Page 32 of Bride of Fire
Chapter 17
Morgan felt steam building in his ears. He lowered his gaze pointedly at the finger prodding him in the chest. The lass might look as appealing as a warm hearth, with her eyes blazing and her cheeks aflame. But like a poker, her insolent finger stirred the coals of his anger.
He reached up and curled his fist tightly around her offending digit, trapping her.
“Ye’ll do no such thing, lass,” he said. “This is my keep and my land. If ye’re civil and honorable, ye may stay as a guest.”
She clamped her lips and tried to jerk away, to no avail.
“If not, ye’ll remain a prisoner.”
“I can’t be a prisoner in my own castle.”
“’Tisn’t yours, lass.”
“The hell ’tisn’t!”
Morgan hadn’t been jesting when he’d said he was weary. He was brain-drained and bone-tired. He had no desire to engage the lass, either this eve in a battle of words or on the morrow in a clash of swords. So he cast her finger back at her.
“Ye’ll go back to my chamber now…and stay.”
“Oh, aye, I’ll stay,” she bit out, “but only because I vowed to my cousins I wouldn’t leave them in the hands of savage Highlanders.” She sneered the words, “Not because you’re commanding me like a hound.”
Deep in his throat came an impatient sound that was half-sigh, half-growl.
She headed toward the window.
“Not that way,” he said. “Through the door.”
She turned and raised her chin. “Fine.”
Striding past, she pointedly snatched her hem aside so it wouldn’t touch him.
He shook his head in chagrin. The lass was wearinghisleine, after all.
He followed at her heels, giving a farewell nod to the maidservants. He hoped he could trust them to be discreet about what had happened here. The last thing he needed was a crowd of his clansmen gathered at dawn, wagering on a match rumored between the new Laird of Creagor and a helpless, pesky flea of a wee lass.
He steered Jenefer back into his bedchamber. He was tempted to slam the door after her, just to emphasize the seriousness of his order.
But he didn’t wish to wake Miles again. So he closed it gently and sighed as he looked down at his makeshift bed of fleece just outside the door.
Miles.
Now the pushy wench hadhimcalling the lad Miles.
He had to admit it wasn’t a bad name. When the bairn was grown, his full title would be Laird Miles mac Morgan. It was a good name, a strong name.
Still, it rankled at him that the lass had brazenly attached a name to the bairn, not even knowing whose it was.
He’d change it, he decided as he stretched out on the fleece. There were plenty of good names that would suit the son of Morgan Mor mac Giric. Maybe he’d christen the lad Allison, in honor of Alicia. Whatever he chose, he’d be damned if he’d let a headstrong warrior lass name his firstborn.
Yet to his annoyance, after several hours of blissfully undisturbed sleep, his first thought upon waking the next morn was gratitude that wee “Miles” had slept through the night.
With a self-mocking grimace, he rose up on one elbow. He yawned and raked his hair back from his brow.
As he blinked the cobwebs of sleep from his eyes, he heard stirring on the other side of the door. At first it was just the scraping of coals on the hearth and the patter of feet on the floor. Then he heard a flurry of female whispering.
He sat up with a sniff, stretching his arms carefully over his head. Yesterday’s fight with Colban had left his ribs bruised and his shoulders aching. And his nose was still tender from the wench’s punch.
