Lord of the Isle by Elizabeth Mayne Read Free Book Online

replacing her fallen clothing. For a moment or two, the river’s wild current had threatened to strip her naked. “Remind me not to attempt riding tandem with you over another body of water.”
    Morgana ran a wet hand over her face. “This is most unseemly. Look you there. My horse is tied to that tree. You’ve been most kind. I can continue on my own from here.”
    “Continue?” Hugh murmured in her ear as he tucked the salvage of his plaid over her shoulders. She shook so violently, her body felt as though it were convulsing. “Nay, Morgana of Kildare. A man of mine is coming with the soldiers’ horses. He and Donald will bring your animal to Dungannon’s stable. You are in no condition to ride unassisted.”
    “I say that I am,” Morgana insisted. Dungannon was a stronghold of clan O’Neill. She had no interest in winding up there. If the truth were to be spoken, she had hired a guide to make certain she traveled north without passing within a league of Dungannon. James Kelly was a minor nuisance compared to the troubles she could expect from those who resided at Dungannon.
    Morgana began again, guarding words, as well as tone. She didn’t want to alert any suspicion, but was doubly convincedthat they must part ways. “I must be on my way to Dunluce….”
    “Save your breath. I’m not listening. We ride to Dungannon as we are.”
    Hugh cut off what he sensed would be towering argument. He’d learned young not to expend his breath arguing with women. Instead, he turned Boru to the path leading up the cliff and into Tyrone. She struggled some, protesting the leaving of her horse behind.
    “This is outrageous,” Morgana declared. “First I am attacked at the inn at Benburg, then nearly killed at the bridge over the Blackwater. Now my rescuer abducts me against my will! Some knight in shining armor you pretend to be, Hugh O’Neill.”
    Instead of correcting her, Hugh turned as silent as Conn the Lame’s marble effigy. Fifteen years under the rule of the most strident woman alive had taught him to keep his tongue behind his teeth and measure his words before voicing his opinions.
    “You’re cold and miserable.” Hugh’s arms slid around her waist, drawing her back against his chest. “Whist now. We’ll be at Dungannon anon. My men will not rape you when we get there. You’re safe, Morgana of Kildare.”
    “And that’s supposed to reassure me?” she asked waspishly, keeping a secure hold on his powerful wrist, where his hand pressed so firmly against her bare belly through wet and torn cloth. “Who is to protect me from you?”
    Hugh chuckled at her apprehensions. “You’re safe from my attentions for the moment, lady. At least until I know if you wash up well.”
    Morgana hissed, sucking in her stomach. His arm at her waist tightened more. God help her, but she’d never in her life found herself in a more vulnerable or embarrassing situation. Here the man who had saved her from certain rape now hinted that he might take more liberties with her person than James Kelly had dared.
    She regretted calling upon her grandfather’s magic. She had summoned a devil! Hadn’t she woken to find this very man leaning over her, touching her intimately, speaking to another about her, as though she weren’t capable of hearing his words? His men all thought her a whore. Most likely he did, too.
    She would disabuse him of that thought as soon as she could. It wasn’t decent to be so immodestly clothed and ride tandem with a man whose bare shanks touched her own legs.
    The jarring gallop of his horse intensified the aches in Morgana’s head and neck. Damn Kelly! Her thoughts swam in confusing circles. She felt foolish and silly for having imagined ghosts and warrior-gods, now that she was certain this man was no apparition.
    Hugh was solid and warm-blooded and hard male flesh against her back. His heat warmed her sodden clothes and soothed her shivering body. She was shamed anew each time she remembered