Claiming Her

She finally said, “Because I am stubborn,” for if you could not tell the awful truth to your enemy, then who?

His gaze trailed across the rest of her face, and she battled back the urge to cover the whole thing. “Stubborn people tend to end up dead before their time,” he said after a moment’s slow examination.

She blinked. Was he threatening her? It did not sound so; it sounded…conversational.

“And I’d always been told it was the reckless ones,” she countered, having no other reply to hand.

“You were misinformed, my lady. Recklessness gets you admirers.”

“And enemies, who then get you dead,” she said tartly.

“Only if you are stubborn too.” His gaze sailed down her body, as if examining it for signs of stubbornness.

A sizzling thrill arced through her. “Some call it loyalty.”

His gaze came back up. “Others call it idiocy.”

She sniffed. “I see. So you will deal with any devil.”

He grinned, a lopsided, sensual, self-approving thing. “Aye, I’ve dealt with England. What more proof does one need?”

“And yet live on,” she observed darkly.

He bent closer, his face angled slightly away, his mouth directly beside her ear. “As do you, my lady, and recklessness marks you like a brand.”

The breath caught in her throat. He turned on his heel and strode into the inner chamber, saying over his shoulder, “Wine?”

She blinked. “Wine?”

“Wine. ’Tis a drink.”

“Of course. Wine,” she said stupidly. “Indeed. I should very much like wine.” A large, potent pot of it. Perhaps two.

Why was he not chaining her to the walls?

She followed him into the inner chamber and stopped short in amazement.

A monstrous fire roared, orange and red and blue flames dancing merrily in the gaping maw of the hearth, so different from the low range of flames that flickered across the single log Katarina allowed herself each day. On the walls were hung tapestries both rich and thick, wool and silk weaves that seemed to undulate in the light of the conflagration.

A far cry from her threadbare, much-loved tapestries. On the floor lay a variety of plush pelts, and along the walls, every oil lamp was ablaze. The room practically pulsed with light and heat.

What a shockingly profligate approach to warmth. Not at all how Katarina managed heat.

Aodh Mac Con stood at the table that dominated one side of the room, pouring a stream of silky-looking wine into a silver goblet.

He saw her standing by the door, and lifted the cup in the air. “You’ll have to come in to get it.”

She took a step, then another. He extended the wine into the space between them, hand overturned to cup the bowl. The filigreed stem rested between his thick fingers, which were dark against the delicate silver. The long, winding illustrations adorning his wrist and hand snaked up several of his fingers like beautiful snakes.

“Do not be frightened,” he said quietly. “’Tis naught but wine. I’ve no intention of harming you. Yet.”

A roguish smile accompanied this minimally reassuring statement. But the mockery in it was sufficient to help her regain her wits.

She made a little sound in her throat. “You underestimate me, sir.”

“To think an angry Irishman would scare you?”

“To think death would.”