Conqueror's Kiss

by Hannah Howell

Genres: General Fiction; Romance; Historical Romance

Synopsis

Jennet Graeme has witnessed terrible tragedy during the many years of strife between the Scots and the English. As Scottish invaders plunder her convent sanctuary, she defiantly resists the blond warrior who claims her as his prize. But his brute strength is overpowering, and Jennet is forced to ride with him through the lawless lands, tending to the wounded, protected and desired by a man she wants to hate but cannot.

Sir Hacon Gillard is moved by Jennet's compassion and mercy. As a loyal knight, he's pledged fealty to his king's command even as he loses his heart to this remarkable woman. He is merciless in combat, but within him burns a spark for something far beyond the heat of battle . . .

Contains mature themes.

Release date: November 1, 2015

Publisher: Zebra Books

Print pages: 416

Sample

April 2, 1318—Berwick, Scotland

Quiet humming did little to stifle the grumbling of Jennet’s stomach. Her constant hunger was somewhat easier to bear in the convent, where each woman within the thick, gray walls suffered equally. Unlike the greedy Lady de Tournay and her swinish family, Jennet mused, then hurriedly began her morning ablutions, hoping the icy water would push such uncharitable thoughts from her mind. She had fled to the convent to find peace. That would remain elusive if she did not shake free of her bitterness, born of six years in servitude to the ill-tempered de Tournays.

Again her stomach loudly protested its emptiness. She cursed, then swiftly begged the Lord’s pardon. It was such lapses that kept her from succumbing to the abbess’s constant urgings to take vows and begin working toward becoming a nun. Jennet was not sure she had the character to be a nun. She had too much bitterness, was too cynical, too angry and unforgiving. A year in the seclusion of the convent had done little to ease those feelings.

“And,” she muttered as she donned her plain brown gown, “I dinnae rush to prayer each morn.”

She shook her head, then began to braid her long raven hair. The abbess must have seen how tossled she was, proof that she had rushed to prayers straight from bed early that morning. As she donned her headdress she frowned, listening carefully. It was difficult to be certain, but there did seem to be a dull but rising roar of many loud male voices.

“Mayhaps the Scots have finally given up their siege,” she murmured as she sat on her cot to begin the mending she had been given to do. “They have certainly been harrying the town for months. Or”—she froze, needle in hand, and felt a swift rush of terror—“they have scaled the protective walls and finally retaken the border fortress from the English.”

Jennet forced herself to remain calm, to ignore the muffled sounds. She was safe. Despite the tales the abbess told, Jennet could not believe the Scots would defile a convent. Even eighteen years of war under the Bruce could not have made her people so ungodly. A battle might well rage outside, but here she was free of that at last. This time she would not have to face the violence and destruction directly.

The wimple she mended was barely done when she realized the sounds she sought to ignore were much closer now. Even as she wondered if she should chance a look into the hall, the door to her tiny room burst open, splintering slightly as it slammed against the stone wall. The sight that filled the doorway caused her to drive her needle into her hand. Only partly aware of that self-inflicted wound, she extracted the needle, absently put her wounded palm to her mouth to ease the sting, and stared at the man who had invaded her refuge.

He leaned indolently against the door frame, his strong arms encased in greaves and crossed over his broad mail-covered chest. His helmet, with its noseguard, hid so much of his face that she could see little but his smile. That indolent grin turned her shock and fear to rage. She was facing certain death, and he was laughing at her. Hissing a curse, she pulled her dagger from a hidden pocket in her skirts. Her fury was reinforced by the terrified cries of the nuns that began to echo through the halls.

“And what do ye mean to do with that wee needle, lass?” he drawled in a soft, deep voice.

“Cut ye a new smile, ye godless heathen,” she cried, and lunged at him.

He caught her with ease, one large gauntleted hand curled tightly around her thin wrist, the mail cutting into her skin. “So fierce for a nun.” As they struggled, he turned slightly so that her back faced the hallway.

There was no way she could break his grip, but the amusement in his voice kept her struggling to push her dagger down until it might pierce his flesh. “I am no nun,” she cried, “but a seeker of refuge, and I mean to send ye straight into hell’s fires for defiling this holy place!”

“’Tis a petty threat to hurl at a mon who is already excommunicated.”

“So the abbess spoke true. The Bruce’s men are naught but the devil’s minions, cast off by the Pope.” She saw a look of cool amusement on what was visible of his hard face, then, without warning, a blinding pain filled the back of her head.

Hacon caught the too-slim girl as she collapsed, rendered unconscious by his comrade’s blow to her head. “I wondered if ye meant to act, Dugald, or stand by and watch me being slaughtered.”

Dugald grunted. He frowned down at the heavy silver chalice with which he had struck the girl, then dropped it back into the sack he held. “She had no chance. ’Twill be a woeful shame to kill her. The wee lass has spirit.”

“Kill her? Now, why should I kill her?”

“We were told to show as little mercy as the English king did when he took this place in Baliol’s Rebellion. Kill all we can and plunder the place.”

“And this”—Hacon neatly tossed the unconscious girl over his shoulder—“is plunder.”

“Aye? Looks like a wee lass to me. And what need have we of a nun, forsaken by the Pope as we are?”

“She isnae a nun. Are ye so eager to spill her blood?”

“Nay. I have no stomach for killing a lass, and weel ye ken it. I have no stomach for angering the Black Douglas either. The Bruce chose a fierce, hard mon as his lieutenant, and ’tis unwise to cross him. Douglas doesnae mean to halt here but to go on. What will ye do with your plunder then? Ye cannae hide her from him.”

“I willnae hide her. She is mine, and there is an end to it. Now, grab hold of her blanket and help me tie her onto my back.” He nodded toward her cot.

Even as he did as he was told, Dugald grumbled, “And how do ye expect to fight with such a burden?”

“This slight lass is no burden, and I doubt much fighting will be done. The townsfolk flee if they are able. We but need to fill our coffers with plunder.”

“If we dinnae get to the doing of it, the plunder will be all gone.”

Hacon winked at his scowling cousin. “Dinnae wear yourself thin worrying. I ken weel where to look. Have I not given us a good beginning?” He nodded at the sack Dugald carried.

Dugald nodded grimly as he strode down the hall of the nunnery toward the main entrance. Hacon adjusted the weight of his captive more comfortably against his back and followed. He winced and increased his pace as a woman’s high-pitched scream echoed through the dim hallways. He preferred the chaotic battle out in the streets between the victory-drunk Scots and the panicked, fleeing English to the rape and slaughter of the defenseless nuns going on in here.

For ten years he had been with Robert the Bruce, ever since the beard on his face had been but the light fluff of a boy. When the Bruce returned from exile in Arran, Scotland had been demoralized, the devastation widespread. Bruce’s victory against the English at Loudon Hill had renewed the people’s hope, and Hacon had joined many others in racing to aid the claimant to the Scottish throne.

But now he ached to go home to Dubheilrig. Instead, he found himself on yet another raid into England, another bloody foray over land that had been deeply scarred by war.

“Ye cannae stop fighting for the Bruce now,” Dugald said as he started through the gates leading to the narrow, winding streets of Berwick.

“How do ye ken I was thinking about that?” Hacon asked as he strode beside his kinsman into the heart of the walled town.

“That black look upon your face. I have seen it before. Ye cannae walk away from it yet. Aye, ye got your knighthood at Bannockburn, but ye havenae won a square foot of land yet.”

“Did my father send ye to be my conscience?”

“Nay. He trusts ye to do as ye ought. Aye, as ye must. ’Tis just that I feel I must speak the truth. The Bruce holds our lands. Only he can return them to us. ’Twas our weakness which lost them to the de Umfravilles. Weel, after being honed in this war we willnae be weak. ’Tis some comfort, kenning the de Umfravilles lost those lands to the Bruce, but even that comfort will wane if the Bruce gifts our lands elsewhere.”

“That will ne’er happen,” Hacon muttered as he stepped ahead of his cousin. “Come along. If I cannae win back our lands through faithful service and the strength of my sword, then I mean to have enough plunder to buy them back.” He strode off into town, confident Dugald would watch his back, just as he had done for ten long, bloody years.

Hacon slouched in a rough, heavy chair before the fire, heartily approving of the new-style fireplace and chimney set in the wall. It was far better than the usual, a hearth in the center of the room with an inadequate venting hole in the roof. He wondered how Dugald always managed to find such fine quarters for them. This had to be one of the few houses in Berwick that still had an intact thatched roof, one untouched by the fires that even now scorched the town. After glancing at the plunder scattered on the table in the center of the room, he fixed his gaze upon the female plunder sprawled unconscious at his feet.

Twice the girl had come awake while strapped to his back. Twice she had wrapped her lovely slim hands about his throat. Twice Dugald had had to strike her unconscious again to save his cousin. Hacon grinned. She had spirit. Dugald could well be right—she was the devil’s child, even though she had been hidden away in a convent. He would be sure to keep all weapons out of her reach. She could prove to be a very troublesome bounty.

But a bonnie one, he mused, leaning forward. She looked very tempting sprawled on the sheepskin with her thick raven hair splayed out around her. Her headdress had been an early victim of the battle in the streets. While he suspected her too-thin build was a result of the famine that had ravaged the area over the last two years, he found no fault in it. There were curves enough to please him. Her skin was the soft white of ivory touched with all the warmth of good health. He easily recalled her magnificent eyes, their vivid green enhanced by sparks of fury and defiance as she had faced him in the convent.

“Do ye think I have harmed her?”

Glancing up at Dugald, who stood on the other side of the girl, Hacon shook his head. “She breathes easily and there is a growing flickering in her eyelids. She will wake soon.”

“Then ye had best guard your throat.”

The way Dugald eyed the girl, as if she were as great a threat as any well-armed Englishman, made Hacon laugh softly. “She has more spirit than many another in this place.”

“Aye, which will make her a muckle lot of trouble. Wouldnae it be wiser to leave her behind?”

“Much wiser, but I willnae do it.”

“Why? She is naught but a skinny wee lass.”

“Ah, now there is a puzzle.” Hacon shrugged. “I just willnae.”

Jennet had grasped consciousness in time to hear the one man’s disparaging description of her and the other’s response. Her head ached and she knew it was their fault. She had made no move to reveal that she was now awake; her captor’s answer had interested her since it might reveal her fate.

Now, however, deciding their talk was of little help, Jennet released the groan she had held back. She propped herself up on one elbow and tentatively touched the back of her head. The man had clearly curbed the strength of his blows, for she could find no serious injury, but her head was pounding. Slowly she gazed up at her captor.

He still looked big, a tall, lean, battle-hardened man. Now that his helmet and mail hood were gone, she saw that he had thick blond hair reaching to his broad shoulders. She doubted it would lessen the breadth of his chest by much if he took off his padded jupon and the snug, bloodstained leather jerkin he wore. He had long muscular legs encased in a better quality hose and cuarans of excellent waxed rawhide tied closely about his calves. She remembered the flint of armor on his forearms earlier, but suspected that had long been discarded. His clothes gave her little hint as to his station. Even the armor she recalled could simply be pieces he had stolen from dead knights upon the battlefield.

As she carefully sat up, she lifted her gaze to his face. He had the finest pair of eyes she had ever seen on a man, a clear rich blue. His lean face, high cheekbones, and a long straight nose bespoke a better birth. In fact, his looks reminded her very strongly of a Dane or a Norseman, and she frowned.

“Ye are a Scot?” she demanded. “We havenae got the twice-cursed Danes rampaging about to add to our grief, have we?” The man smiled too much, she thought crossly as he grinned at her.

“Aye, I am a Scot. I have my mother’s looks, and she is a distant cousin to the king of Norway, so I should watch how I speak of those people.” He thrust his hand toward her. “I am Hacon Gillard of Dubheilrig.”

She took his hand and found herself firmly propelled to her feet. “Jennet.”

“Jennet? No other name, no kinsmen? Ye are no one’s daughter and from no place?”

“Of course I am someone’s daughter.” She sighed and rubbed her forehead with her left hand since Hacon was slow to release her right one. “I am Jennet, daughter of Artair, a Graeme, who wed Moira, an Armstrong. I can be from Liddesdale, for those are my mother’s lands. More often than not, I am from no place in particular, dragged hither and yon by my father.”

“Neither name is connected with much wealth.”

She glared at him. “Aye, so ye will gain no ransom for me. The Bruce’s fine soldiers have already slaughtered my mother. Aye and mayhaps my father as weel. I have naught left. Best to let me slip free. I can only be a trouble to you.”

“Of that I have little doubt.” He stood up, placed his hands on his trim hips, and looked down at her. “Howbeit, I will keep you with me.”

“Now, why should ye wish to do that?” She had a very good idea of why but wondered if he would tell her the truth.

Reaching out, Hacon took a thick lock of her hair in his hand, idly caressing it with his long fingers. “Ye Jennet, who can be from Liddesdale, are my plunder.”

That was an answer in itself, she supposed. She told herself that anger would gain her nothing; nevertheless she clenched her hands into tight fists at her sides. Escape was still possible if she did not act too rashly, did not give in to the fear that threatened to conquer her anger. From the corner of her eye she saw the other man stealthily move to flank her. She had to be certain the move she finally made was unexpected.

“I am plunder, am I?”

“Aye—my plunder.”

“Wee and skinny though I am?”

“Och, weel, one cannae always have the pick of the litter.”

There was a tone in his voice that told her he thought he was being funny. He was grinning, and a soft chuckle came from his companion. A guffaw from behind them told her that other men were enjoying her predicament as well. That knowledge sent her temper soaring. The rape of Berwick and her own undoubtedly impending ravishment were not laughing matters.

Muttering a curse on all men, she struck out with both fists, neatly and forcefully hitting each man who flanked her square in the groin. Both howled with pain and cursed roundly as they bent over, clutching themselves. She raced for the door—and ran straight into a tall, armored man who blocked the long, narrow opening.

Staggering backward, she was roughly grasped at the shoulder by Hacon, who had stumbled after her. Still dazed, rubbing her nose, which had collided with the man’s mail-clad chest, she found herself swiftly yanked behind Hacon. Curious as to why, she took a good look at the man who had ended her attempt to escape, and tensed, fear gripping her. It could be none other than Sir James Douglas, the one some called “the Good Sir James” but many another called “the Black Douglas.”

And not simply because of his swarthy coloring, she thought with a shiver, her gaze fixed upon the bloodied sword in his hand. The nuns had told her many a chilling tale about this man whom they had dubbed “the Bruce’s godless lieutenant.” There was something about the colors he and his men wore that added to her fear, but that flicker of a memory was doused when Douglas spoke. As the words came from his mouth, she hid herself more completely behind Hacon, terrified that she would reveal her astonishment. The Black Douglas, the scourge of the North, the man who made many an English soldier tremble, spoke with a lisp.

“You are having some difficulty, Sir Gillard?” asked Douglas.

“Nay, only a brief quarrel.”

“She is for ransoming?”

“Nay. She is my plunder.”

“You and your men choose strange plunder.” Douglas signaled to someone behind him, and a young soldier was roughly shoved into the room. “I hold the belief that the only live plunder worth taking is that which can be ransomed.”

Accustomed to the man’s speech impediment now and curious as to why Hacon had grown so tense, Jennet dared to glance around him again. The youth in question had obviously been cruelly handled. His beardless face was bruised and scraped. He looked ready to collapse, swaying slightly as he stood clutching a bundle of cloth protectively against his chest.

“Has the boy caused some trouble, sir?” Hacon asked.

“Some. He nearly killed one of my men and was nearly killed for it. He would be dead now had I not arrived to pull him free.”

“And now?”

“And now I give him back to you. Talk some sense into the lad. I have no doubt you and your men are loyal. You have stood for the cause for ten long years. Howbeit, I believe you may carry a softness of heart. Mercy, Sir Gillard, has no place in this fight.”

As abruptly as he had appeared, the Black Douglas left. Jennet breathed a sigh of relief and was startled to hear it echoed by the others in the room. Hacon shoved her toward Dugald, who grabbed her arm none too gently. Ignoring her glaring human shackle, she watched the youth as Hacon approached him.

“Your first battle, Ranald,” said Hacon, “and ye try to kill one of Douglas’s own men? Are ye that set upon dying, laddie?”

“I didnae ken they were his men,” the youth replied, his voice hoarse and unsteady.

“They are weel marked. I weel recall pointing them out to you.”

“Aye, uncle, ye did. I wasnae thinking clear.”

Uncle, Jennet mused and inwardly nodded. There was a strong resemblance, although the boy’s hair was not as light as Hacon’s.

“Ye are lucky Douglas was in a good humor or that thoughtless head of yours would be rolling about in the street now.”

“I ken it.”

Jennet could see how weak the youth was and, driven by compassion, finally spoke. “If ye wish him to hear all ye say, ye had best let him sit down.” She forced herself not to flinch under the glare Hacon sent her before he helped Ranald to a bench at the table, where four other men sat.

“What was so important,” Hacon asked his nephew, “that ye put your own life at risk?”

“A bairn.”

Although she tried not to, Jennet gaped, as did the men, as Ranald unwrapped the bundle he held. Within its folds lay a baby, a child she guessed to be about a year old. Briefly she feared for the child’s life, then pushed that fear aside. Ranald would not have saved the infant if he thought his own kinsmen would kill it.

Hacon crouched beside his nephew, yet again cursing his sister for not chaining the boy safely at home. “A bairn, laddie? What can ye do with a bairn?”

“I dinnae ken. I just couldnae let them kill the wee thing. They meant to stick it on a pike. The mother . . .” Ranald stared down at the wide-eyed child and smoothed an unsteady hand over the babe’s red-brown curls. “I couldnae save the poor woman. Will I always hear her cries for mercy?” he whispered.

“Mayhaps,” Hacon replied with an equally soft voice, then sighed. “Ranald, we stop here but to loot Berwick, then move on to fight more battles. What can ye do with the bairn?”

“Ye willnae tow the loot into every battle. I could set the bairn down with it.”

“Most of the plunder will be sent back, deeper into Scotland, with men to guard it, men who willnae want the care of a wee babe.”

“I could leave it here with someone when we leave.”

“Aye, mayhaps, if we find someone. Most are now dead or hiding. And we may have to leave on the run. Berwick is the last stronghold the English have in Scotland. I cannae believe they will give it up so easily.”

Jennet tugged free of Donald’s hold. “Weel, ye can discuss all of that later.”

“I can, can I?” Hacon drawled.

The touch of scorn in her beautiful eyes stung him. He wondered fleetingly if it was born of her anger of the moment or from a fury for all men that had been set deeply. Recalling what she had said of her parents’ fate, he knew it could be directed at all who fought for the Bruce.

Then she looked at young Ranald. Her expression softened, and Hacon felt the distinct pinch of jealousy. She was lovely in her anger, but with her heart-shaped face transformed by a gentler emotion she was breathtaking. A glance at his nephew told him Ranald was equally aware of her beauty.

“Aye,” she said as she walked toward Ranald, “for the boy needs these injuries tended to or ye will soon be talking to the air. Get me a bowl of water and a clean cloth.”

Hacon started to obey her before he realized what he was doing. When he glared at her, she met his look calmly. Muttering a curse, he fetched what she had asked for. Ranald did need his wounds seen to. Now was not the time to draw the line as to who was the captor and who was the plunder. After pushing some of the stolen goods aside, he set what she had requested on the table. He watched her closely, not truly afraid she would harm Ranald but not ready to trust her completely either.

Jennet gently took the baby from Ranald and placed the child in the arms of the man seated next to him. The man stared at the babe with such horror that she almost grinned. He held it correctly, however, so she turned her attention back to the battered boy.

At close inspection she realized that Ranald’s resemblance to Hacon was stronger than she had thought. But there was a look of gentleness, a hint of innocence, in Ranald’s face that could not be found in his uncle’s. The blue of Ranald’s eyes was not as rich, but he held the promise of being a fine-looking man.

“Strip him to the waist,” she ordered Hacon. “The way he moves tells me this jupon hides more bruises and injuries.

Even as he did so, Hacon recalled how she had nearly escaped. He would have to make her see what a mistake that would be. All the while he lent his assistance to her skillful nursing of Ranald, he puzzled over the problem. Her presence would serve him well but would also keep her alive. He had to make her see that, although he was her captor, he was also her best source of protection.

Seeing the way Ranald kept glancing toward the child, Jennet murmured, “The babe is fine. If the child has survived dire famine gripping the land, ’tis strong and will endure.”

“Aye. I but wish I could have saved its mother. I heard her cries but . . .”

She stopped his tortured speech by dabbing at his cut mouth with the wet cloth. “If ye mean to tear your soul apart over the death of innocents, best ye leave swiftly for the nearest monastery.” She almost smiled at his startled reaction to her harsh words.

“I w-wish to be a knight,” he stuttered, flicking a nervous glance toward his watchful uncle, who stood at Jennet’s side.

“Then ye will have to stop up your ears and harden your heart. If ye mean to live by the sword, ye will ever be seeing the havoc it can wreak. When men are seized by the bloodlust of a battle, they cut down all that falls in their path. The best ye can do is learn to stop that madness from seizing you or whatever men ye might lead.”

“’Tisane right. She carried no sword.”

“Neither did the ones the English king’s men cut down when Edward took this place, nor the ones Robert the Bruce slaughtered at Perth seven years ago.” She stood up, finished with the binding and washing of his injuries. “Aye, when armed men run over the land, the innocent and unarmed best hide or they will fall alongside the warrior.”

“Since ye ken that,” said Hacon, “what were ye about when the Black Douglas arrived at our door?”

“Trying to get away,” she answered, thinking it a particularly stupid question.

With unexpected fury, he grabbed her by the arm and dragged her to the door. He yanked it open and pushed her out a step or two, keeping a firm hold on her. Night had fallen, but the sack of Berwick continued. The stink of death and fire stung her eyes. The guards he had set outside their door watched him with open curiosity.

The light cast by torch and moon was somewhat meager, but she was glad of that. Dead littered the street. The invaders roamed the town searching for others to kill and for more plunder. What sounds she could hear were those of pain, fear, and lingering bloodlust. The Scots claimed Berwick belonged to Scotland, yet they were no kinder in the taking of it than the English had been years before. Berwick would be bled dry yet again. It could easily go on for days. She felt close to weeping.

“Ye meant to run away? Away to where?” Hacon demanded. “Out into this? Even the nunnery is no longer safe. Ye wouldnae survive it long, I think.”

She agreed but did not say so. “I have escaped such harried places before,” she said. If Hacon had meant to scare her by showing her how his allies behaved, he had succeeded, but she would never let him know it.

“Ye speak as one who has some sense. Use it, woman. Ye may not like where ye are now, but ’tis better than most other choices before you. Even those who are your friends will most likely cut ye down first, then grieve over the error later. The ones not dead or captured tonight huddle together in fear and will strike out at all who approach. It will be like that until we leave this place.

“Aye, and when we leave this place,” he continued, “’twould be wise for ye to still think twice about fleeing from me. Ye will be marching with the enemy, lass. Do ye really believe ye will be asked the why of that first? The Black Douglas isnae the only one who believes mercy has no place in this war.”

“Mercy has not visited this accursed land in years,” she muttered as he tugged her back inside, then barred the door.

“Best ye remember that.”

“With the stink of death so heavy in the air, ’tisnae likely I shall forget it.” Her hands on her hips, she frowned up at him. “And such a fine speech ye make.” She ignored his small, mocking bow. “Ye use the horror out there to hold me here without troubling yourself to bind me. Aye, ye but try to make me stand firm for your own purposes.”

“Ye dinnae ken what my purposes are.”

“Nay?” She gave a soft, scornful laugh. “I am not one ye can ransom, so there can be but one reason for ye to hold me.” She leaned toward him, speaking softly to keep their words private. “If ye think showing me how poor my choices are will make me welcome rape, ye had best think again.”

“Now, lass, I but showed ye the truth of your situation. It would make your road smoother if ye would see me not as an enemy but as a benefactor.”

“Benefactor?” She did not think he could have chosen another word better suited to keeping her anger stronger than her fear. Her cruel mistress, Lady de Tournay, had favored the word. “’Tis a wonder to me how many abusers favor calling themselves benefactors. Weel, dinnae think ye can change yourself from foe to friend simply because ye havenae cut my throat as ye did with the nuns.”

“I ne’er touched the nuns. I but stole what I wished to.”

She suspected he spoke the truth, but ignored the interruption. “I will ne’er see ye as my benefactor.”

“Ah, that ye will do.” He gently rubbed her anger-flushed cheek with the back of his hand. “Aye, that ye will do. And the gift of life deserves adequate reward, do ye not agree?” When she just stared at him, wide-eyed, he asked, “What? Naught to say?”

“I think,” she said very carefully, “ye have been knocked about the head once too often.” His soft laugh was threateningly attractive. “And,” she added with a touch of anger, still disguising her fear, “if ye wait to hear me thank ye for my life, ye will take root first.” Turning sharply, she walked away from him, deciding to see what she could do for the orphan babe Ranald had risked his life to save.

Hacon smiled as he watched her. Her every movement was graceful, sensuous. The warmth of desire tautened his body. It was not going to be easy to gain the prize he sought. However, he mused, as he returned to his seat by the fire, instinct told it would be well worth the effort required.

Now that they were all settled into the purloined house and had eaten, Hacon sprawled in his chair before the fire and turned his full attention to his lovely captive.

Looking up from the linen sheet she was cutting into nappies for the baby, she warily eyed Hacon. He had allowed her the brief use of a knife to score out squares in the sheet, but he had watched her closely and constantly. He did not trust her. She did not trust his amiable interest. He probably sought to make her relax her guard, to seduce her into thinking they could be more than captive and captor, only to try to lessen the strength of her resistance when h