wanting such an
impertinent wench.
He crossed his arms and glowered down at her. “D’ ye
make it a habit to bathe yourself afore God and man alike?” He
wasn’t certain why he’d asked the question; he knew she must. ’Twas
how they’d managed to find her, after all, and yet he found himself
oddly vexed over the notion.
She lifted her chin, denying him an answer, her dark
eyes flaring with undisguised anger, and Iain tried not to chuckle
at her mettle. Here she was, no more than a slip of a lass,
challenging him before his men, when even his enemies dared not
face him so directly.
Fools, all, for he intended to discover the name of
the Judas who’d dared to hand his son over to the bloody English
for barter. He planned to rip out the serpent’s tongue and stuff it
up his bloody arse!
The grim reminder of his business with FitzSimon’s
daughter turned his glimmer of good humor once more to rage. His
jaw turned taut, and he asked her pointedly, “Have you no tongue,
wench?”
Like the legendary phoenix rising up from its ashes,
she stood to face him, her hands clenching at her sides.
“ Have you no breeding?” she
returned scathingly. “Scot!” She hurled the epithet at him
with an imperious lift of her brows, and despite his anger, it was
all Iain could do not to laugh outright at the unexpected
insolence. “What concern is it of yours where I should
bathe?”
Iain was incredulous at her brazenness, her
foolhardiness. Were he any other man... Christ! Could she truly not
know her folly? His gaze raked her from her wet, plaited head, down
her long graceful limbs, wholly exposed by her wet gown, and on to
her bare toes before returning to her face, carefully avoiding
those delightfully tempting breasts, as he added, “You’ve an
insolent tongue, wench. Need I remind—”
“ Aye, well you shall have no
tongue at all when my father hears of this!” she returned
boldly.
Although she had to overcome the urge to take a wary
step backward, Page held her ground and drew herself up to her full
height. For an instant he seemed bemused by her reply, and then he
arched a brow.
Challenging her?
“ Truly?” he asked, and his smile
turned cold.
Page shuddered at the bold way he appraised her once
more. No man had ever dared look at her so—with such undisguised
lust. It sent a jolt of alarm racing through her. And to her
dismay, the tiniest thrill
Another quiver shook her.
Mayhap she’d lost her wits when she’d collided with
his monolith of a friend?
She cast a glance at the others and found them all
staring, mouths agape. Page hoped their idiocy wasn’t contagious.
They were half-wits! Every last one of them!
“ Catching glowworms perchance?”
she asked.
A ridiculous sight, the lot of them; their brows
drew together in unison and they cast surprised glances at each
other, then snapped their mouths shut.
“ Bones o’ the bluidy saints,
wench! ‘Tis no wonder your da lets you aboot in the middle o’ the
night,” the leader said. “He’s like to be hopin’ ye’ll lose your
way home in the dark.”
Page’s heart wrenched at the barb. It stung like the
rude crack of a palm across her face. She swallowed her pride and
blinked away angry tears, determined not to betray her emotions to
these heartless barbarians. He couldn’t possibly know how near to
the mark he’d struck, or how much the truth hurt.
Nor would he care, she was certain.
Her eyes burned. “My father shall have you all
beheaded for this insult to me!” she swore, and couldn’t help but
note that his gaze roamed her body once more—this time more slowly
and with a turn of his lips that both infuriated and appalled
her.
Confused her.
Another frisson raced down her spine.
Forsooth, but the man had a mouth more exquisite
than any man had a right to own! She blinked.
What the devil was wrong with her? How could she
stand here contemplating lips, when her very life might well be at
stake? Her honor at the very
Christopher Knight, Alan Butler