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  “Then why have you watched me?” he asked grimly, releasing her to cross swiftly to the unconscious guard. He looked briefly at the young man’s bleeding head, then at the iron candlestick lying beside him, before taking both sword and dagger as if he felt the need to be armed in her presence. The dagger disappeared inside his soft leather boot, and he turned to face her, eyes narrowed and watchful. “How have you come to my bed so often I know the very smell of you? How came you to be with Huwe today? I heard your voice, I know you were there.”

  “They c-captured me, too.” The unsteadiness of her voice annoyed her, and she took a deep, irritated breath. She was mortified that he had shared those erotic dreams with her; she didn’t know how it had happened, but everything about this went beyond the normal and there was nothing she could do about it.

  “A likely tale. You hardly bear the look of mistreatment.”

  “Huwe intended to ransom me, I think.”

  “That would not keep him from rutting on you, sweetings.”

  She blushed again, unable to control the heat in her cheeks, but it seemed as much in response to the rather biting endearment than to his crude words. “No. I kept him from that.”

  “How did you accomplish that feat? A spell?”

  “I am not a witch! I gave him a drink that made him sleep. He was drunk, anyway.”

  “And all the others?”

  “They are all asleep from drink. They think you safely locked away, and that your men will not dare attack while they have you.”

  “No, but they will be nearby.” He didn’t seem as angry now, though his gaze was still hard when he looked at her. “You have not yet answered my question. Who are you?”

  “Grace St. John.” She said it in English, because she didn’t know the specific Latin applications.

  He repeated her name as she had said it, slowly duplicating the pronunciation, his tongue sure on the syllables with the deftness of someone who spoke several languages. Then he stepped closer to her, the sword still in his hand, so close that his big body blotted out the light of the flickering torch. “And how have you watched me?”

  “I haven’t.” She made a helpless gesture. “I dreamed.”

  “Ah. More dreams.” He was still angry, she could feel it, but his voice had taken on that low, seductive note again, making her shiver as she fought the pull of it. “In your dreams, sweetings, was I inside you?” he whispered, moving even closer, his left arm sliding about her waist and slowly, inexorably, pulling her against him. “Were you beneath me in my bed, did I ride you hard?”

  Grace struggled to breathe. Her lungs weren’t working properly, only drawing in fast, shallow breaths. She braced her hands against his chest, feeling the incredible heat of his body through his rough linen shirt. She felt hot, too, restless and panicky, her skin almost painfully sensitive.

  His gaze was sharp and hot, startlingly aware. His lips parted slightly, his own breathing coming a little too fast as the hard arm around her waist urged her even closer, closer, until her breasts touched him. “I’m a fool,” he murmured, this time in Scots, but somehow she understood him. “I’ve no time for more, but I’ll at least have the taste of ye.”

  He lifted her, turning to pin her against one of the cell doors. His big, iron-muscled body ground against her from shoulder to knee, and her breath snagged at the fullness of his arousal. Instantly he took advantage of her parted lips and set his mouth to hers. His kiss was ravaging, not in force but in effect. Her blood surged wildly in response, and her body instinctively molded to him. His taste was hot, tart and uncivilized, shatteringly familiar. He used his tongue with soul-searing skill, demanding her response, then deepening his advantage when she helplessly gave it. His hands moved over her body, cupping her breasts, her bottom, moving her against him. His long fingers slipped between her legs, feeling her through her gown. Grace had a second of warning, an almost painful inner tightening, and frantically she pushed against him but it was too late. Sensation splintered into a thousand piercing shards, and with a hoarse cry she arched into him.

  She felt his surprise as his mouth muffled her cry, then he gathered her tighter while her climax pulsed through her, those devilishly knowledgeable fingers gently rubbing to give her a full measure of satisfaction. The spasms finally slowed, diminishing to tremors, and she sank weakly against him.

  She jerked her mouth from his and pressed her head hard against his shoulder, her face hot with mortification. She had never been so embarrassed and humiliated in her life. Reaching climax in a dream was unsettling enough, but to do it in front of him, with no more stimulation than a kiss and a bold caress—she burned with shame.

  “Lass,” he said, his voice low and husky, almost a whisper. His lips pressed briefly to the exposed curve of her neck, the touch hot and tender. His breath came in soft, short pants as he let her slide to her feet, all down the length of his body.

  She would have kept her head down but he cupped her chin, lifting her face so he could see it. His thumb swept over the soft bloom of her mouth. His own lips were swollen and shiny, his eyes narrow with lust. “A pity I must go,” he whispered in Scots. “Ye burn a man to a fair crisp, but I’d turn to ash wi’ a smile on my face.” He bent and brushed her mouth with his, then patted her bottom and set her away from him.

  Shaking, Grace leaned against the door, her mind a blank and her knees like water. He moved so fast that he had already reached the stairs before realization sank into her brain. She struggled upright, her eyes wide. “No, wait!” she cried. “Take me with you!”

  He didn’t even pause, his powerful legs taking the stairs two at a time. He tossed her a grin. “I give you thanks for my liberty, but gratitude doesn’t make me a fool,” he said, returning to Latin, and he disappeared upward into the darkness.

  Oh, damn! She didn’t dare call out again. She launched herself after him but her legs were still shaking, and she barely had the strength to climb the stairs. There was no sign of him when she emerged from the dungeon.

  She couldn’t sound an alarm, for after all she didn’t want him recaptured. Nor did she herself dare to remain. She collected her bag and tiptoed toward the kitchen, thinking that the most likely avenue of his escape. If there were a guard there, Niall would have taken care of him. She had to get out of this grimy hold and find him again. He wasn’t a hero, damn him, no knight in shining armor. He was just a man, though bigger than most, more bold and vital. He was arrogant and rude, and he was her only hope.

  Chapter 21

  GRACE WAS A LITTLE GRATIFIED TO REALIZE SHE HAD GUESSED right. Outside the kitchens she found a guard’s body, slumped on the ground in the boneless attitude of death. There was an uproar in the stables, torches being lit, men running and cursing. Niall must have stolen a horse and escaped through the postern gate. There was no chance of her stealing a horse now, and the keep was coming awake behind her. She dodged into a small storeroom, little more than a shed built against the side of the keep. It was evidently the granary, for the dusty smell of oats made her stifle a sneeze.

  She heard rustlings in the oats that made her grit her teeth. Where there was grain, there were rats. She was acutely aware of the vulnerability of her legs beneath the long skirts. What she wouldn’t give for her jeans and boots!

  But she stood grimly still, even when the noisy search discovered the guard’s body just outside her hiding place. Even though she couldn’t understand the words, she could grasp their anger and agitation. Their chieftain couldn’t be roused; the dungeon guard was injured, perhaps dead; both captives were gone, though only one horse was missing. She only hoped they would assume she was with Niall, that somehow they had simply failed to see her, because otherwise they would begin a thorough search of the keep.

  Damn Niall, she thought violently. Why couldn’t he have taken her with him? Even if he refused to take her to Creag Dhu, he could at least have gotten her away from Huwe. Gratitude didn’t make him a fool, indeed!

  The uproar event