“You share Tadhg’s lack of imagination, Magdalena. Power. Power is the thing.” He brushed his fingertips across her back.
She blew out a breath as he stopped behind her. “Power then,” she agreed, forcing her voice steady as she stared at a high point on the wall. “You may have it all.”
“All of it?”
“Yes. Whatever you want.”
“Whatever I want?” came his soft reply. He lifted the veil that floated down her back and laid his hand on the small of her back, unmoving.
Tipping her chin higher, she nodded.
“And you want only the Irish bastard in return,” he finished softly. Mocking. “How loyal. How noble. How bold.” He slid his hand up her back. “Indeed, your boldness here does you justice, mistress.” He curled his hand over her shoulder. “I am aroused by the novelty of it.”
She closed her eyes. “You may have that too, my lord,” she whispered. “My body, if you wish it.”
“I wish it,” he murmured by her ear, then slid his hand down her arm. “Yet I remain curious.”
“About what?” she whispered.
“How did you ever think to succeed, you here alone, me with Tadhg, you with the dagger?”
“I do not have the dagger with me.”
His hand stopped. “What?”
She turned her head and looked over her shoulder at him. “Shall we come to terms, my lord?”
They stared at each other as his eyes widened in surprise. “Perhaps you have some imagination after all, Magdalena,” he murmured. “And your boldness increases tenfold. As does my desire. State your terms.” His hand slid to her hip.
“My terms are these, you son of bitch.” The low voice broke in from the back of the hall. “Unhand Maggie, and I will kill you swiftly, rather than quartering you while you live, and feeding your parts to the dogs while you watch.”
Sherwood spun, grappling for his sword as he tried to locate the voice that had threatened him from the darkness.
It was Tadhg. Of course. Tadhg, beaten and bloody, standing in the doorway, flanked by Rowan and Fáelán. Máel was nowhere in sight.
Maggie’s knees went weak with relief. Fáelán had sworn they could get inside, but she hadn’t been certain.
“Distract him, can you do that?” he’d asked when they’d dropped her up the road an hour ago, reining their spirited horses in circles around her in the mud.
“Oh, aye, she can distract a man,” Rowan had answered, smiling lazily at her.
“That is all you need to do,” Fáelán vowed, then they’d kicked their horses and galloped off, leaving her to stumble down the moonlit road alone, hoping against hope they could do what they said.
They certainly were efficient brigands.
Now, they strode in the room, swords brandished.
Sherwood hurried to do the same.
“Christ’s mercy,” he cursed, sweeping it from its sheath, and grabbed her wrist with crushing strength. “You bitch,” he snarled, grabbing for her with his other hand as he shouted for his men, “Ernst! Belliwick! Rog—”
“Not there, sorry to say,” Rowan interrupted, shaking his head sadly. “Five of them, weren't there? Ernst and Roger and Belli—What was it? Dick? Aye, well, whatever they’re names were, they and all the others are gone.”
Sherwood blanched, then yanked Magdalena in front of him, held his sword to her throat.
“Let me go,” he ordered in a harsh rasp.
Across the room, Tadhg’s eyes met hers, red-rimmed with exhaustion and exertion, his face shaggy once again with a beard and blackened with so many bruises her heart almost broke.