King's Warrior (Renegade Lords)

“A moment,” she gasped, holding up a hand as she staggered to a halt and collapsed on a fallen log. “Please.”

He sat down too, hard, beside her. For minutes they did nothing but breathe. Wildlife came back to life around them, birds and the occasional scuffle of some woodland creature. Overhead, the clouds moved in thickly. It was growing colder.

“I cannot run all the way to St. Malo, Tadhg,” she said.

“You can if you must.”

Arrogant, overweening, accursed…. She glared at his profile. His hair was windblown and there was a pale sheen of sweat on his forehead, but that was the extent of any signs of exertion. Otherwise, he seemed barely winded.

She looked away and stared down at a pinecone under her foot, slowly recapturing her breath.

“If there is a closer town, we will try there,” he allowed quietly.

“Cîté de Rosé is less than half a day’s walk,” she breathed.

He gave a curt nod, then turned to her. “Don’t you know the least thing about discouraging men from unwanted advances?” he demanded, sounding almost angry.

She looked over in surprise. “Well, I—”

His eyes were dark and angry. “Stomp on their foot, poke them in the eye, snap their little finger, do something.” He shook his head in disgust that she hadn’t thought of any of these strategies on her own.

She shifted around to face him on the damp log. “Something small, is it? However small, I should do something?”

His mouth was a tight line. “Precisely.”

“Well, you may rest assured, sirrah, I shall be trying each and every one of your suggestions later this day, on you.”

This only made

him laugh, though, and seemed to return him to his easy-going temper—how he could remain easy-tempered in the midst of such peril and mischief was beyond her. He rested his palms behind him on the wide, decaying, mossy green-brown log and looked up at the tree limbs.

“As well you should, Maggie,” he agreed. “I’ve earned it, and more.”

And why that should make her heart feel warmer, she had no notion. Tadhg had indeed earned those things, and more. He’d abducted her, yes, only after molesting her, lying to her, using her, exposing her to grave, grave danger. And taking her against a wall.

Notwithstanding that she’d begged him to.

In the cold winter air, her face flushed hot.

Why all this warmth? It was unconscionable.

Perhaps it was the way Maggie rolled off his tongue, as if purred. Savored. As if he enjoyed saying it, enjoyed that she was the one receiving it. She, herself. Magdalena the unacceptable. Magdalena of the odd notions and overweening passions.

She’d never been a ‘Maggie.’ Barring the most brief passage of time in her youth, she’d been naught but proper merchant-wife, then proper merchant widow. Mistress Thread, above and yet not good enough for…everything.

But for Tadhg, she had been exactly what he needed, every time.

The unconscionable warmth spread. Helpless to resist it, she pushed the hair back from her face and leaned her palms on the log as Tadhg was doing. Together they looked up into the webbing of glossy black branches overhead.

“The little finger, you say?” she mused.

He gave another low laugh. “Aye, the smallest one. It’ll snap right off if you need.” He leaned forward to demonstrate.

Her gaze tracked down to his hands, then lifted to his. This complicated, confusing, alluring, hard man, who knew how to break fingers, yet hold her so gently it felt as though her heart itself would break.

“Why do you need to know such things, Tadhg?” she asked softly.

His face washed hard, and his reply was cold as the air around them.