Free The Reiver by Jackie Barbosa Page A

the fortitude of a stone, he had to give her that.
    But then something happened which betrayed her. A long, low gurgle issued from the region of her belly.
    “Your first name, then, in exchange for your breakfast.”
    At that, he could almost see her salivate. She was terribly hungry, almost starved. Duncan wished he didn’t have to use her privation against her, but this was no time for an attack of conscience. Especially when she was the thief, and he was not responsible for her condition.
    She raised her head and said through clenched teeth, “You already have my name, Duncan Maxwell, laird of Lochmorton Castle.”
    His brow furrowed. He most surely did not know her name.
    “You said it when you first came in,” she clarified.
    Duncan thought back. What had he said when he’d entered the cell? Well, reiver, what have you to say for yourself? Cheeky, that’s what she was.
    “Reiver is not your name, and we both know it.”
    “Aye, well, it’s the only one you’re going to get,” she said with a shrug. The gesture drew attention to the thin, pitiful shoulders beneath the oversized linen shirt she wore. He found his gaze drawn lower, involuntarily seeking the outline of her breasts. She must have bound them, he decided. Either that or she was exceptionally small-bosomed.
    For some peculiar reason, the image of breasts so tiny he could encompass their entirety in his mouth flashed through his brain, bringing with it an immediate flare of lust.
    Duncan shook himself, puzzled by his response. Small breasts did not appeal to him. He preferred his women full and curvaceous…not to mention welcoming. Odd that his body didn’t seem to agree with this assessment. Even filthy and scrawny as she was, he couldn’t dismiss his awareness that she was young and female and utterly in his power.
    If he chose to take her to his bed, no one would say him nay. No one but her, and her only defenses—an excess of bravado and a sharp tongue—would be easy enough to overcome. Duncan wasn’t a vain man, but he was well aware of his effect on females of the species, and he doubted this slip of a woman would be any exception. And once she’d sweetened up under his assault, she’d likely tell him not only her name, but anything and everything else he wanted to know.
    The scheme built itself before he was even fully aware he had conceived it. She was cold, hungry, and alone. Her clansmen had turned tail and deserted her, undoubtedly believing she would swing by morning for their collective crime. Any person subjected to the kind of privation she’d obviously suffered would likely be more easily seduced by kindness than by cruelty. You caught more fish by baiting hooks than throwing rocks, after all.
    He smiled, benign and beneficent in his newfound, if devious, magnanimity. “Very well, Reiver, you’ve admitted what you are if not whom. For now, I think that’s sufficient for breakfast and an improvement in your accommodations.”

    True to her brothers’ descriptions, the Maxwell of Lochmorton was huge and forbidding, a veritable beast in a tartan. Although for a beast, she had to admit he had remarkably comely features, despite the telltale scar—the Lockerbie lick—that slashed across one cheek. The warm glow of the torch flickered across the rugged terrain of his face, dominated by a prominent brow ridge and a long, hawkish nose that had obviously been broken more than once. But when he smiled…it was as if the clouds had parted to admit the sun, flooding the hard landscape in bright, beautiful light.
    Surely it was only hunger that made her sway precariously toward him. She hadn’t eaten a proper meal in three days.
    He probably thought she was weak because she was female. That if he plied her with food and drink and a warm, soft bed, she would betray her family. He could not be more wrong.
    Even so, she would bide her time and play his game, pretending to be the noble hostage. But there would be no ransom. A rescue was