“I will not be kept prisoner while you steal my child?—”
“Don’t play the injured party here, Shawna. And you know damned well that I’m right to keep that child safe now! Just asI am trying to keep you alive, though God knows why, since it seems you don’t care in the least about being Danny’s mother or anything else for that matter since you are so determined to risk death.”
“You are as susceptible to a bullet as I am!”
“But I am much better with a gun and quite lethal with a sword.”
“I’m not trying to risk death?—”
“Why the black gown?”
“You destroyed the other, and since the room was a bit chill, I did not feel the urge to sit about in tatters. Damn you—you ruined the riding habit I wore. It is rags.”
“By God, then, this one shall become confetti!”
He came at her then with such complete menace that she shrieked, attempting to fly from the bed and find some escape—the window seemed a fair choice, compared with the deadly gaze he had cast her way.
But he caught her long before she reached the window. Caught her arm, spun her around. His fingers caught hold of the very proper collar of her high-necked gown, and he ripped. “Stop!” she hissed, struggling, scratching, clawing, desperate to be free from him.
He had never been more determined, more ruthless, more relentless. With incredible purpose, he destroyed the gown, ripping with a vengeance. Choking, gasping, struggling, striking out, Shawna struggled in vain. Soon, it lay in absolute tatters at her feet.
His hands fell away from her.
She glared at her. He was looking only into her eyes. “You’ll not leave this room!” he informed her with a quiet menace that was even more frightening in a strange way than the manner in which he had destroyed her clothing.
“Oh god!” she gasped out, once again spinning to run, when she realized he meant to reach for her again. “Nay, you will not touch me, you will not!” she cried.
But he did. Picking her up, he tossed her down upon the bed.
“Go to sleep. You’re not leaving this room.”
“I—” she protested, starting to rise.
He leaned over her. “Go to sleep!”
She lay dead still, her heart beating a thousand rounds a second, her lungs heaving for breath. “I?—”
“This once, my lady, use some common sense. Not another word. I’m not leaving this room again tonight. Neither are you.”
She swallowed hard, sinking back against the pillows, watching him very warily. She slipped beneath the covers.
Freezing.
She didn’t think that she’d ever been so cold in all her life.
He turned away from her. Moving about the tower room, he doused the lights.
In the darkness and orange-gold shadows, he stood before the mantel, watching the flame. Shadow and light played over his features, the striking sculpture of his cheeks and brow, the set square of his chin. The light reflected against his eyes and played strangely upon his shirt, amplifying the supple ripple of muscle beneath it.
His face gave away nothing, none of his emotions, though it seemed he searched for something in the flames, while knowing that he could not find his answers there. Shawna shivered suddenly, remembering her earlier conversation with James McGregor.
Hard labor. He’d worked at hard labor. And the scar above his eye and other minute nicks and tears upon his body gave evidence to the fights he had fought through the years. If she had but lived his life, could she better understand his inability to trust her—especially when it did appear at every turn thatshe might have been involved more and more deeply with the happenings here?
He left the fire at last. She braced herself to remain still as he neared the bed.
He didn’t touch her.
The fierce green flicker of his eyes upon her scalded her flesh, yet it seemed as well that he had no desire to touch her whatsoever.