Free Seize The Dawn by Shannon Drake

realized the source of her unease. He was back. A candle burned on the desk. It was a dim light, but bright enough to show the man who stood just inside the doorway, watching her. She had no concept of how long he had stood there, just an acute unease. "So you're alive," he said softly. The words seemed to carry no emotion, as if it made no difference to him whether she survived or perished.
    She didn't reply; the answer was evident. She watched him, and he waited for a moment, then ignored her, unwinding the woolen tartan from his shoulders, and hanging it upon a hook by the door. He walked to the desk, picked up the candle, then came toward her. Despite herself, she edged back against the bunk, gritting her teeth. The candle was all but in her face. "What are you doing?" she asked sharply at last, completely unnerved. The fever had left her, like the storm, it had raged and gone. But she still felt weak. Like a kitten with no strength. "They say you are worth a great deal. I'm just trying to see why."
    Impatiently, she reached out, thrusting away his hand with which he held the candle. Then she was afraid of her own action; she might have knocked the candle from his hand and caused a fire. But she didn't knock the candle aside, and he didn't seem angered or bothered by her action. He returned to the desk, setting the candle down. Then he took the chair at the desk, leaned back, and stared at her. "What are you doing, and why are you here?" "This is my place aboard this ship." "Indeed. Then why am I here?" "It's a large and excellently crafted ship, but even aboard the Wasp, Lady, there are only so many places where ... a guest might be kept. Especially an unwilling one who might enjoy a cold swim in the middle of the night." "Guest? I am a prisoner." "Prisoner—guest. Sometimes there is little difference." "Pirates, murderers—Scotsmen. Sometimes there is little difference."
    She couldn't see him well in the candlelight, but she was sure his features tightened. He shrugged. ' 'The same, and far worse, could be said of the English." The depth of his tone assured her she wanted to go no further in that direction, and yet it seemed she had no choice but to meet his gaze, and converse with him. She shook her head, still weary, and angry that she should feel so weak when she wanted so badly to have all her wits about her to fight. "Have you come just to torment me?" she demanded. He arched his brows. "Am I tormenting you?" She didn't reply. She wished that she had. He stood and walked to her side, sitting on the bunk next to her, his eyes very intent. "Am I tormenting you?" he repeated. "Aye, that you are!" "Well, good. I didn't think it would be so easy." "You're very cruel—" "You nearly killed me. When I had given you mercy." "We were on a battlefield." "And I might have been buried there." "That is long ago now—"
    "And you are the lady to the manor born, flying across the seas into the arms of the rich and noble lord who would be her husband!" "Yes." "Alas! There's a small fly in the ointment. Hies. Pirates, murderers—and Scotsmen." "Would you please—" "Aye?" "Leave me be." "Ah. Show you mercy?" "Yes, if—" "I showed you mercy once before." "Indeed!" she flared suddenly. "So take care—I am crafty and cunning and enormously talented with a sword, and you can easily be buried at sea!" A slow, rueful smile was curling his lips. He leaned toward her. "You don't look so dangerous now!" he said softly. "You are a wretched creature, even for a Scot!" she told him. "I've been ill ..." "Very ill," he agreed. "Go away." "Nay, I think not." She lay back, closing her eyes. "What is it, then? My value does not appear so great. I have been very ill, burning with fever. I must be pathetic, hardly appealing—" "Not in the least," he assured her pleasantly. Her eyes flew open again. He was still wearing a small, subtle smile. His eyes widened and his face lowered toward hers. "Maybe I feel that tormenting you ... in any way ...