By Love Enslaved by Phoebe Conn Page A

was there. Surely, in time he would want to meet with her alone. That possibility was so exciting she couldn’t look her mother in the eye as she stepped by her. Fortunately, Grena was so preoccupied she didn’t notice Berit’s delighted smile.
     
     
    When Dana called his name, Brendan was so startled he nearly drove the tines of the pitchfork he was using through the toe of his boot. He wheeled around and found her standing at the stable door. She was silhouetted by the morning sun so he could make out nothing but her shapely form. That she had come looking for him pleased him enormously, until she spoke.
    “Thora and I are going riding, and we need you to saddle our mounts. You know which horse is mine, and the sorrel pony in the next stall is hers.”
    As the redhead turned to go, Brendan stilled his anger long enough to call out to her, “Wait!”
    Dana paused, still holding the front of her tunic as she prepared to take another step. “Is there something you don’t understand?” Having come to the regrettable conclusion she would have to deal with Brendan on a daily basis, Dana had decided she would speak with him only when she had a specific task for him to perform. Otherwise she would pretend he did not exist.
    After leaning the pitchfork against the wall so he would not be tempted to spear her with it, Brendan walked to the end of the stable. While he worked, he had again been telling himself that Dana was a pagan beauty with the blackest of hearts, but once he could see her delicate features clearly his resolve to despise her wavered dangerously. He could think of only one thing when he looked at her: how glorious it would be to feel her naked body pressed close to his.
    “Do you ride without an escort?” he asked incredulously.
    “Neither of us is in any danger of being thrown,” Dana assured him.
    The sunlight had again given her glossy red hair a halo’s bright gleam, and dazzled by that splendor, Brendan had to take a moment to explain his concern. “I’ve seen you ride, so it’s not your skill which I’m questioning, but the wisdom of riding alone. Are there never any travelers on the roads, strangers who might wish you harm?”
    Amused, Dana responded with a throaty laugh, certain his remark was based on something other than concern for her safety. “You are the only dangerous stranger on Fyn, Brendan, and as long as you attend to your duties here, I will feel safe.” His glance turned cold, but that didn’t bother her in the least. She preferred his hatred to the scathing heat of his unbridled lust. As a scowl contorted his mouth into a fierce grimace, she noticed for the first time that a thin scar crossed his upper lip midway to the left corner. Probably the result of a punch to his mouth he must surely have deserved, she mused silently.
    “I waited until you had finished eating to ask this of you,” Dana pointed out in the same emotionless tone she had used when first addressing him. “Do not keep us waiting any longer than necessary.” She turned her back on him and disappeared around the side of the stable, giving him no opportunity to reply.
    “The bitch!” Brendan again swore in his own tongue, repeating the insult that had started the fight with Erik the previous day. He would saddle her horse all right, but he was tempted to cut the cinch nearly through so it would break during her ride and spill the haughty flame-haired beauty in the dirt, where he thought she belonged.
    “I don’t think I should ask Moira what that word means,” Thora announced solemnly.
    His attention drawn to the shadows at the door, Brendan cursed himself for not having noticed Dana wasn’t alone. “No, you shouldn’t,” he agreed. “Who’s Moira?”
    Thora followed as Brendan walked back to the stall where Dana’s dapple-gray mare stood. “She’s one of our servants, and her parents were from Erin so she speaks your tongue.”
    “I thought I was the only thrall here.”
    “You are. Her