He imagined that she rolled her eyes, and his smile deepened, as she said more than a little acerbically, “To the man who broke faith with my father? Certainly! Now get off!”
He chuckled at her quick wit. “Ye’ve a point,” he ceded, and began at once to untie the bindings at her wrists. “Never mind, I believe I know the perfect solution.”
“You do?”
He couldn’t help but grin, for she sounded so ill at ease with the prospect. “Somethin’ that should please the both o’ us,” he revealed mischievously. God only knew, he was certainly looking forward to it himself.
Page stiffened at his assurance.
Something that would please them both?
She certainly didn’t think so.
She tried not to panic as she considered every conceivable solution—tried not to consider them at all. Sweet Jesu, but it was all she could do not to think of the man poised so intimately above her!
Nay, he wasn’t lying, precisely, on top of her, but he might as well have been. Though he shielded her from his weight, she could feel every inch of his body as though it were melded to her own. And Jesu, never in her life had she been more acutely aware of her own body—the places it brushed against his, the wicked, wonderful sensations that made her feel so very much a woman.
A lump rose in her throat.
He’d said she was bonny.
Could he truly have meant it?
The possibility made her tremble with... something she shouldn’t be feeling for her enemy. Her brows drew together.
How could she possibly allow herself to be distracted so easily? Aye, ’twas his intent to distract her, of a certainty, but did she have to be so blessed accommodating? Nay, he couldn’t possibly have meant it, she convinced herself.
She knew what she looked like—had seen her reflection oft enough to know that she was no enchanting faerie creature, able to steal a man’s heart and soul with a single glance. She was rather unremarkable. Her hair was not the spun gold of the troubadour’s favor, it was dirt colored; her face not fair and unblemished, but darkened by the sun and freckled across her nose. Her eyes were not the lucid blue of a summer sky, or the green of a new leaf in spring, just common brown.
Page felt her heart squeeze at the cruelty of his glib words, and then berated herself for her foolishness. What more could she have expected from a devious, faithless, oath-breaking Scot?
She bucked beneath him.
He groaned. “I’d not do that if I were you,” he advised.
“What is taking you so bloody long?” she demanded. “Have you not even the God-given sense to untie a simple knot?”
“Och, wench, but I’m trying! I didna tie this accursed thing—and bluidy hell, ‘tis no simple knot!” He muttered an unintelligible oath beneath his breath.
Feeling a little desperate, Page lifted her knee, jabbing him in the thigh. “You’ll need do more than try!” she hissed.
He made some strangled sound and fell atop her just as the binds were undone at last. Page twisted beneath him, eager to be free. With hardly an effort and before she could stop him, he had her pinned, her arms spread at her sides and clasped to the ground.
“That wasna verra nice!” he told her, his jaw set firm, and his eyes burning with fury.
“I did not mean to be nice!” Page told him angrily, her eyes stinging with tears she refused to shed. Her nerves were near to shattering—God help her, but she could not bear another moment of his presence! His eyes continued to bore into her,
demanding—what?
“How could you expect me to be?” she asked him. “You’ve abducted me from my home, kept me bound to a tree like an animal—and you think I should tender thanks? Please!” she appealed. “Can you not just set me free?” She couldn’t help herself; tears welled. They spilled from her eyes, down the side of her face, onto the ground. She felt the wetness upon her neck, and blinked. Could he not see how very much it meant to her to return to her father? “You have your son,” she beseeched him. Another tear slipped past her guard, and she shook her head, losing composure entirely. “I could find my way still,” she pleaded. “Let me go... please?”
He shook his head, lowering his eyes. “I canna, lass,” he said softly, regretfully. He met her gaze once more, and she spied the determination in his eyes. “I’m sorry, but I canna.”
“You mean you will not!” Page snarled at him.
He nodded once. “If you will, then, aye, I willna.”
She swallowed her pride. “But my father,” she entreated, her voice breaking. “He—”
“Your father is a bastard!” he said impassionedly, though the blaze in his eyes had extinguished somewhat.