Page 21 of Bride of Fire
Apparently he’d hoped to enter the castle quietly, unseen, not in front of a crowd of curious clansmen.
She couldn’t blame him. After all, marching through the hall with three unarmed lasses—one of them not even decently clad—was the act of a coward.
Naturally, she decided to make the most of it.
Coloring her voice with desperate fear, she cried out, “Please, m’laird, do not murder us!”
Chapter 12
Morgan’s eyes closed to slits. It was bad enough that about a dozen of his clan lingered in the great hall. But this wicked-tongued lass was inciting them with her words.
Her ploy worked. Already they turned to him in askance.
Before he could explain, she spoke again, addressing his clan.
“I beg you,” she entreated, blinking back tears from her enormous green eyes. “We mean you no harm. Don’t let him slay us.”
There was a collective gasp.
“Is it true, m’laird?” Symon the cook asked. “Do ye mean to kill these lasses?”
“O’ course not,” he snapped. How could his own clan doubt him? Did they believe a Lowland whelp over their own laird?
The lass, who’d been fearless enough outside the castle walls, now cowered as if in fright.
Colban tried to clarify. “We ne’er said we were goin’ to kill them.”
The lass somehow managed to blush as she lowered her voice to a murmure. “But you can see…he’s already tried to ravish me.”
The clan fell silent in shock.
Morgan shook his head. “I did no such thing, lass, and ye know it.”
She sniffled. Twice. And tugged down the hem of his leine with her free hand.
Whispers of speculation circled the hall.
If Morgan weren’t so vexed and tired, he would have laughed at the maid’s cleverness. She’d made them think he’d taken her clothes. And now that he saw her by the firelight of the great hall, he could see why she’d gained his clan’s sympathy.
For all her devilish wiles, she had the face of an angel. Her eyes were like deep emerald pools. Her trembling mouth was rosy and voluptuous. Her hair fell in soft and tempting dark honey-colored waves over her shoulders. And despite her uncommonly tall frame, she was dwarfed by his leine, which made her seem frail, delicate, fragile.
She’d managed to earn their compassion and cast doubt on him.
But he’d show the lass that two could play at that game.
To her, he said, “I’m no ravisher, and my clan knows that. They can see whose leine ye’re wearin’.” Then he announced to the clan, “I brought these lasses out o’ the cold to warm their bones by our fire.” He shook his head in pity and confided, “This poor creature was runnin’ naked through the grass, like a madwoman. Lendin’ her my clothin’ was the least I could do.”
When he glanced at Jenefer, her eyes had gone flat and were fast filling with ire. The meek, fearful victim had vanished. He’d spoiled her plot. And the minx apparently had a hot temper when she was foiled.
“Madwoman?” she said through clenched teeth. “I’m no madwoman.”
“Why else would ye be skulkin’ about in the middle o’ the wintry night without a stitch on?”
“I wasn’t…skulking,” she argued, obviously grasping at straws for an explanation. “My cousins and I often go for…for strolls in the dark.”
“Indeed? And are ye in the habit o’ strollin’ onto others’ property?”
Fire flared in her eyes. “Others’ property?” she choked out.
