Highland Conqueror by Hannah Howell Page A

with me?” she asked finally.
    “Mayhap we should wait until the morning,” said Sigimor, “after ye have rested.”
    Taking a deep, slow breath to calm her rising temper, Jolene smiled sweetly at him. “Tell me now.”
    He did love her temper, Sigimor mused, as he fought the urge to grin. Women rarely stood firm against him or showed him their displeasure. It saddened him, but many women found him imposing, even frightening. A lot of men did as well, but he considered that a good thing. Not this little Englishwoman, however. She did not hesitate to give him a look that clearly said she would like to beat him senseless when he goaded her. Sigimor suspected a lot of men would think him half mad, but he found that intensely attractive.
    “I truly think it might be best to wait until the morrow when your head isnae so clouded by exhaustion.”
    “The only thing my head is clouded with at the moment is a rising fury. Tell me now. Please,” she added in an attempt at courtesy which was utterly ruined by the way she spat the word out from between tightly clenched teeth.
    Sigimor shrugged. “As ye wish. The plan is—ye and I will marry.”

Chapter Seven
    “I beg your pardon?”
    “Ye and I will marry as soon as I can find a priest.”
    He did not look insane, Jolene thought as she struggled to break free of her shock. Yet, something had to have disordered his wits for him to say such a mad thing. Worse, he said it in much the same tone he might use to ask someone to pass the salt. Ask? He had not asked , he had stated it as if it was an already agreed-to fact.
    Beneath her shock stirred anger, an anger roused by a hurt she did not really understand. Jolene told herself it was just pinched vanity, ignoring the voice in her head that heartily scoffed at that pathetic explanation. There was no romance here. It was more a battle maneuver, something meant to block Harold. Later, she might consider it a most gallant gesture, but, at the moment she saw it as no better than being offered marriage for her lands or her dowry or her bloodlines. A sharp distaste for such alliances was one reason she was still a maid at three and twenty.
    “That is quite unnecessary,” she said, “and I do not see the need for it.”
    “Nay? Harold seeks to marry you. Tis one of the reasons he is chasing us.”
    “Aye— one of the reasons. Marrying me will not make him turn back.”
    “It will protect ye if he gains hold of ye again. He cannae force ye to wed with him. E’en a priest eager for coin will hesitate to join a mon with a lass who already claims a husband.”
    “A marriage between us may not be legal in England.”
    “A mon of the church will feel compelled to make certain of that, especially if we are wed by a priest. So will Harold if he has plans to breed heirs to keep Drumwich in his grasp e’en after he is dead.”
    All he said was true, but Jolene shook her head. She was not exactly sure what she was denying—that truth or the inexplicable urge to fall in with his plan. Although she had always wanted a husband, a home of her own, and children, she needed more than he offered, more than a union formed only to thwart Harold’s plans. The fact that she was so strongly drawn to Sigimor made that more of an even greater necessity. Jolene could all too easily forsee a bleak future where her emotions grew and deepened while his never did.
    Bleak, painful, and full of bitterness, she mused. She had seen what happened when one person in a marriage loved and the other did not. Her family was riddled with such marriages. Her own mother had become a hard, bitter woman after years of loving Jolene’s father, a man who could not give her what she needed. It was one reason Jolene had wished to have some choice in a husband. There was still the chance of failure and heartbreak when one chose one’s own mate, but, she had always hoped, not so great a one. From all she had seen, marriages made for money, land, or alliances rarely proved