Flicking her eyes toward Morag, Janet couldn’t help but to notice the bemused expression on her best friend’s face. It was that of a deer caught in headlights. Clearly, she had assumed the battle-honed giant had meant to harm her as well. Playing nursemaid was the last thing either had expected of this formidable man.
Janet’s gaze slowly raked over the giant’s austere features. He wasn’t a bad looking man, she admitted to herself. In fact, if she’d met him under any circumstances other than the one she currently found herself in she would have found him superior in appearance.
His features were grim, but handsome. Black as midnight hair flowed a bit past the shoulders and was swept out of his eyes by a Celtic braid plaited at either temple. His eyes were dark, so brown they almost looked black. She noticed for the first time that the iciness of his gaze was lessened somewhat by sweeping, inky black eyelashes that formed an impressive crescent when his eyes were shuddered as they were now while he studied her knees.
She shouldn’t be noticing these things, she told herself stiffly. The warrior might be showing her a kindness by tending to her wounds, but they were wounds his pursuit of her had caused in the first place. She was, Janet reminded herself, no more than a prisoner to him. She asked herself not for the first time, however, just why she and Morag had been captured to begin with.
Her inward musings were brought to a halt when the warrior finished his task and began to speak. His voice was a deep bass, the richest rumble she’d ever heard. She definitely didn’t understand a word of what he was saying though.
“Madainn mhath. Ciamar a tha thu?” His black gaze swept over her breasts, settled on her face.
Janet pretended not to notice his perusal of her anatomy. She shrugged and answered his question with a perplexed look.
He tried again. “Dè ‘n t-ainm a th’ort, te bheag?”
Her green eyes merely grew larger. She glanced toward Morag, then back to the grim-faced warrior. She shook her head slightly, again shrugging her shoulders in a helpless gesture. “I don’t understand your words,” she said quietly.
Comprehension dawned in the giant’s eyes. They widened almost imperceptibly before he schooled them, his stony façade back in place. He seemed to turn things over in his mind for a moment or two, then pointed to himself and rumbled out a word. “Yu-an.”
Janet shook her head, not understanding.
He pointed toward himself again, thumping a callused hand in the vicinity of his chest. “Yu-an.”
She was about to shake her head again when the significance of the giant’s actions at last dawned on her. Euan. He was telling her that his name was Euan. Glancing first toward Morag whose rounded eyes indicated she still hadn’t caught on, she looked back at the warrior and pointed toward herself. “Ja-net.”
“Joo-nat.” His deep voice repeated her pronunciation—sort of.
She didn’t know why, but she felt the need to correct him. “Jaa-net,” she said louder, more distinctly. She pointed at him. “Yu-an.” She pointed back toward herself. “Ja-net.”
He smiled, giving him a softer appearance. A dimple popped out on his left cheek, which Janet found oddly fascinating. “Jah-net.”
She nodded, then smiled in spite of herself, weirdly elated by the fact that they’d managed that small communication, no matter how insignificant, and no matter that she was still his prisoner.
* * * * *
Euan walked from the tent feeling more than a wee bit daft. The purpose of yestereve’s reivin’ had been to steal Hay women. The comely wench was clearly not Hay, mayhap not even Scottish. So why did he think to keep her regardless? He shook his head and sighed as he strutted toward the campfire where his brothers and men awaited him. Wenches did strange things to men. Especially wenches who sported creamy thighs and fleshy bosoms.
He came to a halt in front of his siblings, then nodded toward Stuart. ’Twas Stuart who had caught the red-headed wench and had a wish to keep her. “’Tis as ye suspected, brother. The wenches do no’ speak our tongue.”
Graeme chuckled, earning him a punch in the side of his jaw from Stuart. That didn’t hold back his mirth, though. “At least my fair Elizabeth kens what I say tae her.”
Stuart rolled his eyes and looked back to Euan. “Ye are certain?”
The Donald nodded briskly. He thought back to the conversation that had just taken place in the makeshift tent.
“Madainn mhath. Ciamar a tha thu?”Good morning. How are you?
Nothing.
“Dè ‘n t-ainm a th’ort, te bheag?”What is your name, little one?
Again, nothing.
“Aye,” he confirmed, grinning a bit at the memory of he and Janet pointing towards themselves and pronouncing their names as slowly as lackwits. He quelled the small smile, his features quickly shifting back in place. “I dinna ken from where they come, but ’tis sorely apparent they do no’ comprehend a word of what I’m speaking tae them.”
Stuart grunted. “I dinna care, brother. I want tae keep the fiery-haired wench.” He waggled his eyebrows and grinned. “I’ll teach mah wee bride Gaelic betwixts thrusts in the bedsheets.”
Now it was young Graeme rolling his eyes. He decided to ignore Stuart. “What of ye, brother? Will ye keep the other one?” He nodded toward Euan as he considered her appearance. “She is comely for a certainty.”
