"I want to leave the room. I don't like being shut in like this."

Not a request—a statement of want. He was tired of her treating him like a lackey, tired of her looking down her little nose at him. "I'll let you out. But only to clean the mess you made."

She made a scoffing noise and began to shut the door. On him. Again laughter.

He wrapped his fingers around the edge, stopping her. "You're going to clean it regardless."

"Absolutely not, MacCarrick. I refuse," she said with a sniff. "You deserved it—they deserved it—for kidnapping me."

"You want out, you clean."

Her face took on an even haughtier look, and she parted her lips to speak what he knew would be a cutting retort. Instead, her head tilted and she bit her lip. "Very well," she mumbled.

This he never expected. "Why the sudden reversal?"

"I hate being locked up. And I'm hungry."

He knew she was up to something, but he couldn't find a reason not to let her clean up the things she'd used as weapons. "Good, then. I'll have Liam help you sweep."

She nodded, then sauntered, swishing her skirts, to the worst pile of debris. When she eased down, he tried not to stare at her ineffectual bodice.

Someone breathed, "Christ almighty." Fergus? He was awake just for this?

Court noticed the others weren't any more successful in prying their gazes from her breasts as her chest rose and fell with her short breaths.

With clenched fists and a glower at all of them, he stood directly in front of her to block their view. She looked at his boots, then slowly up his body, raising her head until her eyes caught his.

Damn that dress. And it was the dress. Not the way she regarded him with her head tilted so her hair flowed to the side. Not because he'd touched his tongue to that golden skin and knew her addictive taste.

She returned her attention to cleaning and picked up several silver accessories, a wooden jewelry box that somehow had managed not to break, and then a silver hairbrush and hand mirror—a broken mirror.

"You'll have bad luck for that," Liam said warily.

She addressed Court when she answered, "As opposed to before the breaking?"

He ground his teeth. "Liam will finish. When you've stowed those things, come eat."

She hesitated a moment, then, though she was on her knees before him, she nodded to him like a queen deigning a favor. When she returned, her hair was up and her chest was red, no doubt from where she had been tugging at the dress. She might have accomplished a quarter inch.

He sat her beside him and tossed bread, cheese, and an apple in front of her. She'd said she was hungry, but she ate nothing. And still that fire-red dress attracted every eye until he was uncomfortable. Under his breath, he said, "Do you no' have something less…garish?"

"No, I do not," she answered with stress on the t he rarely could manage with the word. "Your young henchman—Liam, I believe is his name—packed low-cut ball gowns."

Court removed his jacket. "Take this." When she stared at it as though it would bite, he said more forcefully, "Take it."

She stood to slip it on. The jacket fell past her knees and a foot below her hands.

"Roll up the sleeves, sit down, and eat. I know it's no' food like you're used to, but you'll have to make do." When she remained standing, Court snared the jacket and pulled her into the seat.

Two seconds later: "I am uncomfortable and would like to leave."

Without eating. "Are our table manners lacking?"

She feigned considering the question, then said, "Hmmm. That's not it…I believe it's your abduction etiquette that's questionable. I've never been kidnapped. So rudely."

Strange, but he almost grinned. She had a well-timed wit, he would give her that. When she stood to go to her room, he did as well. She grabbed the apple, looked Court up and down, raised her nose, then turned on her heel. He let her go alone the short distance, but his gaze followed her until she reached the door.

"Looks like you've got a real soft touch there," Gavin said with a chuckle.

Court turned to them. "She adores me. Gettin' embarrasin'."

His wadded-up jacket collided with his head.

To clear his mind, Court had ridden alone for most of the next morning, hunting and exploring the area, but he hadn't been able to shake his thoughts of Annalia. When he found a lake, he stripped, then plunged into the icy water, remaining until his skin was numbed and his desire for her cooled. At least to a manageable degree. Only then did he allow himself to dress and return.

Straight away, he knew something was off. The men were acting strangely, glancing at the sky when Court looked at them, most setting off at once to go fish or ride. He strode to the lodge, half expecting her to be gone, but he found her still in her room as he'd ordered.

She was pacing furiously, cheeks pinkened, and for some reason this morning, it just seemed cruel to confine her in such a small room when she was like this. Chit would get dizzy. "You can come outside if you want," he muttered. Once she swept from her room, he sat, forcing himself to read a dated newspaper and to ignore flashes of scarlet as she paced by.

When she stopped to stand just before him, he lowered the paper and found her glaring at him. "I desire a bath."

He wondered how he would react if she managed to ask him for something.

Court knew she was planning some little coup. Everyone on earth, save perhaps Liam and Gavin, would know she was. "There's a stream nearby." He folded the paper and tossed it away. "You can avail yourself." With almost all his men out hunting, and the ones who stayed caring for the horses, she would have privacy.

"You're not afraid I'll escape?"

"We're miles and mountains away from any village, and if you doona have a horse—or shoes—you will no' get far." And if I go with you and see you bathe…

"No shoes—?"

She didn't get the question out before he'd risen, taken her by the waist, and plopped her in his seat. He set to her slippers, pulling them off for her. "Clear? No shoes."

"But my feet!"

She had good cause to worry. Like her hands, they were as soft as baby's skin. "The walk down to the stream is fine. It's only once you leave the trail that your feet will get sliced." He lifted her by the waist, then set her on her feet toward the door. "So doona leave the trail," he ordered as he swatted her backside.

She pivoted around, sputtering at the indignity. "You are no gentleman!"

"Established."

She cursed him in Catalan, then, in a flurry of red, swished out of the room. She still hadn't returned when he'd finished attempting the paper and two very poor cups of coffee.

Mouthing a harsh oath, he stormed from the house to the stream and swung his head around. No sign of her. Christ, she chapped him. Any other woman would've stayed. The slate in the area was sharp and murderous on a horse's hooves, much less a lady's feet, and she damn well knew they were much too far into the mountains for her to make it out with no horse. She damn well knew he'd easily catch up with her.

Court sprinted back up the hill to the stable, his ribs paining him, bellowing for Liam to saddle his horse. He rode out to follow the stream, scanning the shoreline both ways, and spotted red some distance ahead well off the beaten trail. He prodded his horse, then dropped down just behind her.

When he put a hand on her shoulder and turned her, he found her eyes were watering, her bottom lip trembling—a sight that did odd things to his chest. Was she injured? "What's wrong with you, woman?" he barked.

"MacCarrick," she said softly. "I've hurt my feet."

He looked down. They were cut, bloodied, briars still embedded.