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Finian turned, his brows up, the corners of his mouth creased down. The angles of the Englishwoman’s face were thrown into sharp relief by candlelight dancing through the hall. Oil lamps hung from the walls and amber rushlight glinted off her hair, making her glow in a gold-red halo.
This was the lamb?
He was impressed. Indeed, the entrance of the emerald angel was noteworthy enough, sufficient to draw his attention from the pain of his wounds and the baron’s gloating. When she removed her hand from Rardove’s sweaty grip, he’d been even more intrigued.
That she would now gainsay him was worth an exchange of shocked glances between him and the other Irish prisoners.
Certainly, here was bravado deserving of respect. It would not go well for her, of course, but that did not diminish the act, and was not what he would have predicted from the English, woman or man, foul race that it was. But here was spirit and defiance. And great beauty.
And she was no lamb. She was a bhean sidhe, glowing fire and defiance and wielding her disdain with a quiet dignity that made Finian blink. Twice.
How could God, in His infinite wisdom, have given the worm Rardove a thing of such value? This must be due the devil.
But she was surely an angel, and seemed of immense value. Particularly as she stepped off the precipice of safety and plunged headlong into peril.
“No.”
The low sound wafted to the edge of the dais. Rardove turned so slowly the pungent scent of a freshly extinguished wick could have dissipated by the time his angry eyes locked on hers. The entire room went still, English soldiers and Irish warriors alike.
He clucked his tongue. “Ah, Senna,” he said softly. His gaze held no softness though. He could have shoved her backward off the dais with it.
Senna returned the glare, her eyes unwavering. Her heart, on the other hand, thundered a wild beat. This would never do. In a moment she would be lost to the terror wrapping around her heart. And that was unacceptable.
The backs of her knees hit the front of the seat and the bench jerked backward as she rose. She stepped out from behind the trestle table, her fingers still wrapped around the wine goblet’s stem.
The scenes of her life unraveled in a flash before her eyes, but her contrary slippered feet propelled her forward. She was mad, she knew that now, and doomed as well. But whatever was to be would be, because she could be nothing other than what she was.
“I bid you a simple enough thing,” the baron said. “Enjoy the bounty of my table.”
“No.” Again her soft voice wafted over the heads of the bloody warriors lined up four-deep on the floor.
His eyebrows shot up, then a sinister grin slid across his handsome features. “I see you’ve no aversion to the wine.”
As if yanked by strings, she thrust out her arm. Holding the goblet in the air between them, she looked into the baron’s eyes and slowly overturned the cup. Like a red flood tide, wine splashed across the floor into a huge crimson puddle.
Rardove’s jaw dropped. Then his face contorted and he strode across the dais until he was only inches away from Senna. His shoulders blocked her view and she could smell him—sweat, leather, anger. His breath lifted her hair in small, hot drafts.
“That wine was precious,” he said in a seething voice.
“As is my signature on a marriage deed, my lord—as precious as my blood.”
He angled his head slightly to the side, as if considering her point. “Your blood is easily spilt, Senna, that is all,” he replied, then reached out and smacked her backhanded across the face.
She reeled, cutting short a cry. Grabbing her hand, he yanked her forward again. “Do we understand one another?”
“I understand you, my lord,” she said quietly. “But I fear you do not comprehend me a’tall.” She pulled her hand free from his.
The anger seemed to wash out of him. A smile more terrifying than an outright assault spread across his face. Taking her chin between his fingers, he lifted her face. Faint blond stubble covered a chin that was not so square on close examination. He had a wide, sweeping forehead, hazel eyes webbed with thin red lines, and a well-shaped mouth that emitted such vileness it made her sick.
“If I need burrow into your very bones, Senna, you will heed me.” His fingers tightened and his thumb stroked her cut lip in an idle, threatening caress. “If this be your insurrection, it stops now. Do you hear me?”
She tried to turn her chin away, but his grip was stronger. “I hear you, my lord,” she said, her voice trembling.
He considered her a moment. “No, Senna. I don’t think you do.”
Without warning, he slammed her backward into the wall. She rebounded against the rock. He took her wrist and lifted it up into the space between their faces.
“Is this the hand you refused me?”
