Tamed by the Barbarian. June Francis

      ‘I don’t know why you should deem that so,’ she retorted. And, feeling a need to put some distance between them, she moved to her horse’s head. ‘It is not the first time Father has failed to arrive home when expected—especially during the winter months. Stormy weather can delay a ship’s departure.’

      ‘No doubt that would be true if your father and brother’s arrival was only a few days or a week overdue,’ said Master Husthwaite, ‘but it is now the feast of St Hilary and, according to your brother, six weeks since he last heard from them. I really do think you have to accept that your father might well be dead.’

      ‘No!’ she cried, forcing back the dreadful apprehension roused first by Matt’s conviction in the last ten days that his twin brother was in pain. ‘I will not believe it is so.’

      ‘Naturally, you don’t want to accept his death as a reality, but you must do so because we’ll need to consider your future.’

      ‘We? What do you mean? I hope you do not have it in mind to interfere in my affairs,’ said Cicely, her fine eyes flashing blue fire. ‘It is no concern of yours. I—I am betrothed and will be wed at Easter.’

      His deep-set eyes flickered. ‘I have found nothing amongst your father’s papers about such an arrangement.’

      ‘Nevertheless my wedding will take place.’ Cicely was furious that he should have access to her father’s private papers. She was certain that if Nat Milburn had known this clerk would dare to step into his dead uncle’s shoes, he would have left orders for another man of business to be found instantly.

      ‘So you say. Tell me—who is this so-called betrothed?’ demanded Master Husthwaite.

      ‘His name is none of your business. Now will you kindly leave, as I have to prepare for the return of my brothers and father.’

      He glared at her, but instead of quitting the stable, he reached for the whip thrust through a strap on his saddle and lashed out at her horse. Cicely let out a scream of rage and, throwing caution to the wind, caught hold of the whip’s lash when he would have used it again. Her attempt to disarm the man resulted in her being catapulted against him. The breath was knocked out of her and he swiftly took advantage of her position. His arms went round her and he squeezed her so hard that she could scarcely breathe.

      ‘Unhand me at once! You forget yourself,’ she gasped.

      He laughed and sank his head into the smooth flesh of her neck. She screamed and resisted as, inch by inch, he forced her down on to the damp straw. In the struggle, her headdress was dislodged and her hair swirled free. He grabbed a handful of it and brought her face close, seeking her mouth with his own. She baulked at the glimpse of his rotting teeth and the smell of his stinking breath, but she managed to get a couple of fingers to his chin and pinched it. He knocked her hand away. ‘You’ll pay for that,’ he snarled.

      Cicely feared that she would, but what happened next proved her wrong. Her rescue took place so swiftly that she could barely believe that in moments she was free and Master Husthwaite lay still on the ground. She was lifted to her feet as if she weighed no more than thistledown.

      The pressure of her rescuer’s hand seemed to sear through her gown and set her skin tingling, a sensation that she found intensely disturbing in a completely different way from the shock of Master Husthwaite’s attack on her person.

      Her eyes were now on a level with an intricately patterned brooch that gleamed dully like pewter. This fastened a roughly textured woollen cloak at a weatherbeaten neck. Her gaze moved higher and the breath caught in her throat at the sight of the unshaven chin and the strong cheekbones of a man’s rugged face, framed in a tangle of chestnut hair that fell to his shoulders. He spoke in a dialect that caused her initial feelings of relief to turn to stunned dismay. Thoughts whirled in her head as she remembered going on a pilgrimage with her dying mother to a priory at Alnmouth not far from the border of England with Scotland. Her mother was from that area and an admirer of the Celtic saints, who had brought the gospel from Ireland.

      The man spoke again, but more slowly this time. ‘I hope he did not harm you badly, lass?’

      She shook her head and her golden hair swirled about her shoulders. His eyes widened as he reached out a gauntleted hand and touched a strand, tucking it behind her ear. She froze, remembering the tales told to her twin brothers by their great-uncle and grandfather. “Enough to chill the blood,” her mother had often said. There was no doubt in Cicely’s mind that the border Scots were an uncouth race and she feared this man had saved her from Master Husthwaite’s foul intent for his own pleasure. If she had been the kind of female given to swooning, she would have chosen that moment to do so. Instead, her fingers crept to the dagger hanging alongside the keys at her girdle and fastened on its string-bound hilt.

      Mackillin’s gaze skated over her blanched face, noticing that her eyes were the colour of bluebells, which grew beneath the rowan trees near Loch Trool. His mind was not the kind normally given to poetic thoughts, but he reckoned, if asked, that he could write a sonnet to such eyes. She had a heart-shaped face, a perfectly shaped nose and lips that were just asking to be kissed.

      There was that in his gaze that caused Cicely to dart out a nervous tongue and wet her lips. She knew that it was now or never to draw her dagger. ‘Keep away from me, you—you barbarian!’ she said, brandishing the weapon in front of her.

      Except for the flare of his nostrils, he appeared unmoved. ‘And if I don’t, what will you do with that…toy, lass?’ he spoke deliberately slowly.

      ‘I would stick it in you. Its edge is sharp!’ she warned.

      His eyes glinted. ‘Such gratitude for rescuing you deserves to be rewarded in kind.’ With a carelessness for his own safety that alarmed her, he seized her wrist and twisted, causing her to gasp in pain as the weapon fell to the ground. Then in one smooth movement, his left arm encircled her waist and his right hand cupped the back of her head. ‘A kiss for my pains,’ he murmured, laying claim to her mouth.

      She attempted to ward him off, but found it impossible to make an impression against his hard, muscular strength. The pressure from his mouth eased and now his lips moved gently over hers in a pleasant, tingly fashion. She was alarmed that she found even the abrasive roughness of his stubbly chin peculiarly sensual. Only thrice had she been kissed before and it had not caused sparks to charge through her veins, igniting her nerve ends in a truly thrilling fashion like this one did.

      But she had sworn to love Diccon as long as she lived. He was the only man with the right to kiss her in such a beguilingly intimate fashion, despite her father having refused his consent to their betrothal. Still, Cicely believed she could change his mind when he returned. Yet now she was allowing this—this savage to kiss her without putting up a fight. She tore her mouth away and raised a hand to hit him, but the blow never landed because, unexpectedly, he freed her.

      She glared at him and gasped, ‘My father will make you pay for daring to assault me.’

      Mackillin’s eyes narrowed. He knew that it had been a mistake kissing her, but the sight of her lips alone were enough to drive a man to forget any code of chivalry he might live by. As for the golden hair that smelt so sweetly of camomile, he had never seen such hair. His breathing deepened as he remembered that same scent on her skin and his body recalled the feel of her breasts against his chest and the jutting bones of her hips against his nether regions. The stirring in his loins did not abate and he said harshly, ‘Your father? Is he one of the servants here?’

      ‘God’s blood, no! He’s…’ She paused, uncertain what his reaction would be if he knew she was the daughter of the house. She backed away from him and turned and ran, wondering what he was doing on her father’s manor. The Scots had not raided this far south of the border for decades.

      No sooner was she outside the stables than she collided with someone. She gasped as her arm was seized and a familiar voice said, ‘Cissie, what’s wrong? Why did you scream?’

      At the welcome sound of her brother’s voice, she collapsed against him. Only to