Chapter 16

Jenefer furrowed her brow. That made up her mind. She was definitely going to take the babe.

The wee thing was clearly too much work for the old maidservant. And the laird knew less than Jenefer did about dealing with infants.

She’d take him off their hands and find a wet nurse at Rivenloch to care for the child.

“You should at least name him,” she said, peering down at the newborn. Now that his face had paled from an angry, wrinkled red to a calm cream, she saw he was rather comely—for an infant. He had a sweet mouth, long lashes, and a fine dusting of dark hair covering his shapely head.

The maidservant exchanged a curious glance with her laird.

The Highlander scowled in irritation. “He’ll get a name in due time.”

Jenefer scowled back. It was ridiculous to put it off. And since she intended to take the lad with her anyway, she decided to name him herself.

“Well, if you won’t do it…” She tipped her head down to ask the babe, “What about Miles, lad? Do you like the sound o’ that?”

The babe waved his fists. She decided to take that as his approval.

“Then Miles ’tis,” she proclaimed.

The maidservant beamed and gushed, “Och aye, ’tis a brilliant name!”

“Nay!” the Highlander boomed.

The babe stiffened. His lower lip quivered as if he might cry again. Jenefer scalded the Highlander with a look.

“What’s twisted your trews?” she demanded. “’Tis a fine Scots name.”

“I’m the laird,” he told her, crossing his considerable arms over his considerable chest. “I’ll be the one namin’ the bairn.”

She let her gaze course over the Highlander. Was that how they did things in the Highlands? Did the laird name all the babes of his clan? It seemed unfair.

But she wasn’t going to argue with him now. Standing like that, he looked quite imposing and formidable. He had the confidence of a man who believed his word was law. And he probably thought he could squash her like a flea.

But all men had weaknesses. She’d find his—eventually.

Meanwhile, she arched a brow. “Do what you will. But I’m going to call him Miles.”

She could see the Highlander wanted to gainsay her. But unless he was willing to cut out her tongue, he couldn’t very well prevent her from calling the babe whatever she wished, whether it was Miles or Methuselah the Miserable.

Just to provoke him, she ignored him to address the babe. “You like your new name, don’t you, Miles? And I’m sure Lady Aelfeva would have liked it as well.”

“Not Aelfeva,” the man groused. “Alicia.”

“Is it now?” For someone who wasn’t in a hurry to name things, it was curious he cared whether she got the mother’s name right. She bowed her head in salute to the babe. “Well, Miles, good even to you. My name is Jenefer du Lac.” She added under her breath, “Soon to be Laird Jenefer of Creagor.”

“What was that?” the Highlander demanded.

“Just telling him my name.”

He lowered his brows in disapproval. “Why? He’s a bairn. He can’t understand ye.”

“’Tis the proper thing to do.” She gave him a scornful glance. Apparently, it was true what they said—Highlanders had no grasp of common manners. “’Tis ne’er too early to learn courtesy.”

Slowly the babe’s eyes drifted shut, and Jenefer handed the drowsy Miles off to the maidservant. The woman settled the babe into his low crib by the hearth and tucked blankets in around him.

Then Jenefer faced the Highlander, mirroring his menacing posture—crossing her arms over her chest—and muttered, “Methinks you could have benefited from early lessons in courtesy.”

He looked daggers at her. “Ye dare to insult me?” he challenged. “Do ye know who I am?”

“Nay, I don’t,” she replied, “which is my point. You have yet to properly introduce yourself.”

“Ye don’t know who I am?” He blinked in disbelief. “Do ye mean to say ye’ve decided this land doesn’t belong to me, yet ye don’t even know who I am?”

It did sound rather odd when he put it that way.

“I know who you think you are. You think you’re the Laird of Creagor.”

His arms unfolded. He clenched his fists and moved to loom over her. This close, he looked as if he might swallow her whole at any moment.

“I am the Laird o’ Creagor,” he bit out.

His quiet words were far more chilling than a shout. Despite her usually indomitable courage, in the shadow of the Highlander, she gulped and felt her fingertips dig into her arms. She’d poked the beast one too many times. And there was something menacing in his intense gaze that made her want to keep her distance.

Nonetheless, it wouldn’t do to let him know she was anxious. So her tone was flippant when she said, “If you won’t introduce yourself properly, perhaps I shall make up a name for you as well. Let me see… William the Weak? Olifard mac Awful? Marmaduke the Malevo—”

“Morgan!” he thundered in impatience, making her jump.

She cast a swift glance toward Miles, hoping the laird’s shout wouldn’t wake him.

Morgan’s eyes were steely and his teeth clenched as he lowered his voice to say, “Laird Morgan Mor mac Giric.”

Mor. It meant “big.” An apt description, she thought as she peered up at him, mere inches away from his glowering countenance, close enough to feel the heat of his anger.

Her voice came out on a breathy wisp of air, but she forced herself to meet his stare with steadfast courage. “Pleased to meet you…Morgan,” intentionally omitting the “Laird.”

His eyes blazed into hers at the obvious slight. But she refused to look away. Showing vulnerability would have been a tactical mistake.

They locked gazes, her green eyes gleaming with feigned confidence beneath the scorching heat of his…what were they? Brown? Green? Golden? It was hard to tell.

As the moment drew longer and longer, neither of them willing to surrender in their silent contest of wills, a curious thing happened. The heat in his regard slowly cooled, like a coal diminishing from a riotous flame to a smoldering glow. The crease between his brows softened.

To her astonishment, a twinkle began to spark at the outer edges of his eyes. One corner of his lip curved up into the merest hint of a smile. Finally, he shook his head and let out a single chuckle.

“Are ye?” he asked.

“Am I what?”

“Are ye pleased to meet me?”

Her lips twitched. Those had been her words. Spoken out of habit, they hardly described the sentiment of a woman kept prisoner against her will.

Despite her best efforts, she couldn’t help but be amused. An answering glint of mischief entered her eyes.

“I’d be pleased to meet you,” she replied, “on the battlefield.”

This time, his eyes danced with laughter, and he almost showed her an actual smile.

Her heart tripped. Despite her distaste for Highlanders, she had to admit, when he wasn’t vexed and threatening, Morgan was dangerously attractive. Though it was flawed by injuries at the moment, his face was finely sculpted, with an angled jaw, prominent cheekbones, and a nose that was strong, if not quite straight.

“Ah, lass,” he admitted with a sigh, “I’m far too weary to do further battle this eve, even a battle o’ wits.”

She wasn’t surprised. He’d probably traveled a long way, spent the entire day installing his household—a household she intended to dismantle as soon as possible—and wanted nothing more than to get a good night’s sleep, free from the sound of a babe crying.

But she couldn’t forget what Hallie had said. It would be far more difficult to oust the invader if he had time to settle in.

“What about the morrow then?” she proposed. “I’ll fight you for Creagor at dawn.”

The maidservants gasped.

“Ye aren’t serious?” He seemed genuinely surprised. He shook his head. “I won’t fight a lass, no matter what combat skills ye claim to have.”

“Claim to have?” She could feel her blood starting to simmer, as it always did when a man doubted her worth. “I’ve bested bigger warriors than you.”

That was absolutely not true. But she had no doubt she could best bigger men than him.

“I doubt ye’ve seen a bigger warrior than me,” he said, exposing her lie. He softened the blow by adding, “But I’m sure ye could send a grown man limpin’ from the battlefield…if not from the keen side o’ your sword, then from the sharp edge o’ your tongue.”

The younger servant giggled behind her hand.

Jenefer opened her mouth to reply and couldn’t. Every response she thought of would only prove his point.

Flustered, she finally snapped, “Be ready at first light. I’ll need to beg a sword and shield, as chivalry allows.” Before he could refuse her, she jabbed a finger at his chest. “And know this, sirrah. If you do not accept my challenge, I shall brand you coward and spread that name far and wide.”