Not Mine to Give Read Free Page A

you a friend of Ian’s?”
    “Aye. As close as brothers and more. I owe him my life.”
    She gave a short nod before she spoke. “On behalf of the laird of clan MacIntyre, I beg to ask a favor on that debt. I have need of your—”
    The cell door flung open and William Bolton burst into the room. He hesitated only long enough to glance at Crites’ crumpled body on the floor, then lift his deadly gaze to the woman. Two men, mammoth in size and armed with ready swords followed close on his heels.
    “Alas, my lady,” Bolton said, clenching his hands into white-knuckled fists. “Again you cause me concern. I do not look kindly upon anyone murdering my servants.”
    Bolton studied the lady with a menacing glare. A glare that made Duncan’s stomach turn in revolt. “Step away from the Scot.” She stepped back and he made a wide circle around the pole to which Duncan was bound. “I could scarce believe the news that you had left your comfortable chamber to come visit the cold dungeon.”
    Duncan took note of Bolton’s hands. The left still clenched into a fist at his side while the right caressed the hilt of his whip. Duncan’s heart beat at the base of his throat in warning. The Englishman was on the verge of madness and Duncan feared what he would do.
    The lady must have sensed it too, for she tucked her hands deeper into the folds of her skirt and took a step nearer his side as if it were possible for him to protect her. Duncan twisted his bound hands, praying for a miracle. But there was none.
    “Three nights past I thought my steward was mistaken when he said you were seen sneaking back to your room. Then, we captured the Ferguson. I didn’t think there was any significance to his appearance and your disappearance. Until now.” Bolton gripped the handle of his whip and released it from the notch on his belt. “Could it be that you sneaked out of the keep to meet in private with our brave laird?”
    Bolton held out the handle of his whip and lifted Lady MacIntyre’s chin. “Could it be that while your husband is fighting to protect his home from the dreaded English, you, my dear lady, are so lonesome that you warm the neighboring laird’s bed?”
    Duncan pulled at his hands behind his back, struggling to release the leather straps. A low growl came from the back of his throat as anger raged within him.
    In contrast, Lady MacIntyre slowly raised her hand and pushed the hilt of the whip away from her face. “You are disgusting, my lord. I am ashamed to call you English.”
    A blue vein popped out on Bolton’s neck and the muscles in his jaw worked frantically. “Why are you here to see the prisoner, my lady?”
    “I am merely curious, my lord. I heard talk from the servants and came to see if what they said was true.”
    “And what talk did you hear?”
    “Nothing you would wish to hear, my lord.”
    “What talk!”
    With a slight shrug of her shoulders, the lady lifted her chin and faced the earl. “It’s rumored that no matter how harshly the mighty Earl of Rivershorn tortures the Ferguson, the English lord is not man enough to bring the lowly Scot to his knees.”
    Bright flashes of warning went off in Duncan’s head. By the saints! What was the woman doing? It was one thing to possess spunk, but such a reckless display of her bravery could get them both killed. Ian had described his wife as meek and demure. Duncan prayed to see a glimmer of either of those qualities.
    With a lift of her chin, Lady MacIntyre turned her back to the earl and walked toward the door. Duncan held his breath, wishing her to safety. The two guards took a step together to block her exit.
    “I wish to leave, my lord. You have no right to keep me.”
    “I have every right, my lady. Forgive me if I am in error, but there is naught you can do about it. Now,” Bolton said, forcing Lady MacIntyre to step back. “Why did you come here?”
    She took a step closer to Duncan. “I told you. I was curious.”
    “And your