Not Mine to Give Read Free

takes care of them that does right by him.” Crites shoved the long club at Duncan’s stomach then took another swallow and belched.
    “I’d wager he won’t return to England without me. You and your heathen Scots will be freezin’ your arses in this God forsaken land, and I’ll be livin’ in grand style on English soil. If you’re still suckin’ air that is.” His boisterous laughter filled the cell. Crites took another swallow and shoved his club into Duncan’s middle again.
    “Take a warning from one who knows. His lordship is losing patience with you, Scot. If you don’t tell him where you hid that crown he’s after soon, you’ll be laid out with your toes cocked to the sky and—”
    Crites clutched his hands to his throat. His face turned a deep purple as he gasped for air. The tankard of ale crashed to the floor, the remaining liquid soaking into the dirt. Then, he crumpled into a heap beside it, a wide-eyed look of panicked disbelief on his face.
    Duncan stared at the man’s chest, unable to tell if he was still breathing. He hoped so. He wanted to kill the bastard himself.
    Duncan held his breath and waited. A deafening quiet blanketed the small cell. Then the key turned in the lock and the door opened. Bright light from a torch filled the room and he squinted his eyes until his vision adjusted to the brightness.
    A woman, slight in stature with hair the color of burnt honey, walked toward him. Her pale blue dress hung over her form, so loose Duncan thought she wore the ill fitting gown on purpose to hide the curves beneath. The breath caught in his throat. Her open beauty held his gaze and he couldn’t take his eyes from her face.
    With shoulders lifted and chin raised high, she placed the torch in the holder on the wall and closed the distance between them. Duncan focused his gaze on her vivid blue eyes and deepened the frown on his face. He expected her to lower her gaze or at least stop and come no further. He was used to that reaction.
    She did neither. She stared at him with unwavering boldness then followed one step with another until she was so close he could smell the rose water she’d bathed in.
    “Are you Duncan Ferguson, laird of Lochmore Castle and clan Ferguson?”
    He glared at the English woman as if by looks alone he could strike her down. Her reaction was to steel her shoulders and ask her question another time. This time in Gaelic.
    Duncan cocked one eyebrow. “I am.” He answered in English.
    “You are familiar with Ian MacIntyre, laird of Kilgern Castle?”
    “I am.”
    “Can you tell me where he is?” Her question was almost a demand.
    Duncan took as deep a breath as his ribs would allow. He could only guess the identity of this beautiful woman. Ian had talked of nothing else but his smiling English wife with flaxen hair and eyes as blue and fathomless as the North Sea. His description had not begun to do her justice.
    “Nay. I came in search of the Ferguson medallion which is rightfully mine. I had hoped Ian would be back from the fighting, but the minute I crossed the border onto MacIntyre land, Bolton’s men took me captive. I have graced your dungeon too long, milady, and when next I see your husband, I will be sure to tell him I was not pleased with the hospitality in his absence.”
    She twisted her hands again in the folds of her gown and Duncan was impressed with the wifely concern he sensed in her.
    “When did you last see Ian?”
    “I have na seen him since the fighting at Dryburgh.”
    “Is he still alive?”
    He wished to God he knew. “I canna swear to it.” Duncan noticed a reaction. He detected a catch in her breathing before she twisted her hands in the folds of her gown. “How long has the bastard Englishman been here?” he asked.
    “His men stormed the keep five days past. There were too many to defend against. The earl is searching for the crown.”
    “Aye.”
    Long, dark lashes closed over her blue eyes for a moment before she spoke. “Are