narrowed to menacing crevices. He smelled like a keg of stale mead.
Meggie jerked her head from his foul breath. A shiver of fear trickled down her spine. She had left her dogs with Deirdre, afraid the girl might need guarding. There was nothing so amorous as a drunken Irishman, and a great deal of mead had been consumed this eve. Meggie never thought of herself requiring protection. In the past, no one had dared lay so much as a finger on the daughter of Fitzgerald, the lady of the castle, the mistress of Dochas.
Until now. Barra had lost all ability to reason. He had forgotten who she was; from the looks of him, most likely he didn’t know who he was.
“What are ye savin’ yerself for?” he sneered. “’Tis yer duty to comfort the men defendin’ ye from the English bastards.”
Barra stood six feet tall, built in the shape of a brick turret, round and solid. Meggie feared she might be unable to fend him off if it came to a struggle. She could not look to the bard to come to her rescue even if the fracas woke him. Colm was not strong enough to engage in a fight. His wounded leg would not hold him.
A shudder of revulsion swept through her at the thought of Barra forcing himself upon her. And then her blood began to boil. Her hands curled into fists, fists she raised to her hips.
“I’m feeding and shelterin’ ye, and that’s enough!” She bristled.
Barra must have found her objection amusing. Chuckling, he dragged her into what he thought to be her chamber. “Ye’re gonna give me more, fair lassie.”
So intent was he on ravishing her, the burly rebel did not realize he had spirited her into the bard’s chamber. Barra did not see Colm asleep in his bed.
“Shush!” she said. “Or you will wake the sleeping poet.”
“Who?” Barra turned away to look where she pointed.
In that unguarded moment, Meggie wrenched free. But as she turned to run, Barra pounced with surprising agility. He snatched her upper arm and clasped it tightly. He pulled her out into the corridor. In the darkness, Meggie kicked and flailed, fighting off Barra’s brute power as he sought to capture her lips.
Was the bard truly sleeping through this?
“Let me go!” Meggie hissed, beating her fist against Barra’s chest.
The drunken rebel appeared to enjoy the fight. He threw his head back and laughed. In a desperate effort, Meggie flung her body to the side with enough force to cause her attacker to lose his grip on her once more.
Pulling free, Meggie ran to her chamber. Pulse pounding, she dashed to her wooden chest. Flinging back the lid, she plunged her hands deep into the linens and clothing. Rummaging furiously through the contents, she searched for her dagger.
“Ye can’t run from me, Meggie.” Barra’s hulking form loomed above her, swaying. “Ye’re meant to be mine.”
She found her weapon. Her hand clasped the ivory handle. Holding the dagger behind her back, she rose slowly. “Be gone, Barra.”
“Ye’re playin’ with me.”
“I shall not warn you again. Go away or ... or I will have to kill ye.”
“And she means what she says.”
Barra’s bulk of a body jumped at the sound of the voice behind him.
“She’s shot a man for less,” the deep baritone voice assured the drunken rebel. “Trust me.”
It was Colm. Barra appeared frozen. He swayed not the slightest.
Meggie took the first deep breath she could remember since being confronted by the foolish man. She quickly lit another candle from the one burning by her bedside.
Colm stood behind Barra, towering over the suddenly quiet brawler. In the flickering light, the poet’s scowl appeared more menacing than Barra’s drunken passion. Slashes of dark brows met above the bridge of his nose. His lips were pressed tightly together in two narrow bands of anger. A muscle pulsed in his squared jaw. Even though he leaned upon the blackthorn walking stick for support, the bard appeared quite fearsome.
But ruled by his mad dog instincts, Barra
Meggie jerked her head from his foul breath. A shiver of fear trickled down her spine. She had left her dogs with Deirdre, afraid the girl might need guarding. There was nothing so amorous as a drunken Irishman, and a great deal of mead had been consumed this eve. Meggie never thought of herself requiring protection. In the past, no one had dared lay so much as a finger on the daughter of Fitzgerald, the lady of the castle, the mistress of Dochas.
Until now. Barra had lost all ability to reason. He had forgotten who she was; from the looks of him, most likely he didn’t know who he was.
“What are ye savin’ yerself for?” he sneered. “’Tis yer duty to comfort the men defendin’ ye from the English bastards.”
Barra stood six feet tall, built in the shape of a brick turret, round and solid. Meggie feared she might be unable to fend him off if it came to a struggle. She could not look to the bard to come to her rescue even if the fracas woke him. Colm was not strong enough to engage in a fight. His wounded leg would not hold him.
A shudder of revulsion swept through her at the thought of Barra forcing himself upon her. And then her blood began to boil. Her hands curled into fists, fists she raised to her hips.
“I’m feeding and shelterin’ ye, and that’s enough!” She bristled.
Barra must have found her objection amusing. Chuckling, he dragged her into what he thought to be her chamber. “Ye’re gonna give me more, fair lassie.”
So intent was he on ravishing her, the burly rebel did not realize he had spirited her into the bard’s chamber. Barra did not see Colm asleep in his bed.
“Shush!” she said. “Or you will wake the sleeping poet.”
“Who?” Barra turned away to look where she pointed.
In that unguarded moment, Meggie wrenched free. But as she turned to run, Barra pounced with surprising agility. He snatched her upper arm and clasped it tightly. He pulled her out into the corridor. In the darkness, Meggie kicked and flailed, fighting off Barra’s brute power as he sought to capture her lips.
Was the bard truly sleeping through this?
“Let me go!” Meggie hissed, beating her fist against Barra’s chest.
The drunken rebel appeared to enjoy the fight. He threw his head back and laughed. In a desperate effort, Meggie flung her body to the side with enough force to cause her attacker to lose his grip on her once more.
Pulling free, Meggie ran to her chamber. Pulse pounding, she dashed to her wooden chest. Flinging back the lid, she plunged her hands deep into the linens and clothing. Rummaging furiously through the contents, she searched for her dagger.
“Ye can’t run from me, Meggie.” Barra’s hulking form loomed above her, swaying. “Ye’re meant to be mine.”
She found her weapon. Her hand clasped the ivory handle. Holding the dagger behind her back, she rose slowly. “Be gone, Barra.”
“Ye’re playin’ with me.”
“I shall not warn you again. Go away or ... or I will have to kill ye.”
“And she means what she says.”
Barra’s bulk of a body jumped at the sound of the voice behind him.
“She’s shot a man for less,” the deep baritone voice assured the drunken rebel. “Trust me.”
It was Colm. Barra appeared frozen. He swayed not the slightest.
Meggie took the first deep breath she could remember since being confronted by the foolish man. She quickly lit another candle from the one burning by her bedside.
Colm stood behind Barra, towering over the suddenly quiet brawler. In the flickering light, the poet’s scowl appeared more menacing than Barra’s drunken passion. Slashes of dark brows met above the bridge of his nose. His lips were pressed tightly together in two narrow bands of anger. A muscle pulsed in his squared jaw. Even though he leaned upon the blackthorn walking stick for support, the bard appeared quite fearsome.
But ruled by his mad dog instincts, Barra
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