She lied. That much he knew. But what parts of her tale were untrue exactly? He didn't know, and so there seemed little reason not to play along. But he would be cautious now. Question every word, doubt every nuance.
Who was this woman? A barmaid, a whore, a thief? He watched her closely, focusing all his concentration on her.
In a moment she nodded. "'Tis right that I help you. 'Tis right." She laughed, the sound hollow. "We cannot win against the Dagger's army. I know that this venture will cause my death. Yet, even though I know death is the vehicle that will take me to my 'arry, I am afraid. I am a coward," she whispered.
Whatever she was, she was not a coward, Roman thought. She had removed the floppy hat, and her hair, blond and full and soft, fell down her narrow back in long cascades. "Drink," he repeated, pushing the cup toward her.
"No." Her voice was stronger now. She forced a smile. "Ya saved my life. 'Tis the least I can do to give you food and drink, Scotsman."
"Roman."
She tilted her head in question.
"Me name," he said. "'Tis Roman of the clan Forbes."
Lifting the bread and bowl from the floor, she raised it toward him. "Eat, Roman of the Forbes."
It was a kind of discipline that had kept him from the food, but hunger was overpowering now, filling his senses, weakening him both physically and mentally. He tried to swallow the painful fill of his salivary glands, but he had waited too long, and the food was too close. Not since childhood had he known such hunger.
He took the bowl with shaking hands and tipped it to his mouth. It smelled of sweet onions and fine fowl. It tasted so rich and heavenly that the sharp necessity of it hurt his mouth.
She studied him over the edge of the bowl before handing him the bread. He tore off a piece, remembering control, holding on to discipline as if it were a lifeline tied to the last vestige of sanity.
Slowly, carefully, he dipped the bread into the broth. The taste filled his mouth and his soul.
Tearing a bit of crust from the loaf, Tara nibbled on it and watched him. But he barely noticed her now. When she handed him the cup, he drank, and when she refilled the bowl, he ate again.
Finally, he was sated. Seated on her mattress, he leaned his head against the wall and studied her.
"So 'twas ye that told the Shadow of the necklace?" Roman asked.
She turned away, and on her cheeks was a flush. Of shame? Or was the expression a hoax like everything else?
"'Twas I," she whispered, wringing her hands and seeming to draw herself into her own memories. "'Tis true. There is a ... a babe in Middlecastle. Wee Sineag. No bigger than a gosling is she." Her voice was singsong, haunting, reminding him somehow of the wild winds of his homeland.
"With hair as bright as an evening blaze. She coughed so, ya'd think 'twould split her in two." Tara paused and seemed to shake herself mentally. "'arry he..." She clasped and unclasped her hands, looking almost surprised to find herself in her own hovel with no babe in sight. "He could not bear to see another suffer. Some of the money from the necklace would have gone to buy an elixir."
Roman watched her face, searched for lies. There was pain in her expression. Pain and sorrow, and nothing else he could discern.
"How did ye know where I stayed? How did ye find me?" he asked.
"Caraway seeds."
Roman narrowed his eyes.
"Mistress Krahn of the Queen's Head uses it heavily in her cooking. I could smell it on ya."
"Ye lie," he said, but her words seemed too outlandish to be anything but the truth.
"Nay. 'Tis true," she said. " 'Arry taught me much before ..." She drew a deep breath and lifted her chin slightly, as if fighting back tears. "Oft he said that we use but 'alf our senses. He taught me to use all I have. He gave me worth, gave me..." Her bottom lip trembled. "He gave me much."
"So ye told him of the jewels, and he went to the Queen's Head disguised as John Marrow. After that 'twas an easy enough task ta slip beneath me rented bed and wait until I fell asleep."
Tara shrugged. "I do not know his exact methods. All I know is that he had the necklace before morning."
"Why did he give it to ye? Why did he na sell the jewels and give money to the babe's mother?"
Something fleeted across her eyes. She rose abruptly to her feet. "James is ... James was missing.
Roman waited for an explanation.
"He was a fence for stolen goods. The only fence 'arry trusted. 'Twas I who usually delivered the goods. In fact..." She turned, twisting her hands. "The night you watched my house, 'twas I you chased, for I was trying to take the necklace to James. I escaped down the hatch beneath the trunk in my old house."
"Thus I never saw ye leave."
She nodded. "I thought I was safe then I heard ya and started running. Ya nearly caught me, for my legs were failing. But I saw an open window and scrambled through."
"I ran on and attacked George, who happened to be returning from the inn."
"Poor George." The tiniest spark of humor flashed in her eyes. And though Roman knew he should hate her, he could not help but want to see her smile.
"Poor George?" he said. "'Twas me that was beat upon the head. And 'twas me that barely escaped the white hound."
One corner of her bonny lips tilted upward. "You neglected to take him a gift to calm him."
For a moment Roman puzzled over her words, but then the truth dawned. "Ahh, so that was the purpose for the plate of bones I saw in yer house the first time."
"He was a wonderful watchdog," she said. "He would growl at anyone not bearing gifts and warn me of goings and comings. But since that day he only wags his tail and whimpers when someone passes by. I cannot help but wonder why."
"We had a disagreement."
She watched him. "Mayhap you have a chance against the Daggermen after all, Scotsman. But I..." She paused. "Not I. For they know I was involved with the Shadow. Dagger will not rest until I am dead."
"How does he know?"
"They killed James. I feared he was in trouble when I went to deliver the necklace and he wasn't 'ome. I feared the worst, that he would tell the Shadow's identity. But even the Dagger couldn't break that loyalty."
"But the fence told Dagger about ye?"
"Aye, and I cannot blame him. Dagger has ..." She shuddered. "Dagger has ways of making men talk. But James is dead now. Out of their reach."
Her face was mobile and alive, expressing her sorrow, her resignation. Was she lying now? Damn him! He couldn't tell. "We live for the living," she said softly. "I'll see to your wounds."
Moving to the fire, she wrapped a rag about the handle of the water kettle and lifted it from its swinging metal arm. After pouring a portion of the water into a bowl, she replaced the kettle and slipped his sliced shirt past his wrists.
Bare but for his amulet, his chest looked like the massive torso of some ancient warlord.
Tara swallowed, then dunked a cloth into the steaming water and wrung it out.
For a moment, their gazes met.
"This will hurt," she warned.
He nodded then flinched as she settled the warm cloth against his biceps. His muscles twitched, but he remained as he was.
The wound was long but not deep. She washed it carefully. Beneath her hands, his skin was warm, his muscles rigid and mounded. She lifted a strip of cloth and wrapped it carefully about his arm.
Every moment he watched her. The room was silent but for an occasional crackle from the fire.
"You've..." She swallowed again. He had saved her life, true, but she could not allow herself to trust him. Not now, not ever. "You've neglected your wounds," she said softly.
"In truth I barely noticed them. What of wee Sineag?" he asked.
She lifted her gaze to his. Who was this man who would concern himself with a wee lass he had never met? She forced herself to shrug, trying to act unconcerned. "Mayhap God will see fit to see her healed without intervention," she said, and turned the conversation aside. "Your limp is new. Surely you took note of your leg wound?"
"There is something to be said of rage," he said. "It blinds one ta pain. In truth, I've been living to find ye."
She swallowed. Even though she vividly remembered their time alone together in her room, she knew it was not infatuation that caused him to follow her. Nay. Hardly that. It was hate. And yet, even knowing how he felt about her, she couldn't seem to keep her hands from him.
"I'll tend to these," she said, touching a healing laceration.
A muscle jumped beneath her hand, but before she could draw away he caught her wrist. "Why?"
His gaze was like the arc of a hot, green flame. She battled to continue to breath.
"Once there was a girl," she whispered. "She was a small lass, alone but for an old man called Cork, a man who thought she did not deserve to die in a filthy Firthport alley. There will always be dreamers," she said, mimicking his words from not long before.
"Who are ye?" he whispered.
"Betty," she forced herself to say, but he shook his head.
"Nay, ye are na. I dunna ken who ye are, but Tara feels right. Thus I will call ye that until I learn the truth." His hand slipped from her wrist. Her fingers trembled, but she forced herself to rinse the rag and wring it out again. Shakily, she cleansed his chest. It was hard, crafted of fine hills and valleys. Her breath came faster.
His left wrist was bloody. She washed it, too, marvelling at the thickness of the bone, the denseness of the muscle.
Her gaze slipped downward. There was a scratch across his abdomen. She slipped the cloth over that slight wound. The muscles coiled like magic beneath her hand.
"Did I hurt you?" she whispered.
His eyes were sharp and clear, the muscles in his jaw, tight. "Nay."
"I..." For just a moment, for just one singular instant, she wanted to tell him the truth, to cleanse her soul, to share more than that which she could hold in her hand. But if the truth be known, her will to survive was stronger than all else. "I noticed your limp."
He merely watched her, saying nothing.
"You did not limp when first I met you."
"I did not kill people on a daily basis either, lass."
Guilt was a new emotion for her. It had no place in her life. Tara shoved it to the back of her mind for later examination, but kept the expression on her face.
"Do ye regret their deaths?" he asked, watching her.
She shook her head. "But I regret your involvement."
He reached out very slowly and touched her face, his fingers gentle against her skin. She closed her eyes.
"'Tis strange," he whispered. "It seems ye could do anything, and I would still desire ye."
She hid her surprise, though he had voiced the feeling she'd refused to allow herself to recognize. "I..." She knew she'd lost the expression of guilt, and wondered now with some fear what her face revealed. She would be a fool to drop her guard with him. And fools died young. "I'll see to your leg."
For a moment, she thought he would refuse. For a moment, the coward in her hoped he would, but finally he settled back. "'Tis na the first time I've been at yer mercy, lass."
The points had been unlaced from his doublet. Tara licked her lips and eyed them, the fabric below, the bulge.
"I can see ta the wound meself."
"Nay," she said, forcing her gaze to his face. "Nay," she repeated, calming her voice. "Ya saved my life. And I would do what I can for ya."
"Am I allowed to make suggestions?"
She tried to control her blush, but through all her deceitful years that was the one thing she had not conquered. "Decidedly not."
He shrugged. She bit her lip, said a silent prayer to a God who listened to sinners and saints alike, and reached for the top of his hose.
'Tara?"
"Aye?" She whipped her hands back to look into his face.
"Have ye ever wondered what a Scotsman wears beneath his plaid?"
She shook her head, feeling suddenly foolish and far out of her depth.
"They wear naught," he said. "And they wear the same under their English garments. I can tend the wound meself."
She managed to shake her head again.
"Ye could at least give me a blanket and turn away for a moment."
She retrieved the woolen with shaky hands, gave it to him, and showed him her back.
When next she looked at him, his tattered shirt had been shoved beneath his knee and he was naked but for the blanket that covered his body at a crooked angle. His chest was exposed, as were his shoulders, and the wounded width of one powerful leg. It made an erotic picture, the mighty male, awaiting her touch.
She took a deep breath as she forced her gaze to his thigh. "It has turned septic," she said, forcing the words out. He had suffered on her account. He had suffered, and she would tend his wounds. But nothing more. She was not interested in him as a person. The width of his shoulders did not impress her. The bulky curve of his chest held no appeal. And his eyes, green as a summer meadow, did not make her heart race and her soul long for intimacy.
"Lass, are ye well?" he asked.
She all but slapped herself, for she realized suddenly that she was staring at him like a dazed lambkin. "Aye," she said, and, hurrying to the fire, retrieved the kettle of hot water. The wound was puckered and oozing. She grimaced. "I fear it should be lanced."
"How do ye ken that?"
She shrugged, distracted by the duty ahead of her. "When I was a child, there was an old woman who taught me a bit about the art of healing. But not enough."
"Fiona could teach ye more," Roman said softly.
"Fiona?"
"The lady of the Forbes. There is none, as of yet, who can match her skill. Roderic's wife is ... well, she is the Flame, and wee Elizabeth is still a bairn." His gaze was far off and his expression rueful. "At least ta me own eyes she is still a babe."
"Your family?" Tara asked softly.
"Aye, they be mine, if na by blood, then by kindness."
"They are not your kin?"
"My parents died when I was but a lad. Me uncle took me in." He was silent for a moment, his face taut. "Fiona ... seemed ta think I needed a mother."
"And Dermid?" she asked.
"How do ye know his name?"
"Ya've mentioned your uncle before," she said.
"Ye've a good memory."
"It's served me well. What happened to Dermid?"
A muscle jumped in his lean jaw. "He died on me laird's blade."
"Your laird?"
"Fiona's husband." He looked away. "Laird Leith."
"Your foster father?" she asked softly.
"He calls me son."
His emotions were so clear it seemed she could read every thought. "But ya do not deserve that name?"
He turned slowly back to her, his eyes flat. "I dunna."
Tara skimmed her gaze down his massive body. "For a man fully grown, you know little of yourself, Scotsman."
Something shone in his eyes. Was it gratitude for the words she spoke?
"Mayhap ye can teach me of meself then, lass," he said softly.
Mayhap, she thought. And mayhap she could tell him of herself, share that which she had never shared before.
But no! She was being foolish, and foolish she could not afford to be. Turning quickly away, she hurried back to the fire to retrieve a knife that lay upon the stone ledge. Picking up a small rock, she absently sharpened the blade against it as she returned more slowly to him.
Long ago there had been a woman named Mary in the village of Killcairn, a kind woman with a doting family and a gift for healing. Long ago, Tara had imagined herself assuming that role. But fate had not opened that path to a small Irish girl with flaxen hair.
"I can lance the wound meself."
Roman's words startled her. She drew herself from the past. "What?"
"Ye look pale, lass. There's no need for ye ta do this."
"Nay, I can ..." She glanced at the wound again. It was an ugly thing, far worse than his others. And if it did not mend 'twould be her fault. "I can see to it."
"'Tis yer choice. But we'd best have bandages close ta hand. And Fiona would pack dry bread into the wound to draw out the poison, methinks."
"Bread." She nodded. The floor seemed to have tilted slightly, and her stomach felt strange. "I'll fetch some."
"Mayhap ye should sit for a bit, lass."
"Nay." She shook her head. The movement did nothing to set the room to rights. "I am fine."
"At least give me the blade," he said. "I'll sharpen it whilst ye retrieve what ye must."
She nodded, handing him the knife and rock, but she could not turn away, for she could not help staring at his wound.
"Lass."
She drew a deep breath and found his gaze.
"The linens."
"Oh." The word sounded strangely breathy. "Aye," she said, and turned away.
To her relief, she found that the jug of ale was not empty. She took a swig straight from the bottle, gathered up bread and linens, and turned back.
Roman's hiss of pain made her stop in her tracks. But his hand didn't delay a moment. Instead, it moved again, slicing a cross into his oozing leg wound. Blood flowed in earnest now, soaking the tattered shirt he'd shoved beneath his knee.
"I..." the world tilted more dramatically. "I could have done that," Tara said.
"Ye'd best sit down, lass."
"Nay, I..." She paused. Her stomach lurched. "I'd best sit," she said, stumbling toward the mattress.
He reached for her. Encircling her arm in his large hand, he guided her onto the pallet, took the items from her hands, and set them on the floor.
"Lie down."
"Nay, I'm ..."
"Lie down," he ordered, and she did so.
He cleaned and wrapped his own wound while she felt foolish and dizzy beside him.
Finally, he lay down beside her.
"Are ye well, lass?"
"Aye," she said, then added facetiously, "the lancing barely hurt atall."
He grinned. Her world tilted again, but she feared it was no longer from nausea but from the beauty of his smile.
He stroked her hair back from her face, skimming it behind her ear before running his hand down her arm and finally resting it on her waist.
Touch. How long had it been since she'd been touched with tenderness? Memories of her childhood welled up again. Her father's laughter, her mother's song. There had been love there, as deep as forever. But it was nearly forgotten, nearly out of reach, drowned by a thousand dark incidents since. The realization frightened her. There had been a time when she had vowed never to forget. Needing to feel, she reached out and touched Roman's chest. There was power there, but there was more—tenderness, caring. No matter what he said, he had been raised to love, and he had not forgotten, not like she.
But perhaps self-preservation had made her forget. Perhaps it was necessary to put tenderness behind her if she were to remain alive. She closed her eyes and steadied her mind.
Aye, she did not need this tenderness.
"I'm..." She tried to push away, but his arm was heavy across her waist. "I'm fine now. I'll see to your other wounds."
"Rest for a bit, lass. Dunna fret; I willna bite."
Bite? It was hardly his teeth that worried her. "I'm not... fretting."
"Nay?" Raising his hand, he skimmed his fingers through her hair again, touching her ear, her throat. "Ye nearly fainted."
"Well, I..." She shivered. His touch felt shivery warm, like an errant sunbeam breaking through a winter sky. "I should have eaten, I suppose."
He smiled, just a glimpse of humor that she thought too seldom found his face. "And here I hoped ye were overwhelmed by the sight of me masculinity."
Betty the barmaid would have come up with a saucy rejoinder. Tara the lass blushed. She lowered her eyes and turned her face away. But Roman gently caught her chin and urged it upward.
"Who are ye?" he whispered.
For a moment she couldn't speak, but finally she forced the single word from between her lips. "Bet—" she began, but at that moment, he kissed her. Sunshine flooded Tara's life in a torrent of light, warming her system, heating her blood. His hand cupped her neck. His heart raced against hers. His mouth slipped away, kissing her jaw, her throat.
Rays of hot pleasure seared her skin, threatening her with its heat. The woman named Betty would be lost in the inferno. The Shadow would be no more. All that remained was Tara, alone and terrified.
She pushed against him, panicked, trying to break free.
He eased back. "I have frightened ye?"
She was Betty—the barmaid, the whore. She did not frighten. "Nay. I simply ... Too much activity 'tis bad for your leg."
"Too much activity?" He grinned again, just the corner of a smile. "How much activity were ye planning, lass?"
Her chest hurt, for her heart was racing along like a runaway cart horse. "None at all," she breathed, but seeing him thus, smiling, seductive, alluring, made her mouth go dry and her wits drown.
"Remove your clothes."
"What?" she gasped.
Their faces were inches apart, but their bodies were much closer, pressed against each other. "Off with 'em," he whispered.
She tried to form some sort of denial, but Betty the barmaid had abandoned her completely, leaving her to mouth incoherent mutterings.
"I saved yer life, lass," he whispered, and suddenly his lips were against her ear, kissing it with butterfly tenderness.
She shivered. Her eyes fell closed.
"I thought..." She battled with her own weaknesses, trying to remember her reasons for celibacy. "I thought you were a gentleman."
"I told ye I was na ta be trusted, lass. I warned ye. 'Twas ye that denied me words," he said, and kissed the tender dell behind her lobe.
"But I..." She couldn't think, couldn't talk. "But I..." His fingers skimmed down the shallow furrow in the center of her back. Her breathing became erratic. "I..."
"Shh," he murmured again, and suddenly his hands were beneath her simple, boy's tunic. They were warm and strong against her skin. He was kissing her with such sweet, aching tenderness that there was little she could do but let the shirt skim upward. She lifted her arms, allowing it to ease over her head.
But now there was a new impediment, for she had bound her breasts with long strips of white cloth.
"'Twould seem I forgot that ye are a lad today," he whispered. His hands skimmed down her back, smoothing away her hose, caressing every inch of her as he scooped her closer still. Her legs seemed to open of their own accord, and suddenly his hips were clasped between them. She could feel the hard length of him, hot and eager against her sensitized softness.
Somehow, he had rolled to his back. She rode him astride, pressing her desire against his. His hands kneaded her buttocks. Letting her head drop back and allowing nothing but the hot, wild feelings to permeate her senses, she moaned.
Her skin tingled at his touch, and her head spun. She had lived in the underbelly of Firthport long enough to know the consequences of her actions, but she had been starved for human touch for too many years. The floodgates of desire burst open. There seemed nothing she could do but press against the rising tide and hope to stay afloat.
His hands eased up her back. She arched toward him, feeling his fingers pause on the bindings that covered her chest. Not for an instant did the rhythm of their bodies slow. They rocked against each other like enchanted beings, not finding copulation, but not able to draw apart, sipping at the forbidden nectar of desire. Her bindings loosened. The clothes eased from her torso, dropping away.
She heard Roman catch his breath as one nipple peeked from its confinement. The rocking pace of his movements slowed. One hand slipped forward to scoop the fabric away and cup her breast.
Her gasp sounded much like his, but higher-pitched and breathy.
"Lass..." His tone was husky, deep as midnight, quiet as gentle waters. "Ye are beautiful."
Her hair had tumbled over her shoulders. It caressed his scared chest, brushed against his amulet.
"Ye are bonny beyond words," he whispered, and, urging her toward him, gently kissed her lips.
Desire erupted anew, but now the position had changed. Instead of having him trapped beneath her, his penis pressed hot and turgid against the entrance of her being.
She was so close to heaven, just inches away. He pressed gently inward. Her breathing stopped. Her heart raced on.
He eased into her tender portal a fraction of an inch. But with that invasion, good sense flooded in.
The consequences of such an act were enormous, too lethal to ignore any longer. She ended the kiss, placed a shaky hand to his chest, and pushed away, breathing hard.
"Lass..." He opened his eyes and ceased the rhythm of his hips. His jaw was clenched as if it pained him to stop, and for a moment, the rock hard strength of his arms shivered.
"'Arry!" She said the name suddenly. She'd wholly forgotten she was supposed to be mourning Harry's passing. Sweet Mary! Tara pressed in earnest now against his chest, trying to retreat, but he moved with her. "I... I cannot. I am in mourning!" In mourning! The words sounded foolish even to her own ears, for she was naked and trembling with desire. Still, she clung to her story.
He tried to draw her nearer. She scrambled off the bed, but he held her wrist. Scraps of cloth hung from her shoulders like a mummy's ghoulish garb.
"I didna mean ta frighten ye," he said, wincing as his feet touched the floor. But despite the pain, he stood and moved closer, entrapping her with his arm about her bare waist.
"Forgive me for me haste, lass. It seemed ye have possessed me senses. But I will move more slowly now."
It didn't matter how slowly he moved. The results would still be the same. She must escape.
But she had been captured again. It was time to think. Betty! She was Betty, she told herself. With a supreme effort, she steadied her breathing and relaxed in his arms.
He hugged her more tightly.
"There is little enough joy ta be found in this life," he said. "Let us take it where we can." He smoothed her hair against her back.
She closed her eyes. What kind of magic did he weave that he had but to touch her and she would lose her senses, forget her plight?
"But 'Arry. 'E ... 'e just..."
He placed a finger gently to her lips. "Na more lies, lass. Na tonight," he said then leaned against her for a moment, as if shaken by weakness.
"Lies!" She tried to sound indignant, to hold to her role. "Ya think I lie?" She was Betty. Quick of wit, indomitable. She only needed to hold out a bit longer, for he was weakening. "'Arry is dead," she said.
His eyes spoke of his doubt as his hand glided up her back, under her hair, cradling her neck. "Then let him go, and let us live," he whispered as he kissed her.
She wrapped her arms about his back. "Aye," she rasped. She was the lonely woman, yearning to be consoled. "Yer right. He would want me to live." 'Twas all an act, part of her role, but he felt wonderfully hard against her, and she trembled. "Touch me. Help me forget all, if just for a small piece of time."
Their gazes met, but in a moment his head dropped back slightly, and he scowled as if puzzled.
Guilt gnawed at her. But she could not afford that emotion. "Roman?" she said, putting just the proper bit of worry in her tone. "Are you well?"
"Aye." He straightened and met her eyes. "'Tis merely yer presence that makes me weak."
"Here. Lie down," she said, urging him back onto the pallet.
He sat, but his arms remained about her, pulling her to her knees between his powerful thighs.
The intimacy of this new position nearly overwhelmed her. She willed herself not to blush, but the great length of him throbbed against her abdomen, promising pleasures she had never scaled. Pleasures she suddenly wished to. But she would have to leave, and very soon. She would not see him again—ever. The thought burned her mind. Her hand skimmed his chest. It was brawny and broad and breathtakingly alluring, adorned with that strange amulet that would forever remind her of him. She smoothed her hand upward along the leather strip."Lie down," she urged again, drawing her fingers away.
"Only if ye do, lass."
She managed a nod.
He pulled her gently onto the pallet. They stretched out, facing each other. Every inch of him was hot and hard and eager. He shifted his wounded thigh, and she bent her leg, resting it over his to avoid direct contact.
But this new position was more stimulating yet, for she was nestled against him warm and safe, held in his arms like a precious gift. And she was wet, achingly wet, like nothing she had experienced before.
He kissed her then, and suddenly, as simply as breathing, his manhood was between her thighs and gliding inward.
Ecstasy called. She curled her fingers around his amulet as she closed her eyes and ever so carefully rocked against him.
But suddenly his hands fell away and his head lolled back against the pillow, seeming to weigh him down.
"Roman?" she breathed, wanting more, wanting satiation.
"Lass, I feel almost as if..." He opened his eyes, and suddenly his gaze was not warm and gentle, but sharp and accusatory.
Reality snapped back into place. Sweet Mary, she must think, she must escape. "What... what is it?" she asked, managing to sound bewildered.
"Ye've drugged me," he rasped.
"What?" She opened her eyes wide. Where were her clothes? Could she make it to the door? "What are ya talking about?" she asked. She slipped from the pallet. Her feet touched the floor.
"Hell fire!" he growled, grabbing her wrist and rising with her. "Ye drugged me!"
"Nay!" she shrieked, and, twisting with all her might, broke free.
He charged after her.
She screamed, but he stumbled, and in that moment, she grabbed her tunic and fled.