Free Emerald Prince by Brit Darby Page B

Alianor walked toward Liam. He busied himself with recinching Biorra’s saddle, something he had already done, twice. He gave her a sideways glance and couldn’t help but comment. “You’ll just get dirty again.”
    “You could ensure I don’t, Caomhánach.”
    “How?”
    “By letting me go.” Alianor spoke softly, so the others would not overhear.
    Not now, not ever. The thought came out of nowhere. Unbidden. Unwanted. He did not reply to her suggestion; he could not trust himself to.
    She looked worried when he stayed silent, her eyes pleading with him to say something.
    “Impossible, milady.”
    “Why? When there is no sign or word of me, Lord de Lacy will assume I was killed or died wandering these hills. I shall seek refuge from the Church, and never give my true identity. I vow I’ll not betray you to anyone.”
    She was clever, Liam had to admit. The soft tone, the husky tremble within her voice. Her petition for mercy was reflected in the bluest eyes he had ever seen. A man unawares could lose himself in their depths — drowning in sapphire pools framed by a heart-shaped face. Softer men than he must have succumbed to this Sassenach witch.
    “Enough. I know what I am about.” Liam hoped his curt tone banished any false hopes she held. If she supposed her feminine charms would sway his heart, she was mistaken.
    “Time to go,” he said, tossing Biorra’s reins over the horse’s neck. He laced the fingers from both his hands into a makeshift step and held it out for Alianor. “Only one question remains — do you mount like a lady, or shall I toss you up there like a sack of grain?”
    Anger flashed in her eyes. “You wouldn’t dare …” When he made a movement towards her, she reconsidered. “Wait.”
    Liam cupped her delicate foot in his hands and boosted her into the saddle. With Alianor astride Biorra, he led the gelding over to thank their hosts.
    “My gratitude as always,” he said to the farmers, gripping Dubhan’s hand and returning Hilda’s hug. He looked to Torin sitting on his brown pony. At Liam’s nod, Torin pulled several items from his saddlebag, and tossed them to his leader. Liam presented them to the couple by way of thanks.
    To Dubhan went a pair of dead soldier’s boots of fine calfskin leather. They would serve the farmer well, or he could sell them. To Hilda, he presented a red cloak trimmed with fur. He heard Alianor’s gasp and knew she was surprised, mayhap even angry.
    “Too fine for me by half,” Hilda cried, but looked delighted as she clutched the cloak to her ample bosom.
    “The color suits you, Hilda,” Alianor said. Liam looked at her, expecting to see judgment in her eyes; instead he bore witness to sincerity. Perhaps he misjudged his captive. Then again, it could be part of her strategy to relax his guard.
    He swung up behind Alianor and his body reacted to her warm, soft flesh pressed against his. The faint fragrance of violets still clung to her. The scent annoyed him today as much as it had charmed him yesterday, and he curbed Biorra a tad sharper than usual.
    “Aren’t you forgetting something?” Alianor asked.
    The blindfold. Swallowing an oath, Liam yanked it from his pocket and cinched it back in place over her eyes, though not so gently this time. Ignoring her startled inhalation, he set his heels to Biorra and they were off again.
    They rode a few miles in silence, until Alianor spoke with a burst of mounting frustration.
    “I am of no true value to you, Caomhánach. Why do you insist on pursuing this course? ’Twill come to naught, and you and your men will die for your troubles.”
    Liam tensed; his emotions near boiling over. Her touch was like a brand upon his flesh, a fire bolting through him so fiercely he feared he might succumb to its driving need. Only anger could save him.
    “You are right in one aspect, milady. Who you are is unimportant to me, yet what you represent is of the utmost significance. Do not think