“Why? I was looking for ye.”
As he stepped toward her, Fen slid her foot back along the path, hoping she wasn’t about to trip and fall on her arse as she turned to flee. “Why?” she repeated.
“Because, lovely lady, I have come to collect my debt.”
Well, that wasn’t what she’d expected to hear. Fen halted her movement, her brows raised. “Yer…debt?”
Unfortunately, Gordon used her inattention to his advantage and began swaggering forward once more. “I voted for ye, Lady Fenella. Once that crippled bodyguard announced who had made each dish, I kenned I could vote for ye.”
He stopped before her and raised his hand. Instinctively, Fen leaned away, glancing over her shoulder, wondering how long it would take her to get to the kitchen, get to the safety of her room. Being here in the garden with Gordon—despite his status as a guest of her family—felt wrong.
Her stomach was twisting, her heart pounding. But still, she didn’t want to be impolite. “Thank ye for voting for me, milord.”
He hummed, then completed his movement, the backs of his fingers finding her cheek. “And thus, yer debt, little mouse.”
Little mouse? Was that supposed to be a compliment? Remembering her feeling earlier in the great hall, when Gordon had pinned her with his gaze, Fen tamped down a shiver.
“I dinnae understand.” She edged backward, willing to be rude now if it took her from this situation. “Ye were supposed to be an impartial judge. Surely ye voted for my dish because ye liked it best?”
Why were they still talking about her blasted fish? Her pulse hammered in her ears, and she coiled her energy to run.
In the dim moonlight, she saw his lips curl into a sardonic smile. “I found the entire endeavor to be pointless and stupid, the food naewhere near as good as that at court. I voted for ye, little mouse, because I kenned ye were different.”
Different? The word made her pause, and that was her doom.
As she straightened in confusion, Gordon pounced, his hands clasping her upper arms, holding her in place before she had time to do more than gasp.
“Ye see, Fenella,” he murmured, pulling her closer as she hung, shocked, in his grip, “ye are verra beautiful, but relegated to the kitchens. And ye spend yer time with that half-breed bodyguard.”
Brodie? He was speaking of Brodie?
The thought energized her, and she began to struggle. “Let me go!”
Instead of complying, Gordon chuckled, his grip tightening. “Fenella,” he purred, all pretext of respect forgotten, “clearly yer family cares naught for what happens to ye. Allowing ye to spend yer time in the kitchens with that beast.”
He lowered his face toward hers, and Fen forgot how to breathe.
“Ye owe me, little mouse,” he murmured, before his lips covered hers.
That was when she remembered who she was, and what she wanted.
No’ this!
She screamed, but she was too late. He caught the sound in his own mouth, even as he pushed his tongue inside hers. She tried to whip her head away, but one of his hands caught her braid, pinning her cruelly in place.
This is no’ worth the price of winning!
The illogical thought burbled up in her, along with what remained of her meal, and vaguely, Fen wondered what he’d do if she vomited on him.
‘Tis no’ a bad idea. We’ll consider it. For now, try the struggling thing again.
Feeling as if a part of her was living outside her body, watching, Fen followed the instructions. She pulled her head back, away from Gordon’s questing tongue. He tightened his hold again, pulling her closer, and she used that as an opportunity to wrench her arm from his.
Finally, he straightened with an irritated growl. “Ye are a saucy slut, are ye no’? Down here in the dark, spreading yer legs for the servants, but no’ for a messenger of the King?”
Spreading her legs? How had he known—?
Anger filled her as she realized Gordon hadn’t known what she and Brodie had shared, but was guessing—assuming. Assuming what he thought was the worst about her, although she was fiercely proud of what she shared with Brodie.