her reluctance, he reached out and yanked the girl onto his lap. She knew better than to protest.
“W ALTER,” A LIANOR CRIED AGAIN as she awakened. The nightmare was vivid as ever, painful as the day she’d watched her husband die. Tears threatened as she fought to right her world and relegate the past where it belonged.
“What’s wrong?”
Alianor sat up in the hay, raking a hand through her disheveled hair. Disoriented, she looked up. A man stood above her, looking worried. Her memory sharpened. She remembered now — he was the enemy.
“Milady,” he said again, his voice gentle. “Are you all right?”
She stared at Liam, still battling visages from her dream. His voice was kind, but she experienced a surge of anger. She was tired, dirty, and hungry. She owed him nothing.
“No,” she snapped, more irritated than fearful. “I’m not all right.”
He didn’t seem to know what to say to her outburst. They stared at one another in awkward silence until a third voice intervened.
“Well,” Niall said in a cheery tone, summing up the tense scene between them. “I suppose if I’d been dragged from the lap of luxury an’ spirited God-knows-where to end up in an old barn with Irish outlaws, I’d be a wee bit cranky, too.”
Alianor’s eyes widened. “Cranky?” she echoed, sure she hadn’t heard him right.
“Aye,” Niall affirmed. “ Cranky .” He emphasized the word as if she were a child being scolded for pitching a tantrum.
Liam raised an eyebrow, but did not disagree with the verdict. Niall shrugged and retreated, leaving them alone in the barn.
Liam offered her a hand up. “Who is Walter?”
Alianor ignored his question. She also refused his helping hand and stood on her own. It was not easy. She stifled a moan at her aching muscles, determined not to show her discomfort. Instead she concentrated on picking off the hay clinging to her dress and hair.
Liam watched her. Like a dog worrying a bone, he would not let it rest. “Who is Walter, milady?”
“My husband.” She saw him flinch at her vehement reply, and softened her tone a bit. “My late husband.”
“Ah.” Unspoken questions hung in the air, but Alianor would not give him the satisfaction of offering more information. He knew she was a widow and de Lacy’s intended. What did any villain deserve to know about a woman he’d kidnapped? Nothing.
He walked past her and picked up his saddlebag. “Come, let’s get you something to eat.”
She refused to be mollified by his apparent concern. “I’m not hungry,” she said. In response, her stomach growled so loudly she feared the King himself could hear it back in England. Her cheeks warmed.
Liam looked amused. “We’ve long hours yet to ride, and it may be awhile before we stop.”
She could not hide her dismay. “Again?”
“Aye, milady, again.”
She was sure she glimpsed the dimple, but the light was poor in the barn and she was still so tired.
“Perhaps hearty Irish cooking will put the spunk back into your step. You’re light as a sparrow and as weak as a kitten.”
Reminded of Walter’s endearment, tears pricked her eyes again. Oh, how she hated showing weakness. It seemed the nightmare upset her even more than usual.
Aye, she reasoned, she needed to preserve her strength so she might seize any chance at escape. Somehow she must run fast and carry Goliath’s weighty cage as well.
Thinking of Goliath’s welfare, she looked at Liam, but even before she could speak, he did. “The bird is fine. I tended him best I could. A lively mouse was offered but he preferred my finger.” He cast a rueful glance at his right hand.
Despite her misery, Alianor smiled a little. “Are you a mind reader, sirrah? I confess the notion a tad unsettling.”
He shrugged. “’Tis said all Irish have a fashion of the Gift.”
“Well, Goliath is quite proud, you know. He prefers hunting for his own meal. May I let him fly before we press on?”
“Nay, I cannot
“W ALTER,” A LIANOR CRIED AGAIN as she awakened. The nightmare was vivid as ever, painful as the day she’d watched her husband die. Tears threatened as she fought to right her world and relegate the past where it belonged.
“What’s wrong?”
Alianor sat up in the hay, raking a hand through her disheveled hair. Disoriented, she looked up. A man stood above her, looking worried. Her memory sharpened. She remembered now — he was the enemy.
“Milady,” he said again, his voice gentle. “Are you all right?”
She stared at Liam, still battling visages from her dream. His voice was kind, but she experienced a surge of anger. She was tired, dirty, and hungry. She owed him nothing.
“No,” she snapped, more irritated than fearful. “I’m not all right.”
He didn’t seem to know what to say to her outburst. They stared at one another in awkward silence until a third voice intervened.
“Well,” Niall said in a cheery tone, summing up the tense scene between them. “I suppose if I’d been dragged from the lap of luxury an’ spirited God-knows-where to end up in an old barn with Irish outlaws, I’d be a wee bit cranky, too.”
Alianor’s eyes widened. “Cranky?” she echoed, sure she hadn’t heard him right.
“Aye,” Niall affirmed. “ Cranky .” He emphasized the word as if she were a child being scolded for pitching a tantrum.
Liam raised an eyebrow, but did not disagree with the verdict. Niall shrugged and retreated, leaving them alone in the barn.
Liam offered her a hand up. “Who is Walter?”
Alianor ignored his question. She also refused his helping hand and stood on her own. It was not easy. She stifled a moan at her aching muscles, determined not to show her discomfort. Instead she concentrated on picking off the hay clinging to her dress and hair.
Liam watched her. Like a dog worrying a bone, he would not let it rest. “Who is Walter, milady?”
“My husband.” She saw him flinch at her vehement reply, and softened her tone a bit. “My late husband.”
“Ah.” Unspoken questions hung in the air, but Alianor would not give him the satisfaction of offering more information. He knew she was a widow and de Lacy’s intended. What did any villain deserve to know about a woman he’d kidnapped? Nothing.
He walked past her and picked up his saddlebag. “Come, let’s get you something to eat.”
She refused to be mollified by his apparent concern. “I’m not hungry,” she said. In response, her stomach growled so loudly she feared the King himself could hear it back in England. Her cheeks warmed.
Liam looked amused. “We’ve long hours yet to ride, and it may be awhile before we stop.”
She could not hide her dismay. “Again?”
“Aye, milady, again.”
She was sure she glimpsed the dimple, but the light was poor in the barn and she was still so tired.
“Perhaps hearty Irish cooking will put the spunk back into your step. You’re light as a sparrow and as weak as a kitten.”
Reminded of Walter’s endearment, tears pricked her eyes again. Oh, how she hated showing weakness. It seemed the nightmare upset her even more than usual.
Aye, she reasoned, she needed to preserve her strength so she might seize any chance at escape. Somehow she must run fast and carry Goliath’s weighty cage as well.
Thinking of Goliath’s welfare, she looked at Liam, but even before she could speak, he did. “The bird is fine. I tended him best I could. A lively mouse was offered but he preferred my finger.” He cast a rueful glance at his right hand.
Despite her misery, Alianor smiled a little. “Are you a mind reader, sirrah? I confess the notion a tad unsettling.”
He shrugged. “’Tis said all Irish have a fashion of the Gift.”
“Well, Goliath is quite proud, you know. He prefers hunting for his own meal. May I let him fly before we press on?”
“Nay, I cannot
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