Free Samantha James by His Wicked Ways

in his chin she’d not noticed before. Had he been clean-shaven, it might have lent him a boyish air…Faith, but there was nothing boyish about this man! Nay, he was all brazen masculinity, all steely hardness sheathed in muscle.
    Oh, yes, his might was formidable, his control over her unquestionable. But now he was asleep.
    And Fortune was near, just beyond the next tree.
    Deceit was not in her nature, nor was it her desire, yet she prayed it would come easily. Nay, cunning was the way of men… his way. She told herself it was not so much deceit as desperation.
    Excitement clamored within her breast. She must flee while she had the chance, for she might never have another. She must put her fear of the water aside, and simply find a different place to cross the river and return to Connyridge, one that was safe and shallow. She could do it—she could!
    But she had vowed she would have her crucifixback…and by the Rood, so she would. It was her dearest treasure—indeed, her only treasure—and she would not leave it in another’s possession, most particularly Cameron MacKay’s!
    Nervously she wet her lips. He’d tucked the necklace inside his tunic—there must be a pocket hidden within.
    They did not touch, but she lay very close to him. Pushing aside his plaid, she eased to her side, taking care not to make any noise. Her hand stole out. As stealthily as she could, she slipped her fingers within the vee of his tunic.
    He was so warm! She very nearly snatched her hand back. It was only the strictest effort of will that kept her steady on her course. Her fingers crept down, skimming across the taut plane of his belly. The prickly-rough sensation of hair brushing her palm made her mouth go dry. Were all men as hairy as this one?
    He moved not a muscle. His breathing continued deep and even. Had she not been afraid to make a sound, she’d have released a long-pent-up sigh of relief.
    Alas, she counted her blessings too soon, for the seconds marched slowly by. She damped down a feeling of panic. Where was her crucifix? There was no sign of it. Hurry! she commanded herself. If he should wake and discover her…why, his ire would surely know no bounds.
    The thought had barely caught hold than she chanced to glance back at his face, A strangled cry caught in her throat, for her worst fear was upon her.
    He was awake…and it appeared she’d managed to attain his undivided regard.

Five
    Icy shock tore through her. She nearly cried out. What had she done, that her prayers remained unanswered?
    “I presume ’tis not a maidenly curiosity that bids you trespass upon my person with such intimacy.”
    His tone yielded a lazy indulgence. Meredith was furious that he would mock her so. Why, the arrogant lout!
    Her fingertips tingled with the urge to slap the smirk from his face. Indeed, she flexed them, sorely longing to do precisely that.
    But the search for her crucifix had yielded a prize she’d not anticipated.
    Her fingertips rested upon smooth metal—the handle of his dagger. Freedom. The readiest way to achieve it was within her power—indeed, within her very grasp. The awareness came dimly…action did not. Her fingers skimmed the handle. With a lightning reflex she snatched it from its berth in his belt and held it poised at the center of his chest.
    In her heart she was aghast at the extent of her audacity; but for once the advantage belonged to her and she would be a fool not to use it.
    “Do not move, else—else I will give you a woundto match the other!” She was all at once reminded of the puckered scar on his back.
    He bestowed on her a smile like no other.
    “You would turn my own weapon against me?”
    “Aye!” she declared recklessly.
    “You have not the courage.”
    “You are wrong!” she told him stoutly.
    “What, then? Will you slit my throat? I warn you, lass, ’tis rather messy. You must move quickly, lest your hands and gown be sprayed with blood.”
    Meredith blanched.
    “Of course, such