Page 51

He sat up and moved her hands away, massaging the bruised thigh with skill and gentleness.

“I am sorry,” he said. “I should have been more careful.”

She should have slapped him across the face for his boldness, but she found herself watching that strong, handsome face of his and feeling the magic of his hands. Her thigh was fine, but his fingers were so soothing and relaxing that she let him go on for a moment before pulling away. Her cheeks were growing hot as she pulled the furs back over her.

“I would go back to sleep now, sir knight,” she said, avoiding his gaze.

He didn’t reply but lay back down beside her, only this time, he was facing her. Jemma looked at him in alarm.

“If I fell asleep and rolled over on you, I’d never know it,” he explained. “If I face you, then I will know exactly where you are.”

She wasn’t so sure that it was a good idea and fully intended to tell him so when he pulled her stiff body up against him. He was so huge that she almost felt smothered, but as his heat drove her chill away she instinctively relaxed against him. She tried her best to stay in a protective position, her arms between the two of them, but his size and sheer warmth eased her so much that it wasn’t long before she was pressed flat against him and his arms were embracing her protectively.

Yet, she did not want to give in so easily. Call it stubborn Scot pride.

“If ye try anything….” Her threat lost its effectiveness as it came out in a yawn.

“I know, I know, you will beat me as you did Paris,” he finished her sentence.

“Worse,” she insisted with a sigh, closing her eyes.

He smiled. He believed her.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Malcolm was having a God-awful time controlling his fear.

He had done exactly what he had hoped not to do; to become The Wolf’s prisoner. He also knew very well that The Wolf would interrogate Tate and Dougal after he had finished with him, and that his story would not match the others. He could lie his way out. He had to be cleverer than The Wolf.

He wondered if Abner had gotten away. When the young knight who had been chasing him returned empty-handed, Malcolm almost crowed with victory. Mayhap Abner would return and bring the army to rescue his men. But even as he thought it, he doubted it. Abner cared more about his own hide than anyone else’s, which left Malcolm alone with The Wolf.

But William had no intention of further questioning Malcolm. It was obvious that the man was a liar and could not be trusted. William could piece two and two together and come up with the answers he knew were correct, no matter what Jordan’s cousin said.

He had been going over and over the battle in his mind. He was growing more convinced that Thomas Scott did not have anything to do with the attack for the simple fact that it was so sloppy. He had fought Thomas before and the man was meticulous, which made him wonder what in the hell Malcolm was doing, and why with the McKenna? The McKenna were the exact opposites of the Scotts. True, they had been allied once, but Jordan told him the alliance was null.

As William stood there and pondered his next move, he eyed Malcolm, hands tied behind his back and sitting on his heel. What in the bloody hell was the man up to?

His face like stone, he went over to Malcolm.

“Since you obviously are incapable of telling me the truth, I have no further use for you,” he said coldly. He turned to Ranulf. “Execute him.”

“You canna.” Malcolm burst. “Jordan asked ye not to.”

A flicker of a sneer crossed William’s lips. “So she did. What of it?”

Malcolm’s mind was reeling. He opened his big mouth to speak but all that came out was a bluster of wind.

“I have committed no crime again ye, English,” he was grasping at straws. “But if ye consider loyalty to yer kin a crime, then I suppose I am guilty.”

The more agitated Malcolm became, the cooler William became. His face was still quite impassive.

“You are not loyal to Lady Jordan,” he said frankly.

“How do ye know my mind?” Malcolm demanded. “What do ye care about her, ye English bastard? She’s nothing but a bit of chattel to become the English laird’s whore.”

It took every ounce of strength William possessed not to run at Malcolm and tear his arms from his sockets. He stiffened, though; that was beyond his control. Paris, standing in the darkened recesses of the tent, saw the rigid stance and took a few steps forward. If there was going to be any bloodshed, he would not allow William to dirty his hands with it. He did not think Jordan would look too kindly upon the man who tore her cousin literally limb from limb. He was, therefore, prepared to do it in his stead. He didn’t want Jordan hating him, either, but better him than William.

“She will not be anyone’s whore, boy,” William rumbled.