you.”
Marsali subsided into a brief resentful silence, unconvinced she wanted this dark volatile warrior dictating her future, good motives notwithstanding. “I’m going to have to decline your kind offer,” she said, tossing back her mop of tangled hair to glare at him.
Duncan shook his head, his voice mocking. “But you weren’t given the choice, my dear. We’re going back to the castle together. I’ll have you installed in the turret bedchamber. From now on, I’m going to shadow your every move.”
“The turret is haunted, my lord,” she said in genuine alarm, “by the ghosts of your ancestors.”
“Well, then at least they’re family ghosts, aren’t they?” Duncan looked her over with a cold appraising criticism that made Marsali shiver. “My God, you’re a mess. Your father wouldn’t know you.” He paused, his face reflective. “My betrothed is due to arrive at the end of the month. I didn’t want her to come, but now I think I’m glad of it. She can decide how to manage you. I’m certainly not up to the chore.”
Marsali blinked, incredulous, her brain struggling to absorb the unexpected blow. “Your… betrothed?”
“Lady Sarah Grayson. Well, we’re not officially engaged yet, but we will be at the end of summer. The woman is a walking treasure trove of social trivia. If anyone can turn a sow’s ear into silk, it’s—”
Marsali slapped him then, not the light stinging palm across the cheek of a woman insulted, but a forceful crack against the jaw that jerked his head back several inches.
“What the hell was that for?” he asked in astonishment, his hand lifting to his face.
“Your betrothed, my lord,” she retorted self-righteously. “And for calling me a pig’s ear.”
He scowled. “My betrothed is perfectly capable of slapping me herself.”
“And you’ve given her plenty of reason to practice, I’m sure.”
He gripped her hands in his, dragging her toward him, but Marsali refused to budge, digging her heels into the sand and reasoning that Duncan as a friend might turn out worse for her than as an enemy. A merciless task maker who would shadow her every move. A man in love with another woman—a prissy English noblewoman at that. Marsali cringed in horror at the prospect of being bound up in a corset and shipped off to a boarding school, her speech mocked, her heritage sneered at. Wasn’t she gentry in her own right?
“ Get up, Marsali.” He pulled her to her knees. “My patience is wearing out, and there’s a storm moving inland. I’ll be damned if I’m riding back in the rain because of you.”
She fought a sense of panic, a black terror that if she did not fight to retain her freedom she would never own herself again. She needed help. This man’s power would imprison her. In the course of a day he had forced her through a dizzying gamut of feelings, leaving her wrung out and bewildered. The wild hope of wishing him a hero. Humiliation. The bittersweet stirrings of desire. And now the fear of losing her freedom, the nebulous future he had planned for herself. She needed Uncle Colum more than she’d ever needed him in her life.
“I can’t go back to the castle yet,” she said desperately. “I have something important to do first.”
“Not in the middle of the night.” His face unyielding, he knelt and tightened his hold on her wrists. “From now on you don’t ride anywhere without a bodyguard, and then only on my approval. Now get up. We—”
He heard the faint crunch of a footstep in sand a second before Marsali’s face whitened in startled recognition. He glanced around at the same moment she made a frantic effort to rise, wrenching her hands from his. And something inside Duncan, the same infallible sense of intuition that told him when to charge and when to retreat on a military campaign, told him that his fate had just been irrevocably sealed.
Chapter
8
T he regally tall figure of a white-haired man in a
Marsali subsided into a brief resentful silence, unconvinced she wanted this dark volatile warrior dictating her future, good motives notwithstanding. “I’m going to have to decline your kind offer,” she said, tossing back her mop of tangled hair to glare at him.
Duncan shook his head, his voice mocking. “But you weren’t given the choice, my dear. We’re going back to the castle together. I’ll have you installed in the turret bedchamber. From now on, I’m going to shadow your every move.”
“The turret is haunted, my lord,” she said in genuine alarm, “by the ghosts of your ancestors.”
“Well, then at least they’re family ghosts, aren’t they?” Duncan looked her over with a cold appraising criticism that made Marsali shiver. “My God, you’re a mess. Your father wouldn’t know you.” He paused, his face reflective. “My betrothed is due to arrive at the end of the month. I didn’t want her to come, but now I think I’m glad of it. She can decide how to manage you. I’m certainly not up to the chore.”
Marsali blinked, incredulous, her brain struggling to absorb the unexpected blow. “Your… betrothed?”
“Lady Sarah Grayson. Well, we’re not officially engaged yet, but we will be at the end of summer. The woman is a walking treasure trove of social trivia. If anyone can turn a sow’s ear into silk, it’s—”
Marsali slapped him then, not the light stinging palm across the cheek of a woman insulted, but a forceful crack against the jaw that jerked his head back several inches.
“What the hell was that for?” he asked in astonishment, his hand lifting to his face.
“Your betrothed, my lord,” she retorted self-righteously. “And for calling me a pig’s ear.”
He scowled. “My betrothed is perfectly capable of slapping me herself.”
“And you’ve given her plenty of reason to practice, I’m sure.”
He gripped her hands in his, dragging her toward him, but Marsali refused to budge, digging her heels into the sand and reasoning that Duncan as a friend might turn out worse for her than as an enemy. A merciless task maker who would shadow her every move. A man in love with another woman—a prissy English noblewoman at that. Marsali cringed in horror at the prospect of being bound up in a corset and shipped off to a boarding school, her speech mocked, her heritage sneered at. Wasn’t she gentry in her own right?
“ Get up, Marsali.” He pulled her to her knees. “My patience is wearing out, and there’s a storm moving inland. I’ll be damned if I’m riding back in the rain because of you.”
She fought a sense of panic, a black terror that if she did not fight to retain her freedom she would never own herself again. She needed help. This man’s power would imprison her. In the course of a day he had forced her through a dizzying gamut of feelings, leaving her wrung out and bewildered. The wild hope of wishing him a hero. Humiliation. The bittersweet stirrings of desire. And now the fear of losing her freedom, the nebulous future he had planned for herself. She needed Uncle Colum more than she’d ever needed him in her life.
“I can’t go back to the castle yet,” she said desperately. “I have something important to do first.”
“Not in the middle of the night.” His face unyielding, he knelt and tightened his hold on her wrists. “From now on you don’t ride anywhere without a bodyguard, and then only on my approval. Now get up. We—”
He heard the faint crunch of a footstep in sand a second before Marsali’s face whitened in startled recognition. He glanced around at the same moment she made a frantic effort to rise, wrenching her hands from his. And something inside Duncan, the same infallible sense of intuition that told him when to charge and when to retreat on a military campaign, told him that his fate had just been irrevocably sealed.
Chapter
8
T he regally tall figure of a white-haired man in a
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