Read Online Knight In My Bed by Sue-Ellen Welfonder - Free Book Online
Authors: Sue-Ellen Welfonder
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continued to stare holes in her rather than fill his belly or quench his thirst.
Isolde gestured to the victuals spread upon the table. «You have touched naught," she said. "This is finer fare than you have recei -"
"The finest fare I've e'er seen, lass," he interrupted, a strange huskiness edging his deep voice. Not taking his gaze off her, he leaned back against the bedpost and crossed his arms. "Still, I have good reason to abstain from such delicacies as you would offer me."
Unable to withstand his assessing stare or the shameless intimations lurking behind his guileless-sounding comments another moment, Isolde turned aside to glance at Bodo. The little dog still dozed upon his bed by the hearth.
"Ah ... a soft bed and a crackling fire." The smoothly spoken words grated sorely on Isolde's nerves. The man seemed capable of making the most innocent observation sound mocking.
Scornful.
"Since you place little value on the treasures I've offered you," he droned on even though she' d turned her back to him, "I vow you hold such simple comforts in higher esteem?"
"Aye, sirrah, I do."
He made a noise that could have been a snort of derision ... or a chuckle. "I cannot persuade you with baubles and rich attire?"
"Nay, you cannot." She twisted back around to face him. "I am content with little and neither needful nor desirous of finery or jewels."
"If that is the truth, Isolde of Dunmuir," he said, quirking a dark brow at her, "then I am most interested to hear what it is you do wish of me?"
Isolde felt her face flush. He noticed, too, for a near wolfish grin stole across his handsome features.
A knowing grin.
The grin of a victor.
Or a predator about to pounce upon its cornered prey.
Plucking idly at the folds of the well-worn lenicroich Rory had grudgingly relinquished to him, he glanced down at the borrowed plaid, his dark gaze rife with undisguised contempt. "Since there can be no question you and yours have dire need of the riches you scorn, I am indeed at a loss to imagine what conditions you mean to demand of me."
Too riled to think of an adequate retort, Isolde met his arrogant appraisal of her means or, more appropriately, her lack thereof with a wrathful glare of her own. Far from the legendary charmer the tongue-waggers claimed him to be, she found Donall MacLean naught but boorish.
A master of churlishness.
And much too bonnie for his own good.
Even the poor quality of the homespun lenicroich he'd draped around himself did little to detract from his annoying air of superiority.
Or his stunning good looks.
If anything, the faded saffron of the garment's soft folds emphasized the glow of his sun-burnished skin, even as the simple bone bodkin at his shoulder underscored her clan's inferior status.
Isolde flinched at that telltale representation of her clan's lesser standing. When he'd been taken, his own plaid had been fastened with a most noble brooch, one studded with glittering gemstones. His brooch now rested in the bottom of her locked strongbox, in safekeeping, until he'd met her conditions.
If ever he would.
Excruciatingly aware of the way he perched on the edge of her bed, studying her, Isolde helped herself to a too-large piece of green cheese. Half because she wasn't willing to let him see she'd erred, and half to appease the hunger gnawing inside her, she stuffed the entire chunk into her mouth and began to chew.
“If it is not my wealth," he boomed, his voice loud in the close confines of her bedchamber. His mirth, an insult. “Then it must be me you desire."
Isolde almost choked on the cheese. Her eyes tearing, she reached for the single tankard of ale and helped herself to a healthy swallow.
"I desire naught but what is best for my people and this isle." She plunked down the tankard and dabbed at her lips with a napkin. " Peace . "
The MacLean leaned forward again. "A piece of what, milady?" he probed, the mildness of his tone in stark contrast to the devilish glitter in
Isolde gestured to the victuals spread upon the table. «You have touched naught," she said. "This is finer fare than you have recei -"
"The finest fare I've e'er seen, lass," he interrupted, a strange huskiness edging his deep voice. Not taking his gaze off her, he leaned back against the bedpost and crossed his arms. "Still, I have good reason to abstain from such delicacies as you would offer me."
Unable to withstand his assessing stare or the shameless intimations lurking behind his guileless-sounding comments another moment, Isolde turned aside to glance at Bodo. The little dog still dozed upon his bed by the hearth.
"Ah ... a soft bed and a crackling fire." The smoothly spoken words grated sorely on Isolde's nerves. The man seemed capable of making the most innocent observation sound mocking.
Scornful.
"Since you place little value on the treasures I've offered you," he droned on even though she' d turned her back to him, "I vow you hold such simple comforts in higher esteem?"
"Aye, sirrah, I do."
He made a noise that could have been a snort of derision ... or a chuckle. "I cannot persuade you with baubles and rich attire?"
"Nay, you cannot." She twisted back around to face him. "I am content with little and neither needful nor desirous of finery or jewels."
"If that is the truth, Isolde of Dunmuir," he said, quirking a dark brow at her, "then I am most interested to hear what it is you do wish of me?"
Isolde felt her face flush. He noticed, too, for a near wolfish grin stole across his handsome features.
A knowing grin.
The grin of a victor.
Or a predator about to pounce upon its cornered prey.
Plucking idly at the folds of the well-worn lenicroich Rory had grudgingly relinquished to him, he glanced down at the borrowed plaid, his dark gaze rife with undisguised contempt. "Since there can be no question you and yours have dire need of the riches you scorn, I am indeed at a loss to imagine what conditions you mean to demand of me."
Too riled to think of an adequate retort, Isolde met his arrogant appraisal of her means or, more appropriately, her lack thereof with a wrathful glare of her own. Far from the legendary charmer the tongue-waggers claimed him to be, she found Donall MacLean naught but boorish.
A master of churlishness.
And much too bonnie for his own good.
Even the poor quality of the homespun lenicroich he'd draped around himself did little to detract from his annoying air of superiority.
Or his stunning good looks.
If anything, the faded saffron of the garment's soft folds emphasized the glow of his sun-burnished skin, even as the simple bone bodkin at his shoulder underscored her clan's inferior status.
Isolde flinched at that telltale representation of her clan's lesser standing. When he'd been taken, his own plaid had been fastened with a most noble brooch, one studded with glittering gemstones. His brooch now rested in the bottom of her locked strongbox, in safekeeping, until he'd met her conditions.
If ever he would.
Excruciatingly aware of the way he perched on the edge of her bed, studying her, Isolde helped herself to a too-large piece of green cheese. Half because she wasn't willing to let him see she'd erred, and half to appease the hunger gnawing inside her, she stuffed the entire chunk into her mouth and began to chew.
“If it is not my wealth," he boomed, his voice loud in the close confines of her bedchamber. His mirth, an insult. “Then it must be me you desire."
Isolde almost choked on the cheese. Her eyes tearing, she reached for the single tankard of ale and helped herself to a healthy swallow.
"I desire naught but what is best for my people and this isle." She plunked down the tankard and dabbed at her lips with a napkin. " Peace . "
The MacLean leaned forward again. "A piece of what, milady?" he probed, the mildness of his tone in stark contrast to the devilish glitter in
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