found the fork and knife and cut herself a bite-sized slice of mutton.
“How long does it take ye to eat?” Maxton asked, setting an elbow on the table and his chin on his clenched fist.
Marjorie chewed and swallowed. “I beg your pardon?”
“The food’s better when it’s hot,” he continued, light gray eyes meeting hers and then lowering to the utensils in her hands. “At this rate it’ll be ice before ye finish.”
“I suppose you grab great chunks of meat in your hands and rip off mouthfuls with your teeth?”
“I dunnae dine with my pinkies sticking up in the air.”
She glanced at her hand and curled her fingers back into her palm. “I do what is considered proper. And in my opinion you have no grounds to criticizemybehavior. Kidnapping someone is far worse than drinking with a straight pinkie—which is proper etiquette, by the way.”
That only made him grin again, the insufferable man. “If ye’d stayed in London where ye belong,” he commented, “ye could be wielding yer cups and glasses however ye chose, with nae a soul to criticize ye.”
