She had been confined for so long, that she ached to break free and truly live, which if Ronan had his way, wouldn’t be for long.
A rumble of laughter spilled from her. What a fool she was for loving a man who wanted her dead. But then, he didn’t know who she truly was, and she didn’t know if it would matter if he did. What a laughable state of affairs.
“What are you laughing at?” Ronan yelled down to her.
“The thought that I should want to bed the man who wishes me dead,” she called up to him, and that was the truth. She would love to know his touch, taste his kisses, and dare to be intimate with him, if only for a short time. But the crux of it was that she too would prefer being loved to bedding a stranger.
“Hurry,” he urged. “The cold is drifting up here.”
She hurriedly finished gathering the items she needed and climbed the ladder. Surprisingly, he leaned down to help her, taking several items out of her hand, then taking hold of her arm and assisting her out of the cellar.
His hand was warm, his grip strong, though not hurtful. And when he was sure she was safe on her feet, he gently released her. It was a simple helping hand that meant so much more to her, for no one had ever helped her in such a manner.
He placed the items he had taken from her on the table and went to sit in the rocking chair, his brow knitted tight.
“Say what’s on your mind,” she challenged, while starting to mix ingredients for apple buns.
“My thoughts are my own.”
“We share tight quarters, nothing will be our own,” she said.
“My thoughts remain my own, no matter how tight the quarters,” he insisted.
“Then don’t wear them so blatantly on your face for me to see.”
“Ignore them,” he ordered.
“How can I ignore a sour expression?”
“Don’t look at me.”
“I like looking at you,” she said, staring directly at him. “You are a handsome man.”
Ronan glared at her, his mouth set tight.
“This is where you return the compliment,” she said with a chuckle.
“You’re an ugly, coldhearted—”
“Watch what comes out of your mouth, Highlander,” Carissa warned, “or I’ll make certain I cut out your tongue before I leave you for dead.”
Ronan jumped up, sending the empty rocking chair rocking as he approached her. “Is that what you did to Hope? You warned her enough times that she spoke too much. Did you cut out her tongue?”
He stopped mere inches in front of her, his green eyes glaring with anger.
“Answer me,” he demanded.
“No, I took mercy on the poor fool and killed her swiftly.”
Chapter 8
Ronan reacted without thinking, his hands went straight to Carissa’s neck, though they fell away quickly enough when he caught a whiff of an all-too-familiar scent. He stumbled, bumping the table as he shook his head.
Apples. Hope had forever smelled of apples.
Her fruity scent had always followed her. It was how he knew when she had entered the stable pen where he had been held. It had always been a welcome relief from the constant stench.
He glanced down and saw the dried apples in the bowl. Her scent brought back a rush of memories that pained his heart even more. And he wondered if somehow she had reached out in death and reminded him of a promise she had asked of him.
Late at night, when all slept and the world seemed at peace, Hope would sneak into the stables and visit with him. She would bring him food to help him grow strong, though Mordrac had ordered the captors to be given but one meal a day. They would whisper, so as not to be heard by anyone.
One night Hope had asked him to promise her something that he had had a difficult time doing, but she had pleaded with him and he, out of love, relented. She had asked that he not hold anger or hatred in his heart if fate should keep them from being together. After he promised, he did, however, teasingly tell her that he would hunt down fate and demand an explanation.
She had laughed and snuggled beside him, and the scent of apples had filled his nostrils just as it did now.
“Apples,” he whispered, and looked to see that Carissa was staring at him, and what he saw puzzled him. Fear was evident in her wide eyes and pale face, and never had he known her to fear anything.
She seemed to regain her composure after a quick shake of her head, color flooding back into her cheeks, her blue eyes intent. “I’m making apple buns.”
He noticed that her hands trembled slightly as she scooped up dried apples to chop into smaller pieces. She had been upset as much as he had, but then, the possibility of being choked to death would do that to anyone.
“Do you know what you’re doing?” he snapped, more annoyed with himself for losing his temper and reacting as he had. He wanted her punished, but it would be a fair and fitting one.