“I’ll take that as a no, then,” MacInness said. He started to turn around to speak to Garrick, when he saw her move her mouth again. This time he was certain of it, she called him a bloody bastard. He stood very slowly and walked over to where Garrick stood speaking to Patrick. “I think the lass needs a change of company,” he said carefully. “I’ll be down to join ye shortly.” The two men nodded and left the room.

MacInness paced from one side of the chamber to the other, still reeling from the realization that the woman would feel compelled to rain a curse down on his head. He shuddered to think of where she had heard the first curse she uttered. Turning back to face her, he was surprised to see her watching him intently.

“We’ve no’ had the chance to be properly introduced, lass,” he began, “my name is Winslow MacInness.”

She nodded her understanding.

“I am the one who brought you here,” he added.

“Here?” her lips formed the words, though no sound came forth.

“Aye,” he said slowly, “Merewood Keep is in Northumbria, not so far from the Scottish border.”

The woman shook her head, she seemed amazed.

“Why did ye throw those things at Sara?” he asked. “She was only trying to care for ye,” he added.

The woman grabbed a hold of his hand in both of hers and pulled on his arm. She had his full attention. He tried not to be distracted by her beauty, it was nearly impossible. “Is there somethin’ ye need then, lass?”

She nodded, and patted her throat, her eyes welling up with tears.

In spite of his decision to stay away from her, he was drawn in by the silent pleading in her gray-green gaze.

“Yer throat pains ye?” he asked knowing that it should. Though it had been more than a few days since she was injured, he reasoned that the force of the blow should require more time to heal.

She nodded her agreement and opened her mouth to speak then as if realizing the futility, she closed her mouth and bowed her head.

MacInness had the overwhelming need to do something. He needed to help her find a way to communicate with others.

“Mayhap, I can help ye, lass,” he said softly. “Are ye willing to try?” he asked needing to know that she had the desire to work with him.

Her eyes were red-rimmed and her lashes heavy with unshed tears. The longing in her gaze cut right through his decision to keep his distance from her. He was sucked in by her undeniable need. For the first time in MacInness’s life, he was the sole focus of someone who desperately needed him. The feeling was not unwelcome, daunting, but not unwelcome.

He pulled the stool closer to the bed and patted her hands. “To start then, lass,” he said. “How would you tell me yer hungry?” he asked.

She shook her head, but refused to open her mouth.

“Weel now, if ye canna speak, have ye another idea?”

She glared at him and mouthed another colorful word that MacInness swore no lady should know.

He shook his head. “I dinna think a lady would know such words, lass,” he chastised her.

The woman dropped her gaze toward her lap, but not before he caught a wisp of a smile.

“Why can ye not put a hand to yer stomach?” he suggested.

She tilted her head to one side, as if considering and then patted her stomach.

“Fine,” MacInness said encouraging her. “I’ll know yer hungry.”

“If yer thirsty,” he asked, “what then?” he urged.

She put a hand to her throat, but MacInness shook his head, no. “I’ll think yer throat pains ye.”

She blew out a breath, crossed her arms in front of her, and frowned grumpily.

MacInness could not help it, he smiled. “Ye could pretend to hold a cup and drink from it,” he offered.

The woman smiled then. With her eyes sparkling and her face aglow, she was sight to behold. MacInness felt his control slipping gazing at her. The cleft in her chin, and mole by her upper lip practically begged to be kissed.

He had to clear his throat to speak. “That’s fine, then, lass,” he said quietly. Taking the time to study her and knowing he’d be damned for his next words, he rasped, “Yer a welcome sight at the end of a long day, lass.” Longing suffused his weary soul.

She placed a hand to her breast.

“Are ye surprised?” he asked.

She nodded.

“Well ye shouldn’t be,” he admonished. “Ye’ve a rare beauty.”

He paused, then mumbled to himself, “I wish I knew yer name.”

She grabbed his arm and rapidly mouthed a few words.

MacInness shook his head unable to understand what she was saying. Curse words, well now they were more than familiar to him...but names, he’d have to work long and hard to figure out what she was saying.

“Can ye try again?” he urged.

He sat closer and concentrated on the movement of her lips, but instead of focusing on what she was saying, all he could do was think of pressing his own lips against her rose-tinted lips. Imagining their fullness ripe beneath his own, set off a chain reaction that started with a hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach and ended with a heavy warmth that had him shifting on the stool.

“I’m verra sorry, lass,” he said in a gruff voice. “I canna understand ye. Is yer name not Saxon then?”

She shook her head.

“Is it Scots?”

She shook her head again...this time she started to huff with impatience.

“Are ye Norman?”

She hit the palm of her hand against her forehead.

MacInness laughed aloud. The woman had a sense of humor. “All right then, tell me again...just one name this time.”

Her mouth moved and he was almost too distracted to follow what she was saying. It was no use; he could not make out what she was saying.

“I am verra sorry, lass,” he took her hands in his. “I canna sort it out.”

At her crestfallen look, he added. “There is a Norman maidservant working in the kitchen, mayhap she can help ye.”

The woman’s tremulous smile was all the reward he needed. She patted a hand to her stomach and then held and imaginary cup to her lips.

“Aye, lass,” he said smiling. “I’ve a powerful hunger and thirst, too.”

She pushed back the covers and started to swing her legs over the edge of the bed.

“Och...nay, lass,” he said placing his hands on her knees. “Ye canna--” he started to say, but the rest of the words stuck in his throat.

The edge of her sleeping gown had caught beneath her and exposed a creamy-smooth thigh. His hands tingled where they touched her petal smooth skin. His gaze shot up and waited for her to look at him. She was staring at his hands, then raised her gaze to lock with his. Her skin was not as pale as the women in his family. Hers was a deeper shade that was turning a dusky rose along her high cheekbones. As he watched her breaths became shorter and more frequent. She was as affected as he.

The need to feel her naked in his arms, stopped him cold.

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