I'm trying to get back into the story. So there may be a few more short chapters before I delve into longer ones.
Chapter Seven
Marjory awoke, it seemed, hours later; it was a little past the noon hour, and the men were gathered around the cooking fire, where a skinned animal of some sort roasted on a spit. She yawned, and her eyes widened as she realized one thing: Hamish was nowhere to be found. Neither was William. This would be a perfect chance to escape! While the other men filled their noses with the smell of food, she would be halfway home before anyone noticed…and laughing her head off at the stupid jackasses.
She shed the blanket, and took off in the opposite direction, not quite sure of where she was going, just as long as it was away from those Scottish rogues. Her lungs burned as she ran and ran, snapping sticks and twigs on the forest floor.
Not concerned with anyone but herself, she didn't notice when she ran head-on into a person; the force of the collision caused her to fall backwards to the ground. "Ouch," she groaned, looking at her arms. The sleeves of her robe were torn; angry red scratches marked her arms. After examining herself to make sure nothing was broken, she dared to let her eyes venture upward.
"Miss Debaye; pray tell, where were you headed?" William put his hands on his hips, his head cocked to one side. His face didn't betray any emotion; he wasn't angry, merely amused.
"Home."
"Ah, miss; home is quite a ways away; about ten, maybe fifteen miles. You would never reach Bramblebury before dark; and it's not safe to travel the forest at night." He smirked. "Plus, with all the wild animals, you would be torn apart, limb from limb. You wouldn't live to see daylight."
Marjory scowled. He was right, of course. She wanted to wipe that smug look off his face. God, how she hated that man! "I'll take my chances, sir. Being eaten by animals would be better than having to endure your company." She stood, and tried to continue on her way--he would not let her, and stood in front her intended path.
"I'm afraid I can't let you do that."
"Oh yes, I'm afraid that you can, and you will." She stepped around him, tired of his ruthless male attitude.
He grabbed hold of one of her arms, pulling her close to his body. For all practical intentions, it should have had no effect on him. This was an Englishwoman, who ridiculed and scorned him. But the feel of her body pressed up against his own, her curves melding to his muscular frame…it ignited strange feelings within him. Feelings he hadn't felt since his Marian. Without thinking, he leaned down, pressing his lips to her own…
Marjory didn't want to feel anything, didn't want the nearness of him, the scent of his male musk, to stir up any feelings within her. This was a Scot. This was the enemy, her head told her. Her heart refused to listen, and she let him partake of her lips. Her first kiss. There was nothing tentative about this kiss, it wasn't polite and amiable. It was savage. Selfish. Taking. He let go of her arm…both of her arms then snaked around his neck…
Wait a minute. Stop this, Marjory Debaye! She jerked away from him, as if his touch burned her. "How dare you!"
"Apologies. I forgot English don't feel anything." His tone and demeanor changed from teasing and flirtatious to emotionless, flat. "Now, let us return to camp, shall we? Before the wild animals catch us both."
She gritted her teeth and nodded, keeping pace in front of him. It's not like I have a choice, she reminded herself. This is against my will. Marjory could only hope that word would reach her father soon of her plight; that he'd pay whatever bloody price William asked for, so she could get the hell out of here. She tried to stay angry, tried to will her thoughts back to loathing and hatred…but her thoughts kept drifting back to the kiss they shared. For a Scot, he was experienced in that art. Her fingers drifted up to her lips, remembering the feel of his insistence and fervor. A small smile crossed her lips. I wonder if he felt anything at all? She doubted it. She was only a name to him. A big, fat, campaign purse.
William trained both eyes on Marjory, making sure the lass stayed in front of him and didn't try anything foolish. He wanted to think of her as just an Englishwoman, just the daughter of John William Debaye, the English general. The woman whose ransom would provide much for the Scottish campaign. William found himself thinking of their kiss. He knew of her inexperience; it showed in her return. What fun he could have, teaching her. He could teach her a lot of things…William Wallace, how could you deign to think of such? This is an Englishwoman. The enemy. Plus, your wife is dead. You cannot disrespect her memory. That's that.
