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Her weight was pleasant and soft on his body. But she kicked and screamed under his arm. “Let me go! Let me go!”
He needed to steady her, so he put his hand on her round arse as he walked through the water and jumped over the waves that crashed onto the beach.
And something within him squeezed at the thought that even if she wasn’t an enemy, he was curious about her, and he liked the idea of her being in his castle on Islay.
CHAPTER 3
Jenny screamed through the gag despite knowing all too well this was useless. She was sitting on the deck, her hands tied behind her back to the goddamn Viking ship mast, while the men around her handled the ship and talked about her.
Without any thought that she might hear…and not like it.
The gag tasted of dirt and salt, and she hoped it was sea salt and not the salt of some dude’s old sweat. Her stomach flipped every time the ship sank and rose on the waves. The rope tying her wrists stung like it was made of nettles.
But none of that compared to the horror and the sheer animalistic urge to jump off this ship even if it would be into the depths of hell. She hadn’t believed her eyes when the Viking ship had anchored and ten bearded dudes with muscles the sizes of islands, holding swords and axes, had jumped off it right into the sea and walked through the surf towards her as though they were strolling through some grass and undergrowth.
And then one of them—the biggest one—had walked to her like he was about to kill her with that sword, picked her up, flung her over his shoulder, and carried her as if she was a sack of potatoes.
And now, the men were looking at her like she was an odd creature in the zoo.
“’Tis odd woman’s attire,” said one of them. “So short and so…bright. How can a fabric be brighter than the real plants? Have ye ever seen anything like it, Seoras?”
She shifted on her ass. She wanted to cover herself, and was glad she had her green cardigan on, at least. She was definitely rethinking her choice of this dress now. It was very modest, sexually, but yes, quite colorful and bright. But it was in keeping with the theme of celebration that Amanda had wanted. Her flip-flops, though, were certainly the wrong choice.
“She must be Irish,” said the man called Seoras, rubbing his bearded chin. He looked a little bit like the giant who had kidnapped her, though much younger. Same proud posture. Same sort of muscular body under the long, heavily quilted medieval coat. His dark beard was short, and his face was covered with smudges of dirt. “That red hair.”
“It’s the work of a great colorist in New York, you jackass!” she yelled through her gag.
Her naturally red hair started getting a few grays and she thought a brighter shade would be fun.
They frowned in confusion. They couldn’t have understood anything unless they knew what “Mha mwha mahwa mahwa, mahrar!” meant.
That made her realize they weren’t speaking English…
But neither was she—she yelled at them in Gaelic. How was it possible that she understood and spoke it? She’d heard the captain and the boatswain speak Gaelic with each other back in Scotland, and she’d understood nothing. How was it possible that she now knew what these men were saying?
“She might be English,” said the third, younger man. “She may be looking for treasure, too.”
The men were silent and stared at her, looking her up and down. Her dress covered her legs to the middle of her calves, and she became aware of her naked skin like never before.
“Stop staring, you idiots!” she yelled at them, and they frowned at her again.
“Is she a whore, do ye think?” asked the first man.
“She might be,” said Seoras.
“I’m not!” she moaned. “And I’m going to kill you once your king of jackasses unties me!”
“But why would the laird take a whore back to Islay?”
“Mayhap he’s finally ready to move on from Aunt Leitis.”
The said laird of jackasses, unlike pretty much every man on this ship, was silent. He stood at the hull, and after he was done barking orders to take the ship away from the beach and they were in the open seas, he kept staring at her. Unlike his crew, he had no expression on his handsome face whatsoever.
Heat crawled into Jenny’s cheeks as she remembered the way he’d lifted her up like she weighed nothing. The way his hard muscles had felt against her thighs when he’d held her in place. The way his manhandling palm on her ass had felt hot and heavy and big. And despite his incredible rudeness…part of her thawed and burned.
He was not just handsome, he was gorgeous—the way Zeus, the king of the gods of Mount Olympus, must be gorgeous. The way Sean Connery or George Clooney were even more handsome and sexy and pantie-melting the older they got. There was nothing old about that tall, muscular body with broad shoulders and narrow hips and the pure, palpable power that radiated from him. He must be in his late forties. Maybe early fifties. He had long, silvery hair tied back above his ears. His salt-and-pepper beard was short and groomed. He had high cheekbones and a straight nose with a little bump over the bridge. His eyebrows were dark and thick and hung in a strict, straight line. And those eyes…she was suddenly curious what color they were.
They stared at her. Assessing. Challenging.
