Always Mine by Sophia Johnson

sliver of duck between her lips. She had no choice but to eat it and, when she swallowed, a bit of salmon swiftly followed.
    She raised her hand in protest.
    ALWAYS MINE
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    “Eat what I feed ye without protest,” he commanded softly.
    “I can feed myself, sir.” She started to reach for another portion of duck, but found her wrist grasped and held to the table.
    “Smile and act with decorum, like a proper maiden.” He placed her hand in her lap while still holding her wrist.
    The heat of his fingers scorched through the material of her clothing to her thighs, sending shivers up her spine.
    “Release me, sir, or you’ll get a scene they’ll talk about for the next century.”
    “Will ye give yer word to act with dignity?”
    “If you stop mistreating me, I will.” When she nodded, he released her.
    “Lady Maud said you planned to leave when your men arrived.” She glanced pointedly around at the extra men in the hall. “I will welcome the dawn.”
    “Why, my lady, you wound us.” Connor claimed her attention.
    “I thought our leavetaking would sadden you. Blackthorn is far distant from Ridley.” Looking sorrowful, he wagged his head at her.
    Of course their Highland home was far from Ridley. What did he mean? Before she could ask, Damron placed a slice of apple so close she automatically took it between her teeth. When he handed her the chalice of wine to cleanse her palate, she downed half its contents. She grinned at the surprise on his face.
    He regained the chalice and turned it to the spot where her mouth had touched. The tip of his tongue slid sensuously over the cup’s rim as if he caressed her lips. His heated gaze held her prisoner.
    A bead of red wine remained on his lower lip. She couldn’t wrench her gaze from it. How would it feel to take his soft flesh between her teeth and tug? To slide her tongue over it?
    Though his domineering ways raised her hackles, she couldn’t deny the powerful sexual attraction she felt for him.
    Shifting on her seat, she swallowed and turned to Connor.
    “Tell me, Connor, what is knotty-pated?”
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    Sophia Johnson
    “Why ’tis tresses blown into knots, lass.”
    Suspiciously, the corners of his mouth twitched.
    “Knotted hair? Why did you think that?” Elise leaned forward to look at Brianna. Impatiently, she slapped Connor’s hand as he waggled a chicken wing beneath her nose. “’Tis someone foolish, Brianna.” She grinned as she evaded him.
    “Do you not remember when Galan was yet a squire and called you a babe on your tenth name day? You called him a knotty-pate then. He wrestled you to the ground. Mud covered you both. Your father dunked you with water before you could go into the keep. You told him you heard the stable boy call the old groom a ‘knotty-pated old ram.’”
    Brianna’s eyes widened. When she reached for the wine, Damron snatched the cup from her reach.
    “Dinna even think on it.” He shifted to face her. “With the strange way ye have been actin’, ye deserved the title.”
    “I’ll give you that one. But what is a fascist hen? And don’t tell me it’s a chicken race. I won’t believe it.” Brianna’s eyes narrowed at him.
    “Ah. A fashious henny, Brianna?” Connor’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “In Scotland, when a lassie is troublesome and in need of discipline, we call her a troublesome little hen. Her master will swiftly put her in her place.”
    “I thought you both of Scottish birth, Sir Connor.” Elise’s whisper halted conversation, and those closest craned forward, listening. “How is it you have Norman and Scottish knights? You both speak French, except when the gia—, er, uh, Lord Damron is angered. Then I cannot understand him.”
    “Damron’s mother is from Rouen, Normandy,” Connor replied. “We fostered there with her relatives, who are also part of King William’s family. As for Damron, when riled, his brogue leaps to his tongue.”
    Damron glared up at the heavy wooden beams, looking