Pleased that she would have the pallet all to herself, she forgot her sniffles and went over to the pile of furs. He watched her as she made herself comfortable, shaking his head at the stubborn little wench. As he pondered her mercurial personality, Kieran entered the tent. He eyed Jemma as she fussed with the pallet.
“So I see you have yet to commit murder,” he remarked casually.
Jemma looked up, glaring at the both of them before returning to her task. Paris grunted.
“So far I have had little opportunity,” he replied, turning to Kieran. “Is the camp secure?”
“Aye,” Kieran replied. “They seem to be the only intruders, and Deinwald has located the breach. Two soldiers were killed. We are doubling the guard on the perimeter.”
Paris nodded, satisfied. “Since William is busy with the, uh, prisoner,” he eyed Jemma, “I shall see to his cohorts. Where are they?”
“North side, near the guard post,” Kieran replied. “Lewis and Marc have them.”
Paris nodded again. “Very well. You stay with the banshee until I return.” He locked eyes with Jemma’s hostile orbs. “And you behave yourself, for I give Sir Kieran permission to blister your arse if needed.”
He was gone. Jemma sat on the furs, her oval face flushed with anger. Kieran hid a smile, pouring himself a cup of wine and trying not to look at her, although she was closely studying him. Out of the corner of his eye he could see her but not her face. He wondered what physical harm she was planning for him. Her cousin certainly wasn’t the troublemaking type, he thought.
“Are ye really that big or do ye stuff yer clothes?” she demanded.
He looked at her, half smiling at her question. “I assure you, my lady, ’tis all me.”
She scrutinized him foot by foot. “How’d ye get to be so big?”
He took a couple of steps towards her. “Many, many hours of sword and field practice, and a good deal of wood chopping.”
“Wood chopping?” she repeated.
He flexed the arm that was not clutching the cup. Even though he was covered to the elbow, every muscle and every tendon was massive and defined. His biceps strained at the material until she thought it was going to split. “ ’Tis good for strength as well as stamina,” he told her.
She nodded as though considering that explanation. Lord, the man was big. And handsome, too. She liked the way his brown eyes twinkled at her. He didn’t seem as arrogant or high-handed as that other English hound. She immediately felt more comfortable with his easy manner.
Kieran watched her lovely face. She was so tiny she looked like a fragile little doll. Her raven’s-wing hair reflected the light from the brazier like satin. He was pleased to notice also that handled calmly, she responded in kind. Paris seemed to bring out the worst in her, and she affected him the same way.
“Then ye must do it day and night to be so large,” she commented. “Are all Sassenach knights as big as ye?”
He did smile then. “Some, but not all,” he said. “What’s more, size is not indicative of skill.”
She nodded silently. Her pretty amber eyes were appraising him openly. “Where are ye from?”
“Nottingham,” he replied. “My family is descended from Saxon lords. My father is the Earl of Newark, in fact. I was named for a dead uncle of the same name. He was a very famous man, in fact. He fought with Richard the Lionheart.”
She digested the information. “Ye dinna look to be Norman to me.”
“Oh? And you can tell the difference?”
“Aye,” she insisted. “Normans are darker with angled faces. Your face is square and strong and yer skin is fair.”
“Paris is Norman,” he remarked.
Her eyes widened and filled with the devil. “Aye, and he acts like one, too,” she snapped. “I shall wager he believes every woman he meets to be in love with him, the arrogant buffoon. And do ye know he tried to sleep with me?”
Kieran’s eyebrows drew together. “He tried to bed you?”
“Nay,” she waved irritably. “He tried to sleep in the same bed with me.”
Kieran hid his smile, for she was obviously distressed. “For safety’s sake, I believe,” he said evenly. “Just as Sir William sleeps with Lady Jordan under his arm, to better protect her.”
“He does?” Obviously, Jemma did not know this. “And she allows this?”
“She has learned to trust him,” he said, then added: “And, he gave her no choice.”
“Oh,” Jemma backed down. He could see her mind working. After a moment, she lifted her eyes again. “Are we truly in danger?”
Kieran was honest. For her own safety, he had to be. “There are those among us who do not like Scots,” he said. “ ’Tis better not to leave anything to chance.”
Jemma looked worried and thoughtful at the same time. Jordan was right; mayhap she should not have come. But it was too late now. She was here and here she would stay. For the first time, she began to doubt the wisdom of her actions.
“What about ye, Sir Kieran?” she asked, calmly. “Do ye hate Scots?”
He sighed, crouching down to be more on her level. “ ’Tis not easy as that, my lady,” he said. “I have been fighting Scots a long time. Suffice it to say that I would do neither you nor Lady Jordan any harm.”
“Sir Paris dunna like me,” she declared. “He would kill me if he had the chance; you heard him.”
“Nay, I can promise you that he would not,” Kieran said. “He was jesting.”
“Nay, he wasna,” she insisted. “But I dunna like him, either. He is conceited and mean, and he treats me like a bairn.”
“And I suppose you kicking him had nothing to do with his behavior towards you?” Kieran reminded her.
“I was protecting myself.”
She probably believed that. Kieran sighed; she and Paris would surely kill each other before they reached Northwood. He stole a glance at her again; she was quite lovely and he was entranced with delicate features. She and her cousin shared the same pert little nose and the same oval face, but that was where the similarity ended. Jordan was as fair as a summer day, whereas Jemma was dark and striking. He was not hard pressed to admit he liked her; he liked women with a bit of fire.
“Would you like to ride with me tomorrow instead of Paris?” he found himself suggesting. “ ’Twould spare you both the agony of dealing with one another, and William the headache of listening to you complain.”
The amber eyes lit up. “Aye, I would,” she said eagerly. “Do ye think Sir William will let me?”
He was flattered that she seemed pleased at the prospect, though he could not be sure if it were because of him or simply to be rid of Paris.
“I shall ask him,” he promised.
She smiled a pretty, curvy smile at him and he was captivated. He actually thought he might blush. Instead, he rose swiftly as to not give himself the opportunity.
“Try and sleep now,” he told her. “You will be safe, I promise.”
She nodded and crept beneath the furs, tugging at the too-long surcoat as it tangled around her feet. He watched her twist and turn before finally quieting. After several minutes, he was sure she had fallen into an exhausted sleep and moved to pour himself another cup of wine. Picking up the decanter, he realized he could use some sleep himself; it had been an exceedingly long day.
“Sir Kieran?” she called softly.
He turned to her. “My lady?”
“I am cold. Are there any more furs?” she asked.
He glanced around him. The tent had indeed grown icy but he saw no more furs. The brazier had gone out completely. As a warrior, he was used to extreme temperatures and had not noticed the chill.
“Nay, my lady, I see none.”
She gave a little groan and tried to burrow deeper under the skins. He watched her twist and shake for a moment or so, debating whether he should send his squire to scavenge more furs. But he decided against it because it would have done little good; the chill was seeping up through
the ground upon which she lay. She needed another source of heat.
Kieran sat the cup down. Going over to the pallet, he stripped off the furs while she angrily sat up and glared at him.
“What are ye doing, Sassenach?” she demanded hotly.
He put his hands on his hips. “Do you want to be warm?”
She stuck out her rosy lower lip. “What are ye intending – to throw me in the fire?”
He cocked his brow. “If that is what it takes, I will gladly. But I had another less painful idea.”
“What is it?” she asked, wrapping her arms around her shivering body.
He opened up his arms as if to display his physique. “As you said yourself, I am big. And this big body is exceedingly warm. You may use the warmth, if you so desire,” he said.
Her eyes widened but to his surprise she did not get angry. Instead, she looked rather subdued and thoughtful. Thoughtful but hesitant. A sudden chill raced down her spine and she shook hard. She should be angry, outraged, at the very least at what this Sassenach was suggesting. Yet, for some reason, she could not muster the steam. She truly was freezing, and there was something about the man that made her want to trust him. With a reluctant sigh, she looked up at him.
“Very well,” she said quietly. “I accept.”
He lay down, turning so his back was facing her. Jemma immediately pressed her icy body against him and was thrilled to discover that he was, indeed, hot. He jumped when he felt her chilly hands press themselves flat against his back and she giggled.
“So you think it is funny to put your cold hands on me?” he demanded, but he was smiling.
Her face was pressed against his spine and she could feel his heat thawing her. “Aye, it is funny when ye jump as if I just pinched ye. How can ye be so sensitive?”
“I am not, usually,” he said. “But you are as cold as ice.”
She pressed against him tighter, purely for warmth. “I told ye I was, Sassenach.”
They lay there together in the darkness for several long minutes. Jemma was tired, but for some reason, her eyes kept opening and she kept staring at his wide back. It was the closest she had ever been to any man, other than her father and brothers, and she found it exciting. Even if he was English.
But the man didn’t act as a typical English knight, not like the others. He was gentler, even for his immense size, and his smile was genuine. She was puzzled, but at the same time, she liked him and chose to overlook the fact that the man was a sworn enemy. And she didn’t even hate herself for her treason, although she would die before admitting it to her cousin. Surely a greater hypocrite never lived.
He shifted and nearly crushed her leg. She screeched and he immediately moved away, flipping over to face her with amazing agility for a man his size. His brown eyes were wide with concern.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“Fine,” she said as she rubbed her leg where his weight had come down on her.
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.
“She might as well be.” Malcolm had no idea of the mortal danger he was in. He looked William right in the eye. “Think on it, man; she’s traveling, unchaperoned with a full company of English soldiers. Why Uncle Thomas dinna insist
she take my mother or my aunt is beyond me. He trusts ye, I suppose, but I know better. How many men have had her since she left Langton?”
William snapped. Before Paris, or anyone else, could make a move, he had Malcolm by the neck with one hand and plowed the knuckles of his other into his face. Blood spurted everywhere, all over his tunic, all over the floor. Malcolm dropped in a limp heap to the ground.
“Goddamn bastard,” William muttered, stumbling back from the limp body. “Loyal to his kin… my arse he’s loyal. Get him the hell out of here before I lose myself again and do some real damage.”
Paris glanced down at Malcolm as Ranulf and Corin hoisted him up. “Where will we keep him?” he asked. “We are not prepared for prisoners.”
William thought a moment. He had no further need for the other two men, and any more interrogation sessions with Malcolm were sure to result in the man’s murder. He just wanted them the hell away from him, and from Jordan. He did not want to kill him, even if the idiot had held a knife to Jordan’s throat.
Then it hit him. He wasn’t going to kill him because Jordan had asked him not to. He was thinking up dozens of reasons to justify not killing the man when it really came back to one. She had asked him not to and he would bow to her wish. God, he was so damn feeble-minded when it came to her.
“Then take them back down the road,” he said gruffly. “Tie the four of them to the same tree and leave them to the mercy of whoever passes by. Considering an army has just passed this road, that should take quite a while.”
Paris smiled, knowing well what William was referring to. People avoided traveling on roads where armies had recently passed because where armies crossed there was generally trouble.
“It shall be done,” Paris said, bowing and pretending to follow the other knights to the tent flap. But when they were out, he stopped and pulled the flap down.
Paris turned to his lord, his best friend. He took a deep breath and went over to him. William eyed his solicitous knight suspiciously.
“What now?” he asked.
Paris looked at him. “William, I do not pretend to know what is going on in your mind, but I do know that you must control your outbursts where Jordan is concerned. I have never seen you like this.”
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