Fairy Tale by Jillian Hunter Page A

grasped the crook of her elbow and drew her over to the dim light filtering through the window, his voice deliberately cruel. “Why, I could sprout horns at any second. I could abduct you to my underground kingdom and devour you, little girl. I’ll wager you could find any number of men in the courtyard below who will swear I’ve been seen prowling the hails with smoke pouring out of my nostrils.”
    She eased her elbow free of his bruising hold, more sorry for his pain than afraid of his anger, which she sensed was not directed at her. “Isn’t that what you wanted them to think?”
    “I don’t give a damn what they think.”
    “Yes you do,” Marsali said with infuriating certainty, remembering the stricken lo ok in his eyes when the stable- boy had rebuffed him. “You owe them your help.”
    “No, I—” He smiled reluctantly, realizing in amazement that he was arguing his personal affairs with a maidservant. Who was she to remind him of his guilt, his need for atonement? “Ah, we’re forgetting your place in this castle, aren’t we, Marsali? You are to serve me and see to my comfort. You are not to give me advice.”
    She shook her head in chagrin. “But you need advice, my lord. In fact, I have never seen a man in more dire need of advising than you.”
    “Marsali, hear me well.” He walked her back against the window embrasure, his face pressed to hers. Her eyes widened. She lifted her hand to the black cord at her throat, but she held her ground. Duncan gave her credit for that.
    “I can hear you quite well, my lord, as probably can the rest of the castle.”
    “Good. Because I want you to know that I have paid advisors to advise me. Men who are mathematical geniuses, historians, military strategists, former soldiers, and ministers of state.”
    “You see,” she said with a knowing smile, “that’s the problem right there. All your advisors are men, and all men can think about is fighting wars.”
    He had to laugh at her irrational reasoning. “That is what they are paid to think about.”
    “Wars and money,” she said with a sigh.
    Suddenly Duncan could not decide if he wanted to throttle her or take her in his arms. Now that she had finally stopped lecturing him, he could enjoy staring at her up close, smelling the elusive honey sweetness of heather in her hair. For the first time he noticed the tiny mole at the co rn er of her mouth. The pulsebeat at the hollow of her throat drew his gaze downward to a black silken cord that disap peared into the cleft of her breasts. One way or another, either with her convoluted arguing or her beguiling presence, she was going to drive h im up the wall. Hungry, travel- weary, disgusted at his homecoming, he had allowed the girl to penetrate his guard.
    Marsali moistened her lips, fascinated by the conflicting emotions that crossed his face. The angrier he became, the more she realized she had to be patient with him because her father had taught her that great outward displays of anger usually came from deep internal pain. Men like Duncan did not reveal themselves easily. It behooved her to help him become the great chieftain the clan needed, even if it appeared an impossible task. She would have to call upon all her courage.
    “Why are you looking at me in that way?” he asked in a suspicious voice.
    A blur of movement in the courtyard below caught his attention before she could answer. His clansmen were playing golf with broadswords and a basket of hard-boiled eggs. The sight wrenched him back to the restrictions of reality. He had an objective, a promise to the Crown, and only a limited time to achieve it. Seducing a bedraggled little baggage who did not know her place was not part of his plans. Perhaps she would even run away during the night. It might be easier for him if she did in the end.
    He drew back from the window, noticing the involuntary shudder, most probably of relief, that passed over Marsali.
    All the better. He frightened her. That