“To most men, perhaps, but not my brother. He loves me. He’ll do anything—”
She stopped, probably realizing she shouldn’t be saying that.
“The lad stays.”
She looked up at him, her big green eyes luminous in the misty moonlight. “Won’t you have pity? He’s only a boy. Just thirteen last month.”
He steeled himself against the sheen of tears in her eyes. An onslaught he’d never faced in battle, and one that was proving more effective than any sword.God’s breath!He squeezed his fists. “That ‘boy’ would have put a blade through my back or slain any one of my men if given the chance. I’ll remind you that I wasn’t the one to put him in the battle.” It was hard as hell being cold and matter-of-fact with her looking at him like that. He relented—just a little. Her devotion to her nephew and attempt to protect him were admirable. “Your fears for the lad are unfounded. He does not need you here to defend him. He will be perfectly safe.”
“And I am to believe that from you?” Her eyes met his. “Your reputation is well known, my lord.”
There was just enough English haughtiness in her tone to set his temper right back on edge. “Perhaps you should have thought of that earlier.”
It took her a moment to realize to what he was referring. When she flinched, he almost wished he could take it back.
“I didn’t know who you were.” Her eyes searched his with an intensity verging on desperation that made him want to look away. She wanted something from him that if it ever had been there was long gone. “At the time, I thought I saw something worth saving. Something noble and honorable. Apparently, I was wrong. A man who would use a woman and child to his advantage—as a weapon in war—is without honor. A knight would never—”
“Bloody hell! You English and your damned knights!” For a moment, staring into those fathomless green eyes, he’d been in danger of forgetting who she was. “You don’t need to tell me what a knight would do. I know all about English chivalry. If you think your countrymen are like heroes in some troubadour’s tale, you are dead wrong. Your king put a sword in my hand when I wasn’t much older than your nephew, and he invited my father and some other local chieftains to a parley—under a truce—and then treacherously slaughtered them all.”
Her eyes widened and blinked, slowly.
“Whatever I have done,” he continued, “I assure you, your countrymen have done far worse. Should I remind you of the two women who were hung in cages from English castles for over two years? Where the hell is the chivalry in that? Bruce’s queen, sisters, and daughter are still imprisoned by your king. The English have done everything they can to destroy and impoverish us: razing our countryside, taking our castles, raping our women, and killing our people for over fifteen years. So if winning this war and seeing my country free from English occupation and subjugations means I have to use a squire to do so, you can be damned sure I will do it. There is very little I wouldn’t do to win, so perhaps you’ll remember that before you start spouting off about rules and codes of which you know nothing.”
She drew back at the onslaught but did not cower. “My God, you are nothing more than what they say: the Devil’s Enforcer. Bruce’s hired muscle. A brigand and a thug.”
He’d been called a hell of a lot worse, but somehow her words pelted like stones—deeper and sharper than he would have thought possible.
Furious, he stood and hauled her up beside him. It was a mistake. Standing close to her was like being caught in a fierce undertow. His senses flared as wildfire ignited through his blood.
Their eyes held. He swore he could see the tiny flutter of her pulse at her neck and had to fight the urge not to reach down and caress it with his thumb.
He couldn’t tell whether she was scared or aroused.
She sucked in her breath and awareness crackled between them. The soft parting of her lips answered his question:aroused. Hot with it. Soft with it. Ripe with it.
His eyes fixed on her mouth. A desire so fierce and strong rose inside him, every muscle in his body went rigid. He was a hairsbreadth from lowering his mouth down onto hers.
What the hell was he doing?
He let her go and took a step back. “If I were you, I’d be hoping you were wrong in your estimation of my character. A less-than-honorable man might think about taking you up on your invitation.”
Her eyes widened, the vivid emeralds sparking with indignation. Lady Rosalin Clifford might look sweet and docile on the outside, but as he’d seen with her defense of her young nephew, the little kitten had the claws of a she-tiger when stirred. Usually he preferred women with more of an edge—experienced women who knew what they wanted. He’d assumed sweet meant boring. It was a mistake he wouldn’t make again. Her combination of sweet and fierce was oddly arousing. Maddeningly arousing.
“An invitation? By God, you must be mad! I don’t know what you think you saw, but I assure you, I am no longer a naive, starry-eyed maiden susceptible to a generous display of flexing muscle.” She smiled sweetly, her gaze skimming over some of those flexing muscles. “I outgrew oversized barbarians when I turned seventeen.”
Clawsanda sharp tongue to go along with it. Part of him admired her spirit, while another part of him wondered whether she spoke the truth. Had he imagined it?
His eyes narrowed at something else.Seventeen. Christ, how the hell young had she been?
The kiss that neither of them wanted to mention hung between them.
“You weren’t eighteen,” he said flatly.
Her small smile had a distinct devilish glint, as if she knew how much the answer would bother him. “Nay, just sixteen.”
He grimaced and swore. Which meant she was only two and twenty now. Compared to his two and thirty, she was a child. God knew, in those ten years he’d seen a lifetime of pain and suffering.
Suddenly, in the eyes of this beautiful girl brimming with youthful innocence and radiance, he felt very tired and very old.
