‘No.’ He shook his head, and his face grew harder. ‘You have value as a hostage, and you command a great ransom from your heroic, crusader father. I won you so that ransom is mine, spoils of war.’
‘You can’t win me. I am not a possession, something for you to own.’
‘Oh but you are, lass, and trust me, the alternative is not pretty. Banan is a brutal whoreson who would use you far worse than I. Do you doubt that?’
‘No.’
‘Strange, isn’t it, how the world turns? When I attacked this castle, I hoped there would be a great prize hidden inside it. I did not find it. Instead, I am burdened with you, a frightened, English lass who shakes when I look sideways at her.’
‘If you don’t want me, why fight over me?’
‘Who says I don’t want you?’ He came up to her and put a filthy hand into her hair, running it through the red waves and twirling a strand between his fingers. Giselle tried to breathe, but she could not seem to get enough air into her lungs. Lyall Buchanan smelled of blood and sweat and iron and he seemed more animal than man.
‘Your hair is like copper, so beautiful,’ he said, holding her eyes with his. ‘You are the first pure and honest thing I have seen in a long time. You remind me of my sister. She is about your age, bonnie like you, but not quite so soft in her manners.’
The way this man was looking at her was anything but brotherly. Giselle stared up into his eyes, and though he smiled down at her, there was some kind of sadness in them.
He sighed heavily. ‘I could just reach out and take you now, and it would be my right.’
‘What right is that?’
‘You are the spoils of war, a prize, for risking my life for my King. I could ease my loneliness and the ache in my loins.’
For one insane moment, Giselle wondered what it would be like to have the Scot’s full lips pressed to hers, his hands taking hold of her and pulling her close. No man had ever looked on her with such open admiration before, and she so needed comfort, so wanted to feel safe, if just for an instant. But no Scot was safe, nor could they be trusted.
‘You won’t do that,’ she gasped.
‘How do you know? Seems to me you know little of men, or what they turn into when their blood is up.’
‘If you were going to hurt me you would have done it already, last night when that man…when he…’
Lyall Buchanan seemed to snap out of his strange mood. ‘Aye, well, thank God I was there to stop him. Men like Banan MacGregor, they prey on soft women like you. Fresh meat, that’s all you are to him. I didn’t want to see that bastard chew you up and spit you out. I didn’t want to see you spoiled by him.’
‘Are you trying to tell me you fought for my honour?’
‘Or mine, I know not which. In truth, I fought Banan because I hate his guts, and I wanted to deny him the satisfaction of hurting another woman in the worst possible way. But this I can say to you, Giselle, and you may depend on it. I will not hurt you, and I will not force you. As far as you can feel safe with a filthy, barbaric Scot, you should feel safe with me. I swear this on my honour.’
‘Such as it is.’
‘Aye, and far more than you English deserve. Now, make yourself useful and light the fire.’
‘I am not your servant.’
‘Oh, yes, you are. It will be nightfall soon, and if we have no fire, you will be stuck here in pitch darkness with me. How would you like that? The flint over there, take it up and light the fire.’
Giselle glared at Lyall and went over to the fireplace. It was best not to vex him. He swore she was safe, and she had no choice but to believe him.
There was already kindling laid and logs, but she had no idea what to do. Her servants always did such things for her. She struck the flint weakly, with shaking hands, over and over, with no effect.
Suddenly she felt him at her shoulder, kneeling, and then the Scot took her hands in his big, dirty ones and squeezed them slightly. How large he was up close, but his touch was gentle. She looked up into his eyes and thought she saw pity, and something else, was it longing, or sadness? His mouth was so close to hers that it was indecent.
‘Lord saves us, can you not even make a fire for yourself,’ he said, breaking the spell. ‘What a child you are.’
‘Do it yourself then.’
‘I will before I freeze to death,’ he said with a grin.
He struck the flint briskly, and sparks soon flew, setting the kindling alight. The Scot took up a taper and lit several candles from the flames.