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everything she had not to panic and run.
    “Damn it, Genevieve.”
    Bowen’s soft curse reached her ears mere seconds before his hand curled around her arm and he pulled her to a halt, turning her so she faced him.
    It was instinctive to ward him off with her hands, to put a protective barrier between herself and the much bigger warrior.
    But the action sparked anger in his eyes. His jaw tightened with fury, and fear scuttled up her spine.
    “Don’t look at me that way,” he growled. “I’m not going to hurt you. I’d never hurt you. I’m angry because you thought you had to defend yourself from
me
. No one is going to hurt you, Genevieve. If you believe nothing else, believe that.”
    She stared at him in bewilderment, wondering where this outburst had come from. For that matter, what was he doing here and why had he stopped her?
    She finally found her voice—and her courage.
    “What are you doing here?” she queried. “Why have you come after me?”
    He cursed again, making her flinch with the vehemence of his blasphemies.
    “Think you I’m going to let you walk out of that keep alone, unprotected, with no clothing, coin, or food? How do you expect that you would last even a day? A lone female with no protector? You’d be easy prey for any man who happened along, and no one would ever be the wiser.”
    The blood drained from her face, because that was precisely what had happened with Ian. He’d slaughtered her escort and whisked her away to a life of captivity and depravity. No one had been the wiser. To this day, no one knew.
    Genevieve McInnis was dead.
    “I will not stay there any longer,” she said in as firm a voice as she could muster. But it lacked conviction. She was afraid, and it was obvious to Bowen that she was afraid. Any fool could hear the quiver in her voice and see that her hands shook. “I already humiliated myself when I swore never to allow myself that kind of humiliation again. There’s naught left but for me to go before I sacrifice what little dignity I have left.”
    Bowen put his hand on her arm. She tried to shrug away, but he persisted, drawing her closer to him with firm but gentle hands. It was obvious he made a concerted effort not to hurt her in any way. His palms smoothed up her arms to rest at her shoulders and he gave each a reassuring squeeze.
    “I won’t allow you to go.”
    She couldn’t help the dismay that overcame her. Disappointment—and gut-wrenching fear—choked her, robbing her of breath. How cruel was the promise of freedom only to have it yanked away.
    He sighed, and his features softened. There was a hint of sorrow—and regret—in his eyes, and that puzzled her.
    “You’ll not remain as a prisoner, Genevieve. Never that. You’ll be well cared for and will be treated as an honored guest. No one will harm you. You answer to no one save me. I’ll send word to your family, but until they arrive you’ll be given the utmost regard. I’ll have the head of anyone who dares cross me on this matter.”
    “Nay!” she shouted hoarsely, ripping her arms from his grasp. “Nay, do not!”
    His brows furrowed and he stared at her in clear confusion. “I do not understand.”
    Her breath sputtered erratically from frozen lips. She was so panicked that she could barely force the words from her throat.
    “You’ll not send word to my family.”
    There was a note of hysteria in her voice that even she was cognizant of.
    “Why the hell not?” Bowen demanded. “They must be sick with worry.”
    Genevieve shook her head, tears filling her eyes. A sob welled in her throat, and she couldn’t call back the tears as they slid down her cheeks. It made her furious that this man could bring her to tears when Ian McHugh had never done so. She’d never allowed it. Wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.
    “They believe me dead. That I perished with the rest of my escort a year ago.”
    Bowen stared agape at her. “Then surely you would want to send word to them at