Ransom My Heart by Meg Cabot

“Whatever are you talking about?” he asked, a smile curving up the corners of his generous lips.
    Finnula stamped an impatient foot. “I’ve got to build a fire and fetch us some dinner, and I can’t do all of that and keep an eye on you—”
    Understanding dawned. Hugo threw back his tawny head and laughed. “So you intend to tie me to a hayrack? Oh, that’s rich.”
    Finnula glared at him. “It isn’t amusing. What’s to keep you from escaping while I’m hunting?”
    â€œIf you don’t know, I’m certainly not going to tell you,” Hugo declared, still laughing. When Finnula narrowed her eyes at him, he held up both hands, palms facing her. “Nay, don’t give me that look, you hard-hearted wench. I swear to you I’ll stay put. You have my emerald, remember?”
    Finnula’s fingers flew to the heavy stone she wore upon her neck. She had nearly forgotten about it, it nestled so comfortably between her breasts. Of course he wouldn’t try to escape, not while something so valuable was still in her possession.
    There was nothing, however, to keep him from sneaking up behind her and taking it away by force—but she supposed if he had been intent on doing such a thing, he’d have done it already. God knew he could easily have gotten away after his squire had knocked her senseless. No, as much as she didn’t like to admitit, Sir Hugh Fitzwilliam apparently had some honor. He was the type to see a thing through to the end, if only for the pleasure of laughing at her some more.
    â€œI’ll make a fire,” Hugo offered, reasonably, “while you fetch us something to eat. I’m looking forward to actually seeing these superlative hunting skills about which I’ve heard so much.”
    Finnula looked down at the length of rope in her hands. She so wanted to tie him up, and gag him, too, and spend a few hours in pleasant obliviousness to his presence. His aggressively male presence was grating. But there was no hope for it. She needed only to endure him for another forty-eight hours. Forty-eight hours was nothing. With any luck, she’d spend at least sixteen of them asleep.
    If she could sleep in the presence of such a man.
    Shrugging, Finnula went back to Violet’s side and put away the rope, taking her bow and quiver from the saddle instead. She tried not to pay attention to the fact that she could feel her prisoner’s eyes boring into her the entire time her back was to him. What was it, she wondered, that so constantly drew his eyes to her? It wasn’t possible that he could still be attracted to her, not after she’d spent almost the entire afternoon being unpleasant to him.
    But he didn’t even have the grace to look away when she caught his stare on her hair, and, glaring at him challengingly, she quickly braided the mess of auburn locks, and tossed the plait over her shoulder and out of sight.
    Hugo just smirked, as if her contrariness was charming. She glared at him some more.
    â€œI hope you’re partial to rabbit,” she said irritably. “Because that’s all you’re getting for dinner.”
    Hugo bowed as if she’d said she’d be preparing boar in a delicate mushroom sauce. Fuming, Finnula whirled away, and begantrudging toward a nearby thicket, muttering to herself. What was it about this infuriating man that kept provoking her? Normally she had the most steady of tempers. Normally it didn’t bother her at all when people smirked at her: Isabella Laroche smirked at her regularly, and it had never irritated her a bit. But something about being the object of this man’s amusement was very annoying indeed.
    Stalking a particularly cunning hare in the half light calmed Finnula somewhat. She ignored several females for fear that she’d leave their little ones motherless, and went for a male instead. She dallied a bit, enjoying her time away from her