“Oh, I see. You are repaying me, is that it?”

He shrugged. “Well, I suppose ye cannae be expected to understand the way respect keeps peace on me land. But it is a way of life for me. The moment I begin letting someone insult me is the day that a new challenge to my authority begins. Those most often end in bloodshed.”

“I see.”

“Do ye now?”

Bridget offered him a slight nod. “I can understand that our lives are very different and thereby require different actions.”

He grinned again, clearly amused by her response. Even knowing it, she still had trouble pushing her emotions down where he could not see them so easily.

“I’ll not be content to have any man’s hands on me who is not my husband. Yet that is no excuse for being surly this morning.”

At least her tone of voice cooperated with her resolve to maintain her dignity. Gordon lost his grin, his face becoming a firm mask of consideration.

“Is that why I hear that you spent most of this day looking toward England? Because ye’re longing to join the man ye fled from?”

Gordon snorted when her eyes narrowed at him, but she denied him any comment. The Scot shook his head.

“I ken, lass. I’m a stranger to ye and one that has taken ye in the hope of getting something for ye. There’s no foundation for trust between us. But I keep my word. Dinna fret that I’ll allow ye to return to England’s court. Ryppon will either give me what I want for ye, or I’ll take ye to the altar and we’ll find a way to make the best of it. I can be a charming man when I put my mind to it.”

“Do not bother on my account, sir.”

He reached out quickly, succeeding in touching her cheek with two thick fingers before she jumped away.

“Och now, lassie, ye need to stop all that worrying.”

Don’t worry? The man had a misplaced sense of kindness if he believed he was putting her at ease. Still, it wasn’t his place to soothe her. She was a woman, not a lost girl.

“Lord Ryppon will not come for me. I cannot fathom why you believe he will. Best that you return me to my father and gain your recompense from him.” And she did hope the ransom was a dear one, for her father was beginning to wear her patience thin with all his demands. It seemed quite fair that someone else in her family should have to suffer as she was.

Gordon’s eyes lit with something that made her step back. A burning determination that she had seen in Curan’s eyes when he looked at her.

“He’d better show, because I’m nae in the mood to search for another way to get what I want from him.”

And it wasn’t her.

Bridget knew it. Somehow she sensed that the Scot wasn’t any more interested in wedding her than she was in marrying him. He wanted someone else, and the truth of that glittered in his eyes while she watched. “I wish you every success, and it is of course a relief to hear that this is truly not about me.”

He drew in a stiff breath and crossed his arms over his chest once again. His expression became hard. Clearly the man didn’t care to know that she had read his emotions.

“Good. Then I’ll no be hearing that ye refused yer supper. I dinna need to think I’m starving ye.”

The laird in him was talking now. Thick authority edged his words, and his voice rose, ensuring his men heard him. He gave a soft grunt along with a solid nod of his head when he finished. Bridget merely stared back at him, content to let him have the last word.

Soothe the male ego … Marie had clearly known what she was talking about.

A moment later he was gone in a swirl of plaid wool. Bridget suddenly felt chilled, as though she stood on the edge of a cliff just waiting to see if her balance would fail. The image was well founded for the future looked bleak.

Would Curan come for her?

Doubt was cruel, and it sliced into her fragile hope. Gordon might believe she was smitten by Curan, but that did not mean Curan would shoulder the blow she had dealt him in fleeing. Which left her standing on the cliff, looking at the fall that would not kill her, but instead leave her suffering from her broken heart for too many years to endure.


“Synclair, you must not do this.” Justina tried to dig her feet into the floor, but her shoes slid easily across the stone surface.

The knight offered her no mercy. His hand was clamped about her forearm, pulling her along in spite of her resistance. He suddenly snorted and released her. Relief swept through her, but it was short-lived, for the man boldly swept her off her feet, cradling her against his chest. It shocked her because Synclair had always acted the perfect gallant, never ignoring chivalry. Holding her against his body was a direct violation of those ancient codes.

“Synclair—”

“Enough, lady. I shall do as bid by Lord Ryppon and gladly so. Cease your protests for they gain you nothing.”

Doing so allowed her to notice how much she liked his embrace. Justina tried to wiggle out of it, but the knight was far stronger than she. He carried her the last few steps to the top room in the tower and angled her through the narrow doorway. Maids were busy pulling sheets off the furniture and placing candles in the holders.

“Out. All of you.”

Synclair’s normally controlled tone was strained. The staff scurried to obey him, their steps fading down the stairs quickly. He released her legs, allowing her to stand, but he maintained a solid arm about her waist, binding her against his hard body. He had never been so forward with her. Always the knight had maintained tight control over the urges she had seen plainly in his eyes. It had always been possible to push him away when she felt her emotions rising.

She could not trust any man.

But it was so difficult to recall her reasons to maintain that vow with him so close. He gently stroked her cheek with the back of his hand, allowing her to inhale the scent of his skin. A shudder shook her as a breath got stuck in her throat. Her eyes slid closed because there was so much sensation, she didn’t need to see, only to feel. She was suddenly so weak that she could not resist taking comfort in the moment. Only for a few beats of her heart.

A soft kiss landed on her mouth, startling her. It was brief, because Synclair allowed her to jump away from him, his arm releasing her when she tore herself from his embrace. Lifting her eyelids, she discovered him watching her from eyes that were dark and full of desire. Yet he hadn’t taken a deep kiss from her, hadn’t used his greater strength to impose his will on her. Hadn’t acted on that hunger blazing so clearly in his eyes.

Disappointment clawed through her, surprising her with how intense was her own longing for him. She could not afford such reactions. Her circumstances did not allow such feminine weaknesses; she must prevent him from thinking kindly of her because she could not resist him. Lifting a hand, she laid it across his cheek in reprimand. The slap made a harsh sound in the silence.

“Blackguard.”

He drew in a sharp breath, a muscle along the side of his jaw beginning to twitch, but his hands remained at his sides.

“I must attend my lord, but I swear unto you, Justina. I shall return to you and you shall confess every detail of how they threaten you.”

He turned to leave and pulled the heavy door shut behind him. She heard a bar being lowered into place and the grinding of a lock being set.

“Don’t bother! Do you hear me? I care not if I ever set eyes upon you again. You are nothing to me. Nothing. I prefer my circumstances, sirrah!”

He heard her. Justina willed herself to believe that. There was no future with him. She would never be allowed to follow her feelings, never. Worse still, any gallant knight who took up the cause of lending his good name to her would find his honor stained by her soiled reputation. She was a whore. A highborn one, but a woman who used her body to survive nonetheless. Her father had sold her first, and then her husband. Widowhood had not freed her as she had hoped. Instead, the man in charge of her son’s inheritance directed her misdeeds. Her sin gained her the sweetest fruit, however, for it kept her child where he belonged.

Tears filled her eyes, and for once she allowed them to drop down her cheeks. Her prison room was as much sanctuary as cell for she could weep now. Weep for the child she ached to hold and for the knight that she would deny.


Gordon Dwyre knew his land well. He’d ridden it by moonlight and by pitch-blackness, too. He knew what the birds sounded like when there were men hidden in the shadows. He left his sword in the scabbard strapped to his back, in spite of the fact that it tested his discipline. His fingers itched to yank it free, and his palm craved contact with the solid pommel.

But that wasnae what he was about tonight, and he needed to remember that fact. Some battles weren’t fought using the steel of a man’s sword. Sometimes, a man needed to apply his wits if he wanted to win the prize he had his eye on.

He could smell the men on the breeze, and it was a sure bet that Ryppon would notice he was on the prowl, too. His muscles tensed, his skin itching with foreboding as he moved forward a few more inches.

“You are either brave beyond measure or a fool to venture outside your walls.”

Curan’s voice was whisper soft. A second later, he stepped into view so that the meager moonlight washed over him. “Maybe you’re both.”

Gordon straightened up and ignored the impulse to draw his sword. His neighbor was fighting the same urge, but the English baron managed to keep his sword hanging from his hip while he gripped his belt. Tension drew both their features tight. One false move and there would be a bloodbath around them both.