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There were so many things he could do, but he did not want to be directly implicated in physically harming her. Hell, the Welsh archer had been the perfect assassin, he thought, until the man failed. Since then, however, when Alexander saw how his father and the knights had reacted, he decided that killing her was mayhap not the smartest thing to do. One could eventually be caught, and a murderer would not ascend the title of Earl of Teviot.

Of course, at this point, he had no recollection of his conversation with William the night before, and did not remember his confession, or the fact that he damn near implicated himself in the plot to kill the lady. Even if he had remembered, it would have made little difference. William had no power over him.

Except the power of desire; he lusted for William as he had lusted for none other. The man’s beauty and strength inflamed him to the point of insanity. He wanted to feel those arms around him, run his tongue over the naked buttocks, and feel his mighty sword as it forged into him. But this little bitch seemed to be taking all of William’s time and attention, and he would make her pay for her interference.

Scot or English was of no concern to him, in faith. He simply hated all women. Vile creatures with privates like horses, huge and slimy and gaping.

The next best thing to killing her was to make her so miserable that she would voluntarily leave or, at best, kill herself. He could see a blooming opportunity for Jordan to suffer major humiliation and he not be made to blame. He had a ready and willing tool in his guard. The man had appeared shortly before dawn, informing Alexander that Sir William had ordered him protected because of the attempt on Lady Jordan’s life.

Alexander didn’t stop to think that it had been over a week since the attack, he was simply flattered that William was thinking of him. He was doubly flattered when he noticed his sister had no guard. Obviously, William thought he was worth protecting.

He pushed himself off the door frame and moved toward Jordan. She stiffened, using the basket like a shield as he approached, wondering with horror what he intended to do. When his hand lashed out she let out a small cry, thinking he was going to strike her. Instead, he ripped off her kerchief. With a thin smile, he turned back for his door, handing the soldier the kerchief as he passed by him.

“Use this to gag her,” he said coldly. “ ’Twill block out her screams.”

Alexander’s door slammed. Jordan ran cold; he had given the man his permission to rape her and God only knew what else. She knew now that she had to run if she were going to get help, no matter where the corridors took her. Mayhap if she screamed and yelled enough, someone would hear her. She silently swore to God that lf he let her come from this crisis free of harm, that she would never again disobey William.

Her body tensed, preparing to bolt as the soldier glanced curiously at the kerchief and shrugged. “Mayhap I will use this,” he said thoughtfully. “I would not want your screams to distract me from my pleasure.”

Bile rose in her throat. She closed her eyes a brief second to fight it down, but by the time she reopened them he was upon her, his dirty hands reaching for her.

Jordan screamed, dropping the basket and twisting away from him, but he had her by the arm and he pulled her back against him roughly. She could smell his rotten breath and it threatened to bring up the contents of her intestines.

He was strong. She fought and twisted, screeched and kicked, but his grip held firm. She could feel him trying to pin her against the wall so that he could free up a hand to rip away at her clothing.

But she was a wildcat, scratching and beating him with her fists and trying desperately to break free from his grasp. Even when he lashed out and slapped her, bringing the taste of blood to her lips, she continued to fight. She would get away from the man or die trying.

He slammed her up against the stone wall, momentarily stunning her in the brief reprieve in which she stopped her struggles, he fumbled with the ties of the girdle, trying to loosen it. She was seeing stars and deathly afraid she would faint when she suddenly felt a hand to her breast and immediately she returned to the land of the living, slugging the man in the face and resuming her vicious fighting. She wondered vaguely if anyone had heard her screams and if they had, if they even cared. They probably thought it was the screams of another bawdy serving wench in the throes of passion.

The soldier was grabbing at her hips, trying to lift her skirts. She was using her elbows, aiming for his face, screaming curses at him in Gaelic. But her energy, fed by adrenalin, was fading and being replaced by a panic that promised sweet, safe darkness if she would only give in. But she would not give up – she could not. She could not let this happen to her.

Faintly, she heard a high-pitched noise, a strange sing-song note that sounded like a bell or a tuning fork. She was almost distracted by it, wondering where it was coming from, when the soldier lurched away from her like a rag doll, wildly and out of control.

The next thing she saw was William, broadsword in hand, driving the blade into the soldier’s torso and clean through the other side. The man twitched once, twice, and moaned before his eyes closed and he was forever silenced by the hand of death.

Jordan was still pressed up against the wall, tears over-spilling her eyes and mouth agape as she stared at the dead man. Her hair was askew, her dress torn and disheveled, and her lip swollen and bleeding.

She could not move; she could hardly breathe. All she could do was gawk in horror as William calmly, coldly, removed his sword and wiped the blood off on the soldier’s tunic.

He gazed at the soldier a moment longer before turning to Jordan. She knew he was looking at her but she could not bring herself to meet his eyes, a man was dead because she had deliberately disobeyed him. She as good as killed the man herself.

Jordan could not face him, not after what she had caused him to do. Spinning toward the wall she burst into hot, frightened tears. Her fingers clutched at the stone as she poured out her heart. Her sobs grew more violent and her knees grew weak, her mind spiraling with the shock of what had happened.

William caught her before she fell, clutching her to his hard chest and inhaling deeply of her hair. The terror that was clawing at his heart was beyond all rational words and the anger that had gripped him was the rage of the devil. His emotions were surging like the raging tides and to hold her, to see that she was physically sound, helped calm him somewhat. But he still felt as if he were bordering on insanity.

He let her cry, knowing she needed to release her fear just as he had released his own when he had driven the sword into the soldier’s innards. But after a few minutes of holding her and stroking her lovingly, of whispering sweet words into her hair, he turned her around to look at him.

His big hands clasped either side of her face. “You are safe, love,” he whispered. “Look at me. Let me see what happened to you.”

She was sobbing quietly but she tilted her head up. He noticed her eyes were still closed. “Look at me, Jordan,” he repeated.

She did, sluggishly, revealing the pale green orbs as if a curtain were slowly raising. His heart lurched at the myriad of emotions he could so blatantly read. His thumb traced over the small cut on the corner of her mouth.

“Did he do this?” His voice was raspy.

She nodded, then burst out into sobs again. “Oh, English, I am so sorry. I was wicked and I disobeyed ye.”

He shushed her, kissing her face, tasting her tears. “You are safe now.” Now was not the time to scold her. “Come on. Let me take you back.”