Free The Return of Black Douglas by Elaine Coffman Page B

“Surely you’ve seen a woman’s legs before.”
    His eyes blazed, and a sardonic half-smile curved his lips. “Only when I was betwixt them.”
    The air went out of her lungs like collapsed bellows. She sputtered while searching to find an appropriate retort. The best she could do was a haughty, “You have no right to speak so. I don’t know you.”
    “Dinna fret aboot it, mistress. Ye will know me better afore the day is oot.”
    Determined blue eyes met determined green ones, and for a moment it was a stalemate. He was a formidable foe; she’d hand him that much. For a disturbing moment, she couldn’t speak. She wasn’t much better at breathing.
    His face might be a delight to gaze upon, with his high cheekbones and sensuous mouth, but his expression was permanently scowled, his stance prideful, his demeanor commanding, and she was certain laughter was a rarity around him.
    “Ye do seem to have an abundance of flesh to cover with that wee fragment of fabric ye are wearing,” he said, his voice like the purr of a hungry tiger.
    He was both mysterious and alluring, and her heart pounded wildly as she mustered a weak dose of bravado. “If you so much as lay a hand on me!”
    “Do ye ken how to play Fidchell?”
    He goes from undressing me with his eyes to wanting to play a board game? “I can play Fidchell, Hnefatafl, Tawlbwrdd, backgammon, chess, checkers, and several card games. What I don’t know is whether I want to play any of them with you.” He did not respond, but when had silence ever daunted her? “What does Fidchell have to do with getting me out of here?”
    “Naught,” he said, and grabbed her by the arm.
    “Oaf!” she said as he yanked her upward, caught her around the waist, and hoisted her over his shoulder like a sack of millet, one hand still holding her arm, while the other was splayed across her fanny. “Would it be asking too much for you to move your hand and treat me like a lady?”
    “Stop yer bleating. If I move my hand, my lady , ye will fall on yer royal erse.”
    Bleating? Erse? She would give anything for a quick comeback, but unfortunately since none was forthcoming, she decided to let it lie fallow, vowing her day would come. He was carrying her toward his horse when she cried out, “Wait a minute! I left my backpack,” she said, pointing toward her Prada backpack.
    He glanced and kept walking.
    She tugged at his sleeve. “Please, I really need it.”
    “Impatient as the wind, ye are.”
    “It’s all I have left.”
    She caught the way he stopped and looked at her and then back at her backpack with a suspicious expression suddenly etched on his face. “What is in yer pouch that has ye worrit? Dressed as ye are, I doubt ye are carting yer family jewels aboot. Or do ye have some secret ye are hiding there?”
    Wonderful. She should have been more careful. The Scots were a suspicious lot, especially of that which could not be explained. And she wasn’t ready to start pulling everything out and trying to explain. He probably thinks I’m Henry the VIII’s favorite spy. She was definitely at a disadvantage with this man. Patient endurance was the order of the moment.
    Riding out of this place was infinitely better than remaining here alone, and if that meant suffering the humiliation of his hand on her erse, then she would bear up as best she could. She focused upon her current state of affairs, especially the situation concerning her clothes, or lack of them. And there was little chance that other clothing would be forthcoming. The best she could hope for was to grab something to cover herself when they reached his home, lair, cave, rabbit hole, or wherever he was taking her. Aching and uncomfortable, she squirmed.
    “Keep wiggling like that, and I will answer the question troubling me since I first saw ye.”
    “What question would that be?”
    The hand moved to her bare thigh, caressing as it slid higher. He almost purred the words, “Are ye wearing naught under