brother in a bad light. He seemed to enjoy demeaning, mocking, and embarrassing Thayne. Jamie spoke of times when he’d done something especially odious and set it up so Thayne took the blame. Thayne was soft; weak; foolish. Jamie had even gone past those words to tell her of times he and Thayne had been keen on the same lass, and then both had her by fooling her with how alike they were. He claimed to be interchangeable with his “bairn brother” once the lights were dimmed enough. One man was as good as another, he told her more than once. Sometimes one man was better, if she knew what he spoke of.
Amalie’s upper lip lifted slightly in a sneer. She didn’t have any trouble following his words . . . and his intent. He’d gone into depth on times when he’d taken uncountable women to his bed. Some at the same time. Jamie claimed women flocked about him, begging for his favors. They were his for the taking. Always had been. Always were. Due to his name. And position. His manhood. Prowess. Or mayhap it was his handsome face. Or his record of braw’ wins on the list. According to Jamie, women were forever pestering him. Wanting him. Needing him. Begging him for what he claimed Amalie also wanted and needed.
He was ready to grant her all, now that he’d gotten a good look at her. She was much too bonny for his “puny-ass” brother, Thayne. Jamie was rich. Titled. Thayne had little unless it was granted to him. By his brother. The MacGowan clan chieftain. He informed Amalie she’d be wasting her time with him. She should be dressed in silks from the East, satins and velvets from Venice, and covered in Scot pearls of all shades. The MacGowan laird would assure it. She just needed to order MacPherson to step outside for a bit and Jamie MacGowan would be hers. She’d have no regrets. He was twice the man most men were. Even his brother possessed less “tupping meat.” At least, the women they’d shared always said so.
More than once his bragging got him a gasp of shock. That was one of the times. He’d just grinned and asked if she wanted to see for herself. That was when she’d first shifted closer to the wall, hunching her shoulders against further assault. It wasn’t the last. Nothing worked. He seemed to enjoy her reaction since he regaled her more tales of male prowess and experience. All of it completely distasteful.
And totally frightening.
Amalie wasn’t allowing that emotion. She thanked God silently that MacPherson was in the middle of the little croft, taking up most of the space in a cross-legged sit; Amalie at his back and the MacGowan laird in full sight at his front.
Amalie had never been around grown men. She’d always had servants and a governess at her side. Her father would never allow such familiarity. Thayne had seemed a creature from another world. Yet he had a sense of honor about him that his brother lacked. The more she was around Jamie MacGowan, the less he resembled Thayne. She doubted she’d ever have trouble distinguishing them.
As the torch sputtered and dimmed, he’d gotten lower-voiced. As if speaking secrets. Just to her. He’d moved to speaking of love. If she was looking for that, she had the wrong man. Thayne MacGowan would never love her. She might as well ken the truth. He’d been ruined by Mary even afore she’d wed with Dunn-Fyne. That must be why he claimed the bairn . . . and probably why he claimed Amalie as well. He needed a mother for the bairn. Thayne didn’t want her. He didn’t love her. He needed her. From all Jamie could tell, Amalie’s lone value was as the bairn’s substitute mother. That was the full truth; simple and straightforward.
He’d gotten slower-witted and softer and drowsier, yet still filled the croft with words. Jamie didn’t know why she wouldn’t let him demonstrate what love between a man and woman could be. How a wench could take a man within her and grasp the key to heaven at the same time. He’d show her. All she had to do
Amalie’s upper lip lifted slightly in a sneer. She didn’t have any trouble following his words . . . and his intent. He’d gone into depth on times when he’d taken uncountable women to his bed. Some at the same time. Jamie claimed women flocked about him, begging for his favors. They were his for the taking. Always had been. Always were. Due to his name. And position. His manhood. Prowess. Or mayhap it was his handsome face. Or his record of braw’ wins on the list. According to Jamie, women were forever pestering him. Wanting him. Needing him. Begging him for what he claimed Amalie also wanted and needed.
He was ready to grant her all, now that he’d gotten a good look at her. She was much too bonny for his “puny-ass” brother, Thayne. Jamie was rich. Titled. Thayne had little unless it was granted to him. By his brother. The MacGowan clan chieftain. He informed Amalie she’d be wasting her time with him. She should be dressed in silks from the East, satins and velvets from Venice, and covered in Scot pearls of all shades. The MacGowan laird would assure it. She just needed to order MacPherson to step outside for a bit and Jamie MacGowan would be hers. She’d have no regrets. He was twice the man most men were. Even his brother possessed less “tupping meat.” At least, the women they’d shared always said so.
More than once his bragging got him a gasp of shock. That was one of the times. He’d just grinned and asked if she wanted to see for herself. That was when she’d first shifted closer to the wall, hunching her shoulders against further assault. It wasn’t the last. Nothing worked. He seemed to enjoy her reaction since he regaled her more tales of male prowess and experience. All of it completely distasteful.
And totally frightening.
Amalie wasn’t allowing that emotion. She thanked God silently that MacPherson was in the middle of the little croft, taking up most of the space in a cross-legged sit; Amalie at his back and the MacGowan laird in full sight at his front.
Amalie had never been around grown men. She’d always had servants and a governess at her side. Her father would never allow such familiarity. Thayne had seemed a creature from another world. Yet he had a sense of honor about him that his brother lacked. The more she was around Jamie MacGowan, the less he resembled Thayne. She doubted she’d ever have trouble distinguishing them.
As the torch sputtered and dimmed, he’d gotten lower-voiced. As if speaking secrets. Just to her. He’d moved to speaking of love. If she was looking for that, she had the wrong man. Thayne MacGowan would never love her. She might as well ken the truth. He’d been ruined by Mary even afore she’d wed with Dunn-Fyne. That must be why he claimed the bairn . . . and probably why he claimed Amalie as well. He needed a mother for the bairn. Thayne didn’t want her. He didn’t love her. He needed her. From all Jamie could tell, Amalie’s lone value was as the bairn’s substitute mother. That was the full truth; simple and straightforward.
He’d gotten slower-witted and softer and drowsier, yet still filled the croft with words. Jamie didn’t know why she wouldn’t let him demonstrate what love between a man and woman could be. How a wench could take a man within her and grasp the key to heaven at the same time. He’d show her. All she had to do
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