Page 7 of The Protector’s Promise

Right. An earl’s daughter. And an only child like Sara, no doubt.

“Court,” he responded.

She turned again. “Pardon?”

“Court. My given name is indeed William, but I’ve gone by the name of Court since coming to Camburg.”

“Court,” she repeated. “As in—”

“Aye, the king’s court,” he said, preparing for her laughter, which surprisingly never came.

“I’d give you leave to call me Marion,” she said. “But since I am your captive—”

“Marion.” He said it as much to infuriate her as to test the name on his lips. He was not disappointed.

“Lady Marion. Or better—”

“Marion,” he repeated. “You are not my captive for long. When we return to Camburg and your men arrive, I will happily give you over to them.”

“Lady Marion,” she corrected. “And how are you so confident my men will not find us before then?”

Court leaned down to whisper in her ear. “Because, Marion, I’ve no wish to be found. And when I want something, I get it.”

3

He obviously thought highly of himself.

Marion was not accomplishing anything by demanding he relinquish the stone. He’d refused to give it to her more than once, not that she’d really expected he would simply hand it over. But it was clearly time for a new plan.

“Court,” she said sweetly, imitating her flirtatious cousin and trying not to laugh at the poor effort, “do you perhaps have anything to eat?”

Though they’d stopped once to see to their needs, she and her captor had spent the remainder of the day on horseback. And though she no longer feared for her life, Marion was hungry, tired, and more than a little annoyed.

“When we camp for the night, I’ll catch something for us. And Marion?”

“Yes, Court?” She found she rather liked the sound of his common name on her lips.

“It won’t work.”

She could have feigned ignorance, but it wasn’t worth the effort. Frustrated, she silently railed against her “special ability.” For something so unique and special, it was really of no use to her at all. Not when she hadn’t felt the slightest chill since meeting her nemesis, who was surely the most dangerous person alive at the moment.

Giving up, she tried for a more practical approach. “What are your intentions?”

“With you,” he said, shifting behind her, “or the stone?”

She shifted as well, trying to find a comfortable position.

“Stop,” he growled out.

Marion turned, trying to understand what she’d done wrong now. “I didn’t do—”

His expression forced her mouth closed. She swallowed, knowing that look. Too many suitors had sought her favor over the years for her not to understand desire when she saw it. Refusing to look away, Marion stared into a set of hazel eyes that looked more blue than green or brown. With a square jaw and short, blondish-brown hair, her Englishman was no less handsome than when they’d met earlier that day. And the way he looked at her . . .

Marion spun back around.

“Your intentions with me,” she said finally.

“I already told you, I intend—”