foul-reeking brew," he said, regretting the words even as they hastened past his lips.
"Marriage to you, sirrah, was never a consideration." She bristled visibly. "What I had in mind was an alliance of ... of convenience. One I was foolhardy enough to believe might benefit us both."
She glared at him for a long moment, then stormed away, fleeing to the row of tall, shuttered windows on the far side of the room. There she stood, her back rigid, her shoulders squared, and hell and botheration, but he wished he could tear out his tongue.
May the devil snatch his soul for mocking her. Ne'er had he spoken thusly to a woman, but she possessed the ability to rile him beyond the outermost bounds of his patience.
Yet, even now, he felt compelled to go to her, was beset by an overwhelming desire to caress away her anger and banish his insults with kisses, sharp-smelling potion on her lips be damned.
He would, too, were she any other woman.
Were he not manacled to her bed.
Tearing his gaze from her, Donall stared into the crackling flames lapping at the hearth log. Anger roiled and simmered deep inside him. Annoyance at himself for upsetting her, exasperation over the deep-seated longing eating a hole in his gut.
A longing he couldn't seem to extinguish despite his most ardent efforts.
Donall swore softly under his breath.
His brows drew together in a frown.
Heedless of what nonsensical and provocative proposals she might make once her agitation cooled, he would not bow to the temptation presented by his fetching keeper.
At the moment, though, if he was completely honest, doing just that was his most dread fear.
A fear he wasn't wont to share with her.
Gazing heavenward, Donall prayed for the cunning he'd need to persuade her to release him before she discovered how very much he desired her.
The lady would no doubt take sore advantage if she knew.
CHAPTER FOUR
RELEASE ME AND a fine mantle lined with miniver shall be yours," Donall the Bold tossed out another bribe. The hundredth he'd dangled before her ever since Niels had deposited their evening meal upon the chamber's only table.
A sturdy oaken table he'd dragged across the room, placing it near the bed so she could share her repast with the MacLean without necessitating the removal of the iron shackle secured around his right ankle.
And already, Isolde regretted the simple gesture meant to hinder needless embarrassment between them during their first shared meal.
A fool notion he'd quickly seized to his advantage.
An ill-considered impulse that sentenced her to suffer his repeated and increasingly ludicrous attempts to talk his way out of confinement.
"Not interested in furs?" He rubbed his chin and feigned a look of astonishment. "May I tempt you with twenty ells each of exquisite samite and sendal silk?"
Ignoring him, Isolde tore off a piece of brown bread and popped it in her mouth.
"A circlet for your hair set with agates and sapphires?"
Isolde swallowed the bread. "Such frippery does not interest me."
With an exaggerated sigh, he leaned forward on one elbow and peered intently at her. "A coffer of gold?"
Isolde peered right back at him. 'Tour wealth cannot buy my favor, Sir Donall. What I want from you cannot be bought with coin."
He straightened at that, not answering her in words, but loudly declaring his frustration by the cold set of his jaw and the fury snapping in his eyes.
"My conditions, what I desire from you, will not lessen your riches." Isolde struggled to remain composed beneath his sharp perusal.
A scrutiny meant to needle her.
A game he enjoyed playing.
That she knew, for a decidedly false smile began tugging at the corners of his mouth and a telltale glint danced in his dark brown eyes. Truth be told, she couldn't quite shake the notion he found himself highly amused by her refusal to accept his absurd bids to ransom himself.
Not that she could fathom what about her rebuttals he seemed to find so entertaining.
Nor why he
"Marriage to you, sirrah, was never a consideration." She bristled visibly. "What I had in mind was an alliance of ... of convenience. One I was foolhardy enough to believe might benefit us both."
She glared at him for a long moment, then stormed away, fleeing to the row of tall, shuttered windows on the far side of the room. There she stood, her back rigid, her shoulders squared, and hell and botheration, but he wished he could tear out his tongue.
May the devil snatch his soul for mocking her. Ne'er had he spoken thusly to a woman, but she possessed the ability to rile him beyond the outermost bounds of his patience.
Yet, even now, he felt compelled to go to her, was beset by an overwhelming desire to caress away her anger and banish his insults with kisses, sharp-smelling potion on her lips be damned.
He would, too, were she any other woman.
Were he not manacled to her bed.
Tearing his gaze from her, Donall stared into the crackling flames lapping at the hearth log. Anger roiled and simmered deep inside him. Annoyance at himself for upsetting her, exasperation over the deep-seated longing eating a hole in his gut.
A longing he couldn't seem to extinguish despite his most ardent efforts.
Donall swore softly under his breath.
His brows drew together in a frown.
Heedless of what nonsensical and provocative proposals she might make once her agitation cooled, he would not bow to the temptation presented by his fetching keeper.
At the moment, though, if he was completely honest, doing just that was his most dread fear.
A fear he wasn't wont to share with her.
Gazing heavenward, Donall prayed for the cunning he'd need to persuade her to release him before she discovered how very much he desired her.
The lady would no doubt take sore advantage if she knew.
CHAPTER FOUR
RELEASE ME AND a fine mantle lined with miniver shall be yours," Donall the Bold tossed out another bribe. The hundredth he'd dangled before her ever since Niels had deposited their evening meal upon the chamber's only table.
A sturdy oaken table he'd dragged across the room, placing it near the bed so she could share her repast with the MacLean without necessitating the removal of the iron shackle secured around his right ankle.
And already, Isolde regretted the simple gesture meant to hinder needless embarrassment between them during their first shared meal.
A fool notion he'd quickly seized to his advantage.
An ill-considered impulse that sentenced her to suffer his repeated and increasingly ludicrous attempts to talk his way out of confinement.
"Not interested in furs?" He rubbed his chin and feigned a look of astonishment. "May I tempt you with twenty ells each of exquisite samite and sendal silk?"
Ignoring him, Isolde tore off a piece of brown bread and popped it in her mouth.
"A circlet for your hair set with agates and sapphires?"
Isolde swallowed the bread. "Such frippery does not interest me."
With an exaggerated sigh, he leaned forward on one elbow and peered intently at her. "A coffer of gold?"
Isolde peered right back at him. 'Tour wealth cannot buy my favor, Sir Donall. What I want from you cannot be bought with coin."
He straightened at that, not answering her in words, but loudly declaring his frustration by the cold set of his jaw and the fury snapping in his eyes.
"My conditions, what I desire from you, will not lessen your riches." Isolde struggled to remain composed beneath his sharp perusal.
A scrutiny meant to needle her.
A game he enjoyed playing.
That she knew, for a decidedly false smile began tugging at the corners of his mouth and a telltale glint danced in his dark brown eyes. Truth be told, she couldn't quite shake the notion he found himself highly amused by her refusal to accept his absurd bids to ransom himself.
Not that she could fathom what about her rebuttals he seemed to find so entertaining.
Nor why he
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