smoldering beneath. Long lashes framed his eyes like a sooty fan, and black hair fell in a sweaty tangle to his shoulders.
Why had creation wasted such eyelashes on a man? Morag thought fleetingly. Then Navarro turned to face her again, and she jerked her straying mind to attention. She made a gesture to indicate the castle servants huddled in the corner. ‘If you invite the men to stay, they’ll serve you with loyalty and obedience, as long as you remain their master.’
‘And you? Will you serve me with loyalty and obedience?’ the knight asked in a low murmur that could not be heard by others.
‘No,’ Morag replied. Beneath his assessing gaze, an odd sense of tightness flared in her abdomen and spread through her, leaving her breasts tingling and her lungs straining to draw a breath. ‘I shall be cloistered,’ she told him. ‘I may need to beg you for some of my jewels to provide a dowry to an abbey. Beyond that, I wish to make no claim on my late husband’s estates.’
‘Then you know that your husband is dead?’
‘Aye.’ Morag kept her tone bland. ‘He was seen falling to his end.’
Navarro pointed to the dull midday light that shone through the small windows. ‘You may send your servants out to bury the dead. When they’re done, I expect them to return to their duties. As long as they accept their new master, there’ll be no punishments.’
‘And the Stenholm knights?’ she asked. ‘Are they free to go?’
‘None survived,’ he informed her flatly.
Morag controlled the urge to weep. Mourning those who had perished defending her home could wait. ‘Will you allow me enough of my jewels to gain refuge in an abbey?’ she asked the dark knight.
‘No.’
‘I see.’ A spark of rebellion lifted her chin. ‘Everyone else is granted mercy. What fate must I face?’
‘You and I shall be married as soon as the dead are in the ground.’
‘Married!’ The terror that had eased inside her flared anew. Morag stared at the man before her. She no longer saw the rugged face with beautiful eyes, but a body trained for warfare, packed with brutal force. Inside the armor, his shoulders were broad, his legs like tree trunks, his arms powerful enough to crush any resistance. She saw the hand that rested by his hip. She imagined it clenched into a fist, hurtling through the air, pummeling at her flesh until she was so covered in bruises that it hurt to even wear clothes.
‘No!’ she cried. She couldn’t. She could not enter the purgatory of marriage again, having only just been released. ‘Please,’ she whispered. ‘Don’t force me.’
She saw his jaw stiffen and his eyes turn cold. ‘It’s the king’s command.’ Navarro nodded to an elderly man in a plain tunic who sat at the long trestle table scribbling. The man stood and handed an unfolded sheet of parchment to Morag.
She took the letter and scanned the few lines that confirmed her fate. The ink on the date by the king’s signature hadn’t quite dried, and she knew that she’d been bartered like an animal while her husband remained alive.
To her right, the fire crackled. Acting upon instinct, Morag clutched the letter in her hand and tensed her arm. From the corner of her eye, she caught Navarro’s signal and, before she managed to toss the parchment into the flames, another knight moved to stand between her and the fireplace.
‘It will be easier for you if you don’t fight me,’ Navarro warned her. ‘I want your lands, and this time I won’t be denied.’
‘This time?’ she echoed. ‘Have there been others who managed to escape?’
The silence lasted so long she thought he wouldn’t reply, but finally he gave a brief nod, his expression grim.
‘The Countess of Glenstrachan was promised to me, but she married another while I was on my way to claim her.’ He reached out and curled his hand over her elbow. ‘With you, I’ll not take such chances. You’ll stay by my side until we are wed, and your chaplain will remain under guard.’
He raised his arm. Upon his gesture, two knights lined up behind Brother Thomas, who knelt in prayer at the center of the room, his solemn voice mingling with the moans of the injured.
As Navarro’s steely fingers captured her, an odd sense of disappointment niggled inside Morag, dulling her bitter defeat. Why would it matter to her that Navarro had planned to marry someone else, and had won her as a consolation prize? The Countess of Glenstrachan was rumored to be a beauty, with long golden hair, and eyes the color of a summer sky. Suddenly, it appeared to Morag that her own short auburn locks and hazel eyes were woefully lacking in charm.
Despite her reluctance to marry, it hurt her pride to know that the knight only wanted her because of the lands she could provide him.
She followed meekly as Navarro ushered her across the room and propped her into a chair at the end of the long table. Then he sat down beside her, called over the scribe and dictated a letter to inform the king about Stenholm’s death. Morag flinched at the words that confirmed her betrothal. And yet, even as she gritted her teeth to hold back a pointless cry of refusal, curiosity swirled inside her, mixing with her fear. She had heard enough gossip to know that some women enjoyed what took place in the bedchamber.
Each time Navarro glanced in her direction, a knot of apprehension tightened inside her. Once before, she’d been taken in by masculine beauty and a charming smile. All her girlhood dreams had been shattered. She didn’t want to be drawn to this man, didn’t want to hope it would be different this time, didn’t want to feel the forgotten yearnings.
She closed her eyes and suppressed the tears of helpless defeat.
Her freedom from the control of a husband had lasted less than a day.
Chapter Two
Stefan Navarro settled at the long table in the great hall and tried to hide his impatience. After changing into a pair of woolen hose and a doublet in thick black velvet, he had toured the vast room, offering a few words of encouragement to each of his wounded knights. The steward had provided him with an account of the income and assets of the Stenholm estates. He had inspected the castle keep, including the chapel and the bedchambers on the two floors above.
All the while, upon his command, Lady Morag had followed him, as silent as a shadow, and as disturbing as a thorn lodged beneath a suit of armor.
Why hadn’t the king told him? Stefan had expected a matron with jowly cheeks and a sagging middle. Instead, he found an ethereal beauty, not much more than twenty. Lady Morag possessed a willowy grace that made his loins heavy and added to the restlessness he always felt in the aftermath of a battle, but beneath his desire stirred an unfamiliar need for acceptance that unsettled him even more.
‘How long must I wait?’ he asked. ‘When will the chaplain be done burying the dead?’
‘The ground is frozen. It will take time to dig graves for two dozen men,’ Lady Morag replied.
He shot a glance at her. The look of relief on her face told him she hoped the task would take until spring.
‘We’ll be wed by nightfall, whether the bodies are in the ground or not,’ he declared,
