Ghost River by Jon Coon (best non fiction books of all time TXT) 📕

haversack in her hand. Her hair was scraped back from her face and covered by a shawl of the type worn by old women. Their eyes met with the shock of two people who have seen each other’s worst shame. Kate flushed, her cheeks two ruddy spots against the black fabric.

“How is the child?” Duncan asked, rising and walking toward her. There were dark circles under her eyes, a redness that bespoke a night of tears.

“As well as can be expected,” Kate said shortly. “Daisy is getting her dressed and we will be off your land as soon as possible.”

She was leaving. Until now, Duncan had not truly believed that she would. It had been obvious the night before that the two women were destitute and desperate. “I had thought that we would talk,” Duncan said. “I was waiting.”

“I had intended to come,” Kate said, “but my daughter would not let me leave her. She woke up several times and she would have been terrified if I had not been at her side. I fear that I cannot keep our bargain, milord. For I cannot abandon her to face the night without me so that I might be sport in your bed.”

It took every ounce of courage that Duncan had to look her in the face. “I am sorry-” he began.

“So am I,” Kate said bleakly. “For it was the best of the poor choices that I have.”

“Even a pact with the devil?” Duncan asked. “Agreeing to sleep with a man who has the face of the monster?”

Kate regarded him silently for a moment, wondering what to say. The harsh light of morning revealed the hollow planes of his face, the gaunt frame that was all angle and bone without the softening effect of flesh. Yet, there was still that indefinable quality about him, that captivating air of danger that promised both delight and doom. Vulnerability and sheer masculine power could prove the most deadly of combinations to an unwary woman.

What had happened to MacLean? She wondered. What had made him so terribly bitter, this friend of Marcus’s? For the sake of that friendship and the temporary shelter she had received, she spoke. “It is not the face that makes the monster, milord. It is the soul. Sleeping with a man capable of coercing a woman unwilling to his bed would trouble me far more than any honorable scars that you might bear,” she said, turning to get the rest of their bags.

“Kate . . .”

She felt his hand upon her shoulder and shrugged it off, her hand going to the concealed pocket of her gown. She whirled to face him, the knife gleaming wickedly in the sun’s first rays. “You do not have leave to touch me, milord,” she said with hushed vehemence, shrugging her shawl aside to free her hands. Weariness and fear had exhausted the last of her patience. Now as she stood before him she felt a foolish elation, almost willing him to try his luck. After so many months of sham meekness, defiance was a heady tonic. “Nor have I given you permission to address me by my given name. Now do not force me to add to the damage that the French have done you, for I warn you that I can use this to excellent effect. It is your luck that you reached me last night before I could put my hand on this, else the coffin maker would be fitting you for a box.”

“And you would be standing trial for murdering an earl,” Duncan pointed out.

“Or being carried through the streets of the village as a heroine,” Kate retorted. “Your family is not well loved so they tell me.”

“Put your knife by, Kate. You need not fear me laying so much as a finger on you,” Duncan said with a sigh. “Besides, you have no need of a weapon with that sharp tongue of yours flaying me to pieces. I have never met a woman who has made an apology so devilish difficult.”

“And do you tender your regrets to many women?” Kate could not resist the mocking reply. Nonetheless, she put her blade back in its sheath. The word ‘apology’ had taken the wind of bravado from her sails. This man did not deserve her anger. It was not his fault that she felt so helpless, so hopelessly adrift. Where would they go now?

“I have never had to make apologies where any woman is concerned,” Duncan said, his lip arching slightly in a rakish grin that underlined his double entendre.

Kate made an exasperated sound of disgust. “So you are a braggart too.”

“My behavior last night was unpardonable.” Duncan said, the words coming out in a rush. “I was insufferably crude and offensive.”

Kate’s mouth opened in an “o” of astonishment. Such candor was the last thing that she had expected.

“I ask your forgiveness,” Duncan said, ruffling a nervous hand through his hair as he looked at her expectantly. Her answering smile made him catch his breath. If beauty could be distilled into an essence, it was contained within that enchanted look. “Please stay, Kate,” he whispered.

Her smile dissolved in disappointment. “I told you, Milord, our bargain is void,” she said curtly. “I cannot fulfill it.”

“We can amend it,” Duncan said, gesturing at the wreckage around him. “If I am to make any headway here, I need help and there will likely be no female in the village willing to stay under the same roof as a wicked MacLean.”

“And with good reason!” Kate said with a snort.

“Keep my house, such as it is,” Duncan proposed. “Feed us and you may stay.”

“And that is all?” Kate asked incredulously.

“My oath as a MacLean,” Duncan said, raising his hand solemnly. “I will not lay a hand on you . . . unless, of course, you should happen to ask me.”

“I do not expect to make any such untoward requests, Milord,” Kate replied primly.

“One can always wish,” Duncan said his voice gruff.

His wistful tone made it clear