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Authors: Donna Fletcher
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yours without forethought and a strong strategic plan. My father didn’t have enough of either.”
“Did you express your concerns to him?”
She laughed. “I cherish my tongue, so I kept my opinions to myself.”
He was about to suggest that her father would not harm her in such a brutal way when he was suddenly assaulted with images of her at five years stitching dead warriors and realized that her father was capable of that and more.
“You didn’t believe that your father could conquer my clan?”
“Your clan’s reputation precedes itself, and your friends”—she smiled—“are too many to ignore. Apoint my father failed to realize. While his troops may have outnumbered your clansmen, they did not outnumber your allies.”
“So you escaped, leaving your father to deal with his foolish actions.”
“It was the wisest choice,” she said. “There was nothing I could do to save him. Fate already had its hand heavy on his shoulder.”
“But not on yours?”
“Not if I could help it.”
“How did you avoid my brother’s warriors?” he asked.
“When I was young, I would escape into the woods and pretend I was fleeing a horrible monster. Most times I could only hide from him, but one day I discovered a way out, and I revisited it often. In case one day I would need it.”
“And that day came,” he confirmed.
“And I was ready.”
“You shed no tear leaving your father behind, knowing he most certainly would face death when captured?”
“Another lesson I have to thank my father for. I don’t cry. He taught me not to shed a single tear. It is a wasted action, serving no productive purpose.”
“When was the last time you cried?” he asked curious.
She shook her head slowly. “I don’t recall.”
Ronan didn’t believe her. He had a feeling she remembered full well when last she cried. She just didn’t want to tell him. He had time. He’d find out; though why he wanted to know, he couldn’t say.But he did, and he also wanted to know why she had cried.
“Tell me more of what your father taught you,” he said.
“I’m too tired,” she claimed. “I want to go to bed.”
He stepped away from the hearth. “A good night’s sleep will do us both good.”
She stood, slowly unfastening her blouse. “Then you’ll join me in bed?”
His memory of her naked was still strong in his mind, and he knew it was not a wise idea to go to bed with her.
“We can keep each other warm,” she said, and slipped off her blouse.
Her breasts swelled beneath the shift, her nipples growing hard beneath the white linen. And while he would rot in hell before he touched her, he couldn’t say she didn’t tempt him.
“You have the bed warming,” he reminded. “You don’t need me.”
She smiled that damn wicked smile of hers that could probably cause a priest to sin.
“Ahh, but there’s nothing quite like warm bodies pressed against each other to heat you right down to the soul,” she said.
“I didn’t think you had a soul.” He could see that his remark had stung her, and oddly enough, he felt a pang of regret for his hurtful comment though he couldn’t understand why. After what she had done, she deserved no sympathy from him.
“Go to bed,” he ordered, and sat in the rocker, turning it so that his back was to her. He had no desire to look upon her naked body, and he wanted her well aware of that.
He heard the creak of the bed as she climbed into it, but he refused to turn around and look at her. He had no doubt she would continue to attempt to seduce him, hoping to win her freedom. And he intended to make certain that would not happen.
He leaned his head back against the rocker and closed his eyes, thinking how Carissa would never taste freedom again, and the thought brought him a modicum of joy though only for a moment. He recalled with great clarity what she said death had taught her.
No one can hurt you anymore .
As he dozed off, he couldn’t help but wonder if perhaps
“Did you express your concerns to him?”
She laughed. “I cherish my tongue, so I kept my opinions to myself.”
He was about to suggest that her father would not harm her in such a brutal way when he was suddenly assaulted with images of her at five years stitching dead warriors and realized that her father was capable of that and more.
“You didn’t believe that your father could conquer my clan?”
“Your clan’s reputation precedes itself, and your friends”—she smiled—“are too many to ignore. Apoint my father failed to realize. While his troops may have outnumbered your clansmen, they did not outnumber your allies.”
“So you escaped, leaving your father to deal with his foolish actions.”
“It was the wisest choice,” she said. “There was nothing I could do to save him. Fate already had its hand heavy on his shoulder.”
“But not on yours?”
“Not if I could help it.”
“How did you avoid my brother’s warriors?” he asked.
“When I was young, I would escape into the woods and pretend I was fleeing a horrible monster. Most times I could only hide from him, but one day I discovered a way out, and I revisited it often. In case one day I would need it.”
“And that day came,” he confirmed.
“And I was ready.”
“You shed no tear leaving your father behind, knowing he most certainly would face death when captured?”
“Another lesson I have to thank my father for. I don’t cry. He taught me not to shed a single tear. It is a wasted action, serving no productive purpose.”
“When was the last time you cried?” he asked curious.
She shook her head slowly. “I don’t recall.”
Ronan didn’t believe her. He had a feeling she remembered full well when last she cried. She just didn’t want to tell him. He had time. He’d find out; though why he wanted to know, he couldn’t say.But he did, and he also wanted to know why she had cried.
“Tell me more of what your father taught you,” he said.
“I’m too tired,” she claimed. “I want to go to bed.”
He stepped away from the hearth. “A good night’s sleep will do us both good.”
She stood, slowly unfastening her blouse. “Then you’ll join me in bed?”
His memory of her naked was still strong in his mind, and he knew it was not a wise idea to go to bed with her.
“We can keep each other warm,” she said, and slipped off her blouse.
Her breasts swelled beneath the shift, her nipples growing hard beneath the white linen. And while he would rot in hell before he touched her, he couldn’t say she didn’t tempt him.
“You have the bed warming,” he reminded. “You don’t need me.”
She smiled that damn wicked smile of hers that could probably cause a priest to sin.
“Ahh, but there’s nothing quite like warm bodies pressed against each other to heat you right down to the soul,” she said.
“I didn’t think you had a soul.” He could see that his remark had stung her, and oddly enough, he felt a pang of regret for his hurtful comment though he couldn’t understand why. After what she had done, she deserved no sympathy from him.
“Go to bed,” he ordered, and sat in the rocker, turning it so that his back was to her. He had no desire to look upon her naked body, and he wanted her well aware of that.
He heard the creak of the bed as she climbed into it, but he refused to turn around and look at her. He had no doubt she would continue to attempt to seduce him, hoping to win her freedom. And he intended to make certain that would not happen.
He leaned his head back against the rocker and closed his eyes, thinking how Carissa would never taste freedom again, and the thought brought him a modicum of joy though only for a moment. He recalled with great clarity what she said death had taught her.
No one can hurt you anymore .
As he dozed off, he couldn’t help but wonder if perhaps
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