She ran for her door, throwing it open.
James McGregor stood there, arms crossed over his chest.
“’Tis a lovely dress, my lady,” he said politely.
“Let me by, James.”
“My lady?—”
“He is just walking down the stairs. I can hear him!”
McGregor hesitated just a second, then let her by him. Shawna went tearing down the stairs herself.
David had reached the great hall. He was approaching the fire. She ran to him as if flying on wings of fury, slamming her hands against his back.
He whirled around, facing her. She locked her balled fists at her sides, staring at him.
“You belong on a convict ship!” she told him, tears stinging her eyes. “Lashed and whipped and torn to shreds.”
She narrowed her eyes, wild with fear and fury and desperate frustration. He didn’t say a word.
He didn’t seem willing to take her word—against that of Fergus Anderson.
She could prove nothing!
“Is that quite all?” he inquired icily.
“Nay, nay, it is not!” she hissed, and before any good sense, reason, or self-preservation could leap forward to stop her, she slapped him across the cheek with all her strength.
He didn’t move, didn’t speak.
She stood dead still in horror herself.
Then gasped out a strangled cry because he lifted her, picking her up by her waist, throwing her over his shoulder. For a moment she perched there in shock. Afraid she would burst into tears any second, she pounded his back.
“You’re an idiot! You’re a fool! God has simply made you pay early for being such a complete ass?—”
“Stop, Shawna!”
She stopped, but only to gasp for breath.
“Fool!” she repeated, pounding his back with her clenched fist. There had to be more that she could say, but she couldn’t begin to express the fear and pain and frustration welling within her. “Fool!” she repeated more desperately.
He carried her so back up both stairways to her bedroom—past McGregor without a word.
He threw her down upon the bed without a word, started out, then turned back.
He noted her gown. Really noted it.
“You planned on going out.”
She stood in silence.
“You call me fool. You planned on going out, when you seem to be target practice for someone every single time you make a move?”
“I—planned nothing.”
“You’re lying, and you know it well. Damn you, you will not get yourself killed.”