Page 40 of Bride of Mist
Under any other circumstance, he would have released her. It was against his nature to frighten small creatures. He was nothing like his brother, proud of the terror he inspired. He was nothing like the mac Giric clan, sowing horror against innocents. Nor was he anything like the monster he’d briefly become at Creagor, panicking crowds with his unleashed fury.
From his bruised throat, he grated out, “I’m not goin’ to hurt ye, lass. I swear it.”
She didn’t look like she believed him.
“I’ve got the advantage now,” he told her, wheezing. “I’ve disarmed ye. And I’ve got a good hold on your wrists. If I wished to do ye harm, I’d have done it by now.” He stopped to cough. “But I don’t. And I won’t. God’s hooks, I saved your—”
Without warning, she brought her thigh up hard against his groin.
Pain shot through his loins. To his credit, he didn’t let go of her. But as a dull ache began to spread low in his belly, it took great fortitude not to push her as far away from him as possible, where she could do him no injury.
Instead, he rolled her onto her back and pinned her to the forest floor.
Her eyes shot silver sparks at him, and her mask fluttered with every angry breath.
She was like a wild kitten caught in the high branches of a tree. Stuck in a place she didn’t want to be. Unaware of how she’d gotten there or how to get down.
Dougal could have helped her. He could have calmed her. Guided her back to reason. But like the cat, she was too stubborn or feral to realize that.
So she left him no choice but to physically restrain her until she stopped trying to kill him.
Her gaze steamed like a blacksmith’s forge, and her mask began to suck in hard as she gasped. With Dougal crushing her ribs, he realized she might be having trouble breathing.
Since his arms were occupied, he resorted to lowering his head and using his teeth to tug down her obstructing mask.
If he’d lingered an instant longer, he was sure she would have bitten off his nose. She screamed in rage, thrashing beneath him, as if he’d just torn off every stitch of her clothing and meant to ruin her.
That was the last thing on his mind. In fact, if she weren’t so desperately fighting against him, he’d laugh at such a suggestion.
Dougal was hardly a ravager of women. He was a champion. A protector. Kind. Gentle. Compassionate.
But of course, she wouldn’t believe that. To her, he was the enemy.
Eager to be out of biting range, he sat back, anchoring her hips. There he felt the poke of something hard under his right thigh. Sweet Saints! Did she have yet another weapon?
“What’s this?”
When she didn’t answer, he forced her arms together above her head and held her wrists there with one hand. With the other, he rummaged under her cloak to see what she concealed.
“Get your hands off me!” she shrieked. “Stop! How dare you? Help!Help!”
Her loud screeches of outrage made him wish he’d stuffed her mask into her mouth. He hoped no one was near. To unknowing eyes, it would appear he was a ruffian accosting an innocent maid.
As soon as he laid hands on the grip of the weapon, he recognized his dagger.
“How did ye come by this?” he asked, drawing it from its sheath.
“Let me go, you son of a whore!” She squirmed in frustration.
“Did ye steal it from the innkeeper?”
“Get off of me!” She bucked up, trying to dislodge him. “Satan’s spawn!”
He held the dagger up to give it a closer inspection. A jewel was missing. “And where’s my damned emerald?”
“Unhand me, mac Darragh,” she spat, “or I swear I’ll…”
Chapter 11
