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the midst of unbuttoning his breeches and gave a disappointed groan. “Come now! She’s far too fair a flower to be plucked by only one man, and my cock is rock hard!”
    Brighid shuddered at the vileness of his words, tried not to hear them.
    The fair-haired lord placed his hands around her waist and propelled her through the door. “Be that as it may, I’m of no mind to share her tonight. She’s been in my thoughts all day, and I intend to savor her.” Strong hands guided her down the long hallway to a staircase on the other side. The man was very tall and walked quickly, and Brighid was forced to hurry beside him, taking two strides for every one of his.
    The iarla Sasanach followed. “You are a cruel man, Jamie. I suppose I shall have to wait until you’ve gone back to England for my taste of her?”
    The other lord laughed. “That depends. If she’s as fair as she seems, I shall find it hard to part with her.” They talked about her as if she were nothing, a possession to be used as they saw fit, with no wishes, no life of her own, her body a toy. Her rage—and her dread—grew. Would she be used, then traded from one to the other? Would she be spirited to England, never to see her family again?
    “So now you threaten to steal her from my service?”
    The iarla sounded both indignant and amused.
    “You did say she was a gift, did you not?” “Aye, but I didn’t mean for you to take her from under my roof.”
    They climbed two flights of stairs to another long hallway, this one lined with doors. The man stopped in front of one of the doors and opened it. Light from several candelabras filled the room. Inside stood an enormous canopied bed with thick, carved posts that jutted toward the ceiling.
    Brighid’s stomach twisted in a painful knot. She took an involuntary step backward, collided with the hard body of the Englishman behind her. She would not cry. “Good night, Sheff.” The man forced her inside, turned to the iarla. “Thank you for the lovely dinner—and the delightful gift.”
    He started to close the door, but the iarla stopped him with the squared tip of his black leather shoe. “Friends then?”
    “Friends.” With a smile, the man closed the door. For a moment, he stood, arm around her waist, head cocked as if to listen. “Damn!” He swore under his breath and left her side to blow out the candles.
    The room fell into shadow. A log settled in the fireplace, sent up sparks.
    Brighid started at the sound, clutched the frock tighter around her.
    “I won’t hurt you, Brigid.” His features were lit by light from the fire as he came to her. Long lashes framed his eyes. His skin was bronzed, his cheekbones high, his chin strong. His honey-colored hair had been gathered in a ribbon at the nape of his neck. His curls might have given him a boyish look were he not so tall and his shoulders so broad.
    “Th-that’s not my name.” She fought to still her trembling. He pried the cloth of his frock from her fingers, slipped it from her shoulders. His gaze fixed upon her. “Then what is your name?”
    She shielded her breasts, tried to lift her chin. “Brighid. Brighid Ni Maelsechnaill.”
    To Brighid’s surprise, he carefully repeated what she’d said, though his tongue stumbled a bit over her ancestral name. “My name is Jamie Blakewell, Brighid. And I won’t hurt you.”
    “So you say.”
    “By the end of this night, you will know I mean what I say. “His warm hands settled on her arms and slid up to cup her shoulders. He drew her to him, enfolded her in his embrace, forced her stiff, resisting body to mold to his.
    She did not want this and would have turned her head away were it not for the strong hand on the back of her neck. He was going to rape her, rob her of her virtue, steal from her the only gift she could ever give a man, the gift she had saved for her husband. A whimper of dread escaped her, as he lowered his lips to hers. His lips brushed softly over hers once, twice,