His spine went rigid beneath her palm.
“Now, I said. Get in the room.”
Circenn kicked the door open and entered the chamber.
“Stop,” she ordered. “Do not turn around.”
“I saw you spying in the Greathall, lass,” he said easily. “If you doona like the gold silk, you needn’t get so fussy about it. You may select your own gown. It was not my intention to offend you with my choice.”
“Don’t be obtuse. You know that’s not what I’m upset about,” she hissed. “The flask, Brodie. Now. Get it.” She pressed the tip of the blade harder against his back to illustrate her resolve, and bit her lip when a drop of blood blossomed below his shoulder blade, spreading on the white linen of his shirt. She wished desperately that she could see his face. Was it dark with fury? Was he amused at her tenacity, or foolishly underestimating her resolve?
He sighed heavily. “For what purpose do you wish my flask? Are you in truth the traitor we feared?”
“No! I want to go home. I have no desire for your flask, I only need it to take me back.”
“You still believe the flask will return you?”
“It brought me here—”
“I have explained to you—”
“All you’ve said is that it isn’t the flask’s power, but you won’t tell me what it can do. Do you expect me to trust your word? Why should I?”
“I would not lie to you, lass. But I see that you will not believe me. Had I known you still harbored this foolish hope, I would have obliged you sooner.” He pivoted so swiftly that she fumbled, but recovered and jabbed the tip of the knife into his chest. More blood blossomed as the lethally sharpened blade slipped through his shirt as if it were butter.
“Careful with that thing, lass. Unless it pleases you to ruin my shirts.”
“Don’t move and I won’t have to cut you,” she snapped.
He dropped his hands to his side. “I must move to collect the flask.”
“I’ll follow you.”
“Nay, you will not. I will not take you to my lair.”
“I am the one with the knife,” she reminded him. “And it currently rests above your heart.”
If he moved, she didn’t see it. All she knew was that one moment she had the knife at his chest, and the next it was gone.
She blinked, trying to bring the room back into focus.
The blade was flush against her throat.
Her eyes flared wide and she gasped. “How did you do that?”
“You cannot control me, lass. No one can,” he said wearily. “If I give to you, it is because I choose to give to you. And, Lisa, I would choose to give you everything, if you would but permit.”
“Then give me the flask,” she demanded, ignoring the cold metal at her neck.
“Why do you seek it? To what do you wish to return? I have told you I will wed you and care for you. I am offering you my home.”
A groan of frustration escaped her. Nothing was working out as she’d planned. He had so easily disarmed her, stripped away her control. I am offering you my home, he had said, and a treacherous part of her was deeply intrigued by that offer. She was doing it again—vacillating. She glared at him, a sheen of tears clouding her vision.
At the sight of her tears, he flung the knife to the bed, where it landed with a soft thud. Pulling her into his arms, he caressed her hair tenderly. “Tell me, lass, what is it? What causes you to weep?”
Lisa pulled from his embrace. Thrumming with frustration, she began pacing between him and the door. “Where is my baseball cap, anyway? Did you have to take that away from me, too?”
He cocked his head. “Your base ball cap?” he repeated awkwardly.
“My”—what had he called it?—“bonnet.”
He moved to a chest beneath a window, lifted the lid, and retrieved her clothing. Her jeans and T-shirt had been neatly folded, and atop them was her cap.
She leaped toward him and snatched it greedily from his hand, clutching it to her breast. It seemed a lifetime ago that she and her father had sat in the third row, in the blue seats, directly behind home base. They’d laughed and yelled at the baseball players, drunk sodas and eaten hot dogs drenched with mustard and relish. She’d decided that very day that she would one day marry a man just like her daddy. Charming, smart, with a fabulous sense of humor, tender, and always willing to take time for his family.
Then she’d met this capable, mighty warrior, and in his shadow the real Jack Stone had come into sharper focus. As had her real feelings about him.