Brave. Beautiful. These were all words that came to mind as she marched into the hall, and he had a fleeting regret that once she spied him up close she would no doubt avert her gaze in horror. Some women did, once they saw his parting gift from Donnal MacLaren, although he normally didn’t care. On the contrary, he was grateful for it, for it kept him focused. In truth, it kept him from craving those things he could not have.
A hush swept over the room as they led her before the laird’s table, and there she stopped, peering up at him, flashing him a look of utter defiance.
But she did not look away.
An unexpected warmth sidled through his veins as the rosy color in her cheeks heightened, though he did not mistake the cause. She was clearly furious. He recognized her ire in the square of her shoulders and in the sparkle of her clear green eyes. The violet shade of her gown set her sun-kissed skin aglow and her hair, black as a moonless night, was bound with a single braid, draped like silk over one delicate shoulder—delicate only in the sense that she had the grace and bearing of an angel. There was naught fragile about this woman. Her arms were sinewy, lean and strong. Her shoulders lifted with a haughtiness rivaling that of Henry’s Empress daughter, who at fourteen was crowned in St. Peter's Basilica and wed to the Holy Roman Emperor himself. Like Matilda, this woman standing before him was not a woman whose spirit had ever been broken.
Had she known a man?
Jaime didn’t think so. He didn’t know many men who could love such a fiery beauty without succumbing to the need to bend her to his will. In truth, he wasn’t certain he could be that man himself; he only knew that to see her as anything other than what she appeared to be was a greater sin than any he had ever committed.
Alas, but his sins were many.
All this time, she’d yet to look away. She met his gaze without fail, blinking only when she must.
Jaime took a sip of his ale, clearing his throat.
At her side Luc touched her arm—more likely than not a gentle reminder for her to recall herself, for Luc understood something she could not. No matter the bent of Jaime’s heart, he would do the job he was sent here to do: above all else, bend these Highlanders’ knees to David mac Maíl Chaluim. He could not afford to allow a slip of a girl to undermine his efforts. And still, he found himself grinning as she shrugged away from Luc and gave the lad a baleful glare.
“Welcome to Keppenach, Lael of the dún Scoti.”
“That is not my name,” she spat. “I am no Scot , neither from hill nor dale.”
He leaned back in his chair, bringing a hand to his chin, as though to consider her. “Nay?”
“Nay.”
“So what would you have me call you then?”
“Lael.”
“Simply Lael?”
Her eyes were like crystalline daggers. “Aye, simply Lael,” she replied. “’Tis my given name and it gives me great pleasure to hear it.”
The hall erupted with nervous laughter.
Saucy wench.
Jaime liked her, despite the alarms that were ringing in his head, for it would hardly suit him now to grow attached to this woman. She was not meant for him and depending upon her actions, she would either be returned to her brother, or he might yet be forced to take her head. He preferred the former, but she was vying for the latter. Jaime stared back at her, refusing to release her gaze and she returned a haughty smirk, shoving her wrists forward to display her bindings. She said with feigned sweetness, “Tell me, laird, is this how ye welcome your guests ?”
Her use of his title was not meant to honor him; she nearly choked over the word. But he was far more amused by how she referred to herself. Guest ? Pawky wench. She’d gained entrance perforce with the express intent of opening the gates to overthrow the castle, and she had the audacity to call herself a guest?
“More oft than not,” Jaime said after a moment. But this was the first time he’d ever