was get MacPherson to move to one side. Jamie wasn’t even caring if MacPherson watched.
He grew bored with his own voice and slept, his legs sprawled before him, his kilt-thing askew, showing off legs equally as long and thick as Thayne’s, and his mouth wide and slack with the force of his snoring. And that’s how the rest of the night passed.
Amalie lifted her eyes toward the myriad holes in the roof, letting in light. She sent an unspoken prayer through them. She didn’t have anything else. It was dawn, her time was up, and Thayne hadn’t returned.
“MacPherson.”
She must’ve dozed. Amalie lifted her head from the infant’s silent form, blinked on rose-shaded cheeks, and then looked over and up. The man who’d guarded her was moving, first to his knees and then to a stand that grazed his head against the beams. He was facing the laird, easily seen through daylight percolating through the roof and sides of the hut.
“Take the bairn and leave us.”
MacPherson turned his head and looked down at her. “Thayne—”
“Look for yourself. Thayne dinna’ return. Nor did my Honor Guard. ’Tis well past dawn. I’ll repeat it just once. Take the bairn and leave. Now.”
MacPherson reached for the babe. Amalie didn’t seem to have any feeling in her fingers as they simply let the bundle go. She had her eyes on Jamie. He flicked a glance at her, imprinting absolute chill. Then he looked back up at MacPherson.
“You are to fetch my horse. Stand by it. You’re na’ to return, nae matter what you hear. Doona’ fash it, much. I’ll na’ be that long.”
“Aye, Your grace.”
Your grace? Sweet heaven! Jamie MacGowan was a duke, too? No wonder he’d regaled her with tales of position and title and how many women it impressed! Amalie was panting. And she was trembling. There was no fighting a duke’s command. Her father wouldn’t even have the power. She was surprised Thayne tried.
She didn’t dare stay on the ground. She willed enough substance into her legs to stand, wrapped her blanket securely about the ill-used gown, and ignored the scratch of wool against her bare back where the dress hadn’t been refastened. It didn’t help. Jamie MacGowan was a towering man, and once the wood bolt thing banged into place behind MacPherson, Jamie was an immensely threatening one. His first step took him to the center of the structure and the next put him right in front of her. Not touching, just standing, and huffing whiskey-tainted morn breath all over her.
“You thinking to fight me?” He lowered his head toward her. She didn’t look up to check. She could feel it.
Amalie pulled the blanket tighter and kept her focus on lengthening each breath. She’d never been so frightened. She had to cease reacting and think! She wasn’t an easy wench. She was Miss Amalie Ellin. His was a stupid question. She wasn’t submitting without a fight. For some reason she knew if she told him of it though, it would please him. He might even want it.
“Is that what you want?” She tipped her head back to say it, met his gaze and kept it without blinking.
One side of his lip lifted. “Na’ especially.”
“Then yes. I’m fighting.”
He pulled in a breath and let it out, sending sour breath over her again. Amalie held hers until the odor dissipated.
“You should see sense. We’ve a long ride ahead of us, a horde at our heels, and verra little time.”
“Yet you waste it ravishing your own brother’s wife?”
“You’re na’ his wife.”
He stepped closer, forcing her back against the wall to avoid any touch. It didn’t help. All that happened was a rash of shivers from the chill of the structure at her shoulders.
“Your law says I am,” Amalie retorted.
Jamie lifted his lip again in a half-smile. It didn’t make him look any less aggressive or menacing. “The same law makes you a widow, then.”
Her heart thudded hurtfully and then kept radiating it with every following beat. It also
He grew bored with his own voice and slept, his legs sprawled before him, his kilt-thing askew, showing off legs equally as long and thick as Thayne’s, and his mouth wide and slack with the force of his snoring. And that’s how the rest of the night passed.
Amalie lifted her eyes toward the myriad holes in the roof, letting in light. She sent an unspoken prayer through them. She didn’t have anything else. It was dawn, her time was up, and Thayne hadn’t returned.
“MacPherson.”
She must’ve dozed. Amalie lifted her head from the infant’s silent form, blinked on rose-shaded cheeks, and then looked over and up. The man who’d guarded her was moving, first to his knees and then to a stand that grazed his head against the beams. He was facing the laird, easily seen through daylight percolating through the roof and sides of the hut.
“Take the bairn and leave us.”
MacPherson turned his head and looked down at her. “Thayne—”
“Look for yourself. Thayne dinna’ return. Nor did my Honor Guard. ’Tis well past dawn. I’ll repeat it just once. Take the bairn and leave. Now.”
MacPherson reached for the babe. Amalie didn’t seem to have any feeling in her fingers as they simply let the bundle go. She had her eyes on Jamie. He flicked a glance at her, imprinting absolute chill. Then he looked back up at MacPherson.
“You are to fetch my horse. Stand by it. You’re na’ to return, nae matter what you hear. Doona’ fash it, much. I’ll na’ be that long.”
“Aye, Your grace.”
Your grace? Sweet heaven! Jamie MacGowan was a duke, too? No wonder he’d regaled her with tales of position and title and how many women it impressed! Amalie was panting. And she was trembling. There was no fighting a duke’s command. Her father wouldn’t even have the power. She was surprised Thayne tried.
She didn’t dare stay on the ground. She willed enough substance into her legs to stand, wrapped her blanket securely about the ill-used gown, and ignored the scratch of wool against her bare back where the dress hadn’t been refastened. It didn’t help. Jamie MacGowan was a towering man, and once the wood bolt thing banged into place behind MacPherson, Jamie was an immensely threatening one. His first step took him to the center of the structure and the next put him right in front of her. Not touching, just standing, and huffing whiskey-tainted morn breath all over her.
“You thinking to fight me?” He lowered his head toward her. She didn’t look up to check. She could feel it.
Amalie pulled the blanket tighter and kept her focus on lengthening each breath. She’d never been so frightened. She had to cease reacting and think! She wasn’t an easy wench. She was Miss Amalie Ellin. His was a stupid question. She wasn’t submitting without a fight. For some reason she knew if she told him of it though, it would please him. He might even want it.
“Is that what you want?” She tipped her head back to say it, met his gaze and kept it without blinking.
One side of his lip lifted. “Na’ especially.”
“Then yes. I’m fighting.”
He pulled in a breath and let it out, sending sour breath over her again. Amalie held hers until the odor dissipated.
“You should see sense. We’ve a long ride ahead of us, a horde at our heels, and verra little time.”
“Yet you waste it ravishing your own brother’s wife?”
“You’re na’ his wife.”
He stepped closer, forcing her back against the wall to avoid any touch. It didn’t help. All that happened was a rash of shivers from the chill of the structure at her shoulders.
“Your law says I am,” Amalie retorted.
Jamie lifted his lip again in a half-smile. It didn’t make him look any less aggressive or menacing. “The same law makes you a widow, then.”
Her heart thudded hurtfully and then kept radiating it with every following beat. It also
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