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He shook his head again.
She reversed step to examine the padlocks of the nearest chest, sitting under the edge of the table. Perhaps they’d already been broken open. No, they were intact, as flat black and foreboding as ever. She turned back, feeling oddly and unaccountably embarrassed.
Their eyes met. He shook his head again, very slowly.
He had the face of a warrior, hard and bold, with no way to hide the past. His chin was scarred by an old, jagged slice. Another long, narrow scar traversed the summit of his cheekbone. His nose had clearly been broken sometime in the past. He’d been in battles. He was a warrior. He was in her bedchamber.
The first inkling of things to come slid down her belly like a drop of cold rain. Their eyes locked on each other.
“Why do you not simply do it?” she asked quietly.
He pushed his boots out. “Do what?”
”Punish me.”
“Why would I punish you?”
She gestured behind her, toward the door. “For what happened. Downstairs.”
“Ah. What happened. Downstairs.” His echo was a long, drawn-out affair.
Heat swept across her cheeks. “’Twas an…aberration. sir. It is not like me.”
He leaned his hard body back, slung an arm over the side of the chair and let it hang, deceptively relaxed, for she knew he was as relaxed as a wolf.
“Oh, Katarina, what ‘happened downstairs’ is very much a thing of you.”
Her jaw dropped at his words, at the use of her Christian name. For on his lips, it had not sounded Christian at all. He’d rendered it into something else entirely. The words were English, but the intonation, the inflection, the way it rolled over his tongue… No, this was not her language. This was his. Some melding of English and Irish. Something old, foreign. Ensorcelled. Enchanted.
She dragged her mind from the things he was doing to her name. “Y-You are wrong about me, Aodh Mac Con.”
He bent to the floor beside him, lifted something, and tossed it onto the table. It was a lightwe
ight sword belt, blades attached.
Her blades.
Other weapons followed behind, hitting the table with muted thuds: the long clumsy dagger; the short, fierce knife; the sleek, keen-edged misericorde. Her wheel-lock pistol. The newer snaphances. Five of them.
Why, he’d found everything. How…unsettling.
They stared at the deadly cache together in silence a moment. Then she cleared her throat. “Ireland is a dangerous land.”
He gave a low laugh. “Aye, Katarina. With you in it.”
She forced herself to look at him. “I would not want my men to suffer on account of my misdeeds. I offer my… I am…sorry.” She scraped the word out and wiped it through the air.
He pushed the weapons to the side, inconsequential anymore. “’Tis time to clarify a few things, lass. I do not rape women.”
His voice had turned to hard steel, and it made her feel cold inside. “Oh.”
“I do not smash open coffers to steal coin.”
“I meant only—”
“I do not deal in feigned apologies—”
“I—”
