Page 56 of Desire's Ransom
But she felt strangely vulnerable as she spread her woolen cloak on the ground before the mouth of the cave. Even when she purposely lay down on her side, facing away from him, she felt as edgy as a fly at the perimeter of a spider’s web.
He flapped out his own great cloak on the ground with an annoying whoosh, ruffling her hair—and her calm. Then, with audible grunting and groaning, he stretched out his long frame, far too close for her comfort, and let out a heavy sigh.
She stiffened.
Bloody hell, she could feel his breath on the back of her neck. He was so close, she could sense the warmth of his body beside her. So close she could smell him.
At least his scent—a masculine combination of spice, smoke, and leather—was not unpleasant.
Still, she wished she’d thought to make a barricade between them out of her hounds. Instead, Bran and Flann were curled up at their usual post at her feet.
Then, as if she weren’t already too aware of his indecent proximity, he spoke.
“I hope you don’t snore,” he murmured.
“What?”
Incensed, she flipped over to confront him. How dared he suggest such an ignoble thing?
But by the light of the dying coals, she saw that he was grinning. She sighed.
“Good night, my lady,” he said with a wink.
She frowned, mumbling, “G’night, English.”
Then she turned back over. It was not going to be a good night. It was going to be a sleepless night. She could tell already.
She’d only glanced at him for a moment. But she couldn’t get the image of his devilishly handsome face—inches away from hers—out of her mind…
The lock of dark hair that fell over his forehead with a rakish flair.
His heavy brows that descended together like storm clouds when he was angry and arched over his bright, merry eyes when he laughed.
The angles of his face—his square jaw, his strong chin, his broad cheekbones—accented by a manly dusting of stubble.
The saucy wink that made her heart flutter.
It wasn’t right. She should despise him. He represented everything undesirable to her. The loss of her freedom. The wishes of her father. The will of the foreign king.
She’d spent six years as an independent woman, making her own decisions, fending for herself, living the way she chose. To go back to living under the control of a man was unthinkable.
No matter how handsome he was.
She flounced onto her back, disturbing the hounds, who grunted in annoyance.
She had to stop thinking about the English knight and start focusing on her plans to reclaim hertuath.
Taking back the holding wouldn’t be easy.
Once she got the ransom money, she’d have to act fast, before her father found another imposter for Sir Ryland to marry. She’d need to assemble an army great enough to launch an attack on the tower house.
To be honest, she didn’t even know exactly how to do it. She’d never witnessed a siege before. She hoped Cambeal and the soldiers could help her come up with a strategy.
She chewed at her lip.
Something old Sorcha had said was troubling her. Was it possible to take command of thetuathwithout bloodshed?
She knew force was the only way to control her father. But the last thing she wanted was to hurt herclannsmen. Cormac would no doubt send every man, woman, and child into battle against her to saveTuath O’Keeffe. Even Sir Ryland and his knights would be obligated to fight on Cormac’s side.
