The Knight(5)
This time James intended to take back Douglas Castle for good. He’d rather see his family stronghold razed to the ground than have it occupied by thirty English whoresons. Too bad Clifford wasn’t here now. James would see the English devil straight to hell. If Boyd didn’t do it for him first. If there was anyone who hated the Lord of Clifford more than James, it was Robbie Boyd.
She eyed him warily. “What are you going to do?”
What he’d done twice before: use guile and cunning to trick the enemy and then destroy them. “Empty the larder,” he said with a hard smile.
She paled and her eyes flew to his. “You swore nothing like that would ever happen again. You said—”
“I know what I said,” he snapped. It wasn’t her place to draw lines in the sand about what was acceptable or unacceptable in warfare. Hell, Wallace was said to have made a belt out of the skin of Sir Hugh de Cressingham, the hated English commander whom he’d defeated at Stirling Bridge. But the horrified way she’d looked at him after that “Douglas Larder” episode, as if she didn’t know him…
It had pricked his conscience, damn it. He would have promised her anything not to have her look at him like that, and that scared him. He couldn’t let anyone—even Joanna—interfere with his plans. He would take back his father’s lands from the English, restore his patrimony, and see the house of Douglas raised to dizzying heights. He didn’t care how much English blood needed to be spilled to do so. “I will show your Englishmen mercy, unless they give me cause otherwise.”
She heaved a sigh of relief. “I’m glad. They fear you enough.”
It wouldn’t be enough until every English soldier fled Scotland in terror. His eyes narrowed, the spark of something dangerous taking hold. “Why do you care so much about them, anyway?”
She gazed up at him quizzically. “It’s not the English I care about, it’s you.”
“So there is no truth to the rumor I heard that the captain of the guard has been finding excuses to stop by Hazelside?”
The heat that flooded her cheeks made him see red.
“I was ill one morning,” she explained. “Sir John witnessed it; he was only being kind.”
James looked down at the beautiful face tilted toward his and felt a flash of anger so intense and irrational it stole his breath. Jo was his, damn it. His. If “Sir John” de Wilton—the commander of the English garrison—were standing before him right now, he would be a dead man. “Don’t be naive, Jo. The Englishman wants you. What man could look at you and not want you?”
She was beautiful. The face of a cherub with a lush body built for sin. But it was so much more than her physical appearance. Joanna Dicson was sweet and good and kind. She was his heart and the keeper of his soul. Without her, he would…
He couldn’t even contemplate it. Joanna had been at his side for as long as he could remember. She was a part of him—the very best part of him. And God willing, she would be by his side for the rest of his life.
Any prick of conscience he might feel about what he’d done had been eased by that thought. He would take care of her. Forever.
She reached up and cupped his stubbled jaw in her hand and gave him a tender smile. “You’ve no cause for jealousy, James. Sir John has a sweetheart back in England. And even if he didn’t, the only man I want is you. I love you.”
The warmth of her words spread over him, soothing the red haze and allowing joy to blossom in its place. Love. Aye, she loved him. And he loved her. How could he not?
Good intentions forgotten, James drew her into his arms once again and kissed her. He groaned at the contact—at the flood of sensation. Her lips were warm and soft, and so incredibly sweet. No honey had ever tasted sweeter.
He knew he didn’t have time for this, but he just couldn’t seem to stop. That was how it had always been between them, hot and out of control—as impossible to harness as wildfire. Now that it had been unleashed, he wondered that they’d been able to keep it contained for so long. The raw power, the intensity, the sheer devastation of it, surprised even him. He’d never felt anything like it before and knew he never would again. This kind of passion was once in a lifetime.
His lips moved over hers hungrily—ravenously—drinking her in with each wicked stroke of his tongue. He wanted to devour every last inch of her, leaving no part of her unpossessed, unclaimed.
She was his.
And she knew it. She surrendered to the passion without hesitation. Nay, surrendered wasn’t the right word. Welcomed. She opened her heart to him, and he reveled in it, savored it. She took him in, as if she would never let him go.