Not Mine to Give Read Free Page B

curiosity is the reason Crites is lying lifeless on the ground? I think not, my lady.” Bolton fingered his whip, running the hard leather thong over his palm. “I think you and the Scot are lovers and you came to the dungeon to set him free.”
    “And I think you are a fool, my lord.”
    The whip in Bolton’s hand slashed through the air, making a mark across Duncan’s chest. It missed Lady MacIntyre by a breath.
    “Do you know what else I think, my lady?” Bolton paced the small room, letting the strap run through his fingers. “I think perhaps you have the Bishop’s Crown.”
    She lifted her shoulders in a taunting gesture. “You are right, my lord. As you can see, I am wearing it.”
    Bolton grabbed the lady’s chin between his thumb and forefinger and squeezed. “I am not the fool you think, my lady. Maybe you don’t have the crown, but perhaps you can be used to persuade your Scot lover to tell me where it is.”
    She pushed his hand away, and Bolton raised his fist as if to strike her.
    Duncan went wild. “Nay! I tell you. I do na know where it is!” He pulled against his bonds with as much strength as he could find.
    As if Lady MacIntyre realized the danger, she stepped closer, pressing her back against his chest. He felt her stiff form against him, but she at least was wise enough to hold her tongue.
    “I do na have the crown, Bolton.” Duncan’s voice roared in the confines of the small cell. “I do na know where it is.”
    “Lies! After the crown was stolen by the Scots, it was given to the Ferguson priest. We found him on his way back from Kilgern Castle, but he would confess nothing before he died. Since the crown was not at Lochmore Castle, it has to be here. Either you or Lady MacIntyre have hidden it.”
    Duncan looked down on the lady. The impassive expression on her face told him nothing. Only her slight trembling as she leaned against him gave evidence of her fear. “Milady?”
    Her face lifted at his soft word. He tried to read the look in her eyes. Confusion? Indecision? Fear? Was she searching for an answer? Duncan had one ready. “Give him the crown, lass.”
    “Would you give him the crown, my lord?” She spoke in Gaelic.
    “I would rather die first, but I am Scot. You are English. Give him the crown.”
    Dark, thick lashes rested on her flushed cheeks, then she breathed a shaky sigh. She turned to face Bolton. “I would have a kiss first from my Scot.”
    Duncan stiffened.
    Bolton roared a vile oath, then cracked his whip in the air. “Bloody hell! The wench is in danger of losing her life and she begs for a kiss from her lover.”
    Bolton’s hand twisted on the hilt of his whip as if he couldn’t wait to flay flesh and spill blood with its crack. “By all means, my lady. You may kiss your lusty Scot. And then I will have my crown.”
    She slowly turned until their gazes locked. Duncan’s voice was little more than a whisper, heard by no one but her. “Nay, my lady.”
    She whispered back. “Yes.” She stood on her toes to kiss him.
    Dear God, he couldn’t return her kiss. She was another man’s wife. A man he loved like a brother; a man he owed his life.
    He turned his face away from her.
    Her fingers gently touched his cheek, forcing his gaze to return to her face. The pleading in her eyes more than he could bear. “A kiss, my Scot. I beg you.”
    Duncan hesitated, then lowered his head and covered her mouth. She reached for him. It was as if once their lips touched he was helpless to deny her. Later he would get on his knees and beg God’s forgiveness for his sin, but all he wanted at this moment was to touch her and feel her mouth under his.
    His mouth opened and she parted her lips beneath his. She wound one arm around his neck and the other trailed a path to his bound wrists. Her touch burned his flesh; set him ablaze.
    He ground his lips against her, wanting more of her, but the feel of warm metal being pressed into the palm of his hand cooled his senses. He