Samantha James by His Wicked Ways

hands, and bowed her head deeply.
    A sigh erupted from him, of exasperation or temper, he knew not. Out of deference for a power mightier than he, Cameron forced himself to ignore her.
    A quarter hour later, she had yet to rise, but her lips were still moving.
    Something snapped inside him. For the second time on this journey, he pulled her roughly to her feet.
    “For what do you pray so ardently?”
    She focused on a point somewhere beyond his shoulder. “You are not my confessor,” she said quietly. “I cannot tell you.”
    “Captor, confessor, to you they are one and the same.”
    Still she would not look at him. Cameron lost patience. “Tell me! For what do you pray? Nay, let me guess,” he mocked. “You pray for my demise.”
    To his shock she ducked her head. “I do not pray for your demise.”
    Her denial came in a low, choked tone. He was puzzled now—but even more determined.
    “For what, then?”
    She gave a tiny shake of her head. “You would not understand.”
    “Then tell me.”
    Lean fingers beneath her chin demanded she look at him. Cameron expected the now-familiar rebellion. He expected a look that consigned him to the devil. What he encountered was something else entirely.
    Never in his life had he seen such guilt—a soul in such torment. Her eyes were dark with pain, ringed with shadows.
    The sight gave him a fleeting pause.
    “Tell me,” he said again. This time the gritty edge had left his manner.
    “I held a knife to your breast,” she confided, her voice scarcely audible. “I had within my hands the means to take your life…” She swallowed, as if unable to go on.
    “And the thought was there,” he finished quietly.
    Her mouth trembled. “I could never have killed you,” she whispered, and then it was a cry: “I could never have killed you, but aye, for an instant, the thought was there!”
    Oddly, Cameron understood. He’d felt the same way the first time he’d killed a man. It was not he who had made the first move, but he had made the last. If he had not, he would not be alive on this day, and that was something he could never regret. It was on the tip of his tongue to say that if he were being held by another and a dagger was placed in his grasp, he’d have felt the same. Indeed, he’d have done the deed!
    “You cannot know the shame I feel.” Her voice caught painfully. “I do not know that I can ever forgive myself!”
    Cameron had no answer. He believed in God. He went to Mass from time to time. On occasion he had prayed…not with her devoutness, but still, he had asked for the Lord’s blessing and guidance. In truth,he could not fully comprehend her dilemma. Mayhap ’twas because she was a woman—mayhap because she had been a novice—and he was a man. For in his mind, there was God’s law…and the law of the land.
    There were times, he reflected, that instinct compelled the need to kill, the need to defend oneself and those one loved. There was killing…and then there was murder.
    A bitter darkness seeped through him. Cameron could no more withhold the thought than he could stop the rising of the sun. He was reminded of his family. Of his father and his brothers, who had done naught to precipitate murder. Of young Thomas, who had raised neither sword nor hand toward the Clan Munro.
    Her hands came together in the folds of her gown. “Please,” she murmured. “Do you think I might have a moment to myself?”
    His jaw tensed as he stared at her. “For what purpose?”
    Her face had turned the color of the sunset. “You know for what purpose.”
    He did, but he was not compelled to be lenient just now. “Nay,” he said harshly. “You go nowhere without me.”
    Her eyes caught his, then slid away. She plucked at her gown. “Please,” she said again. “I realize that you are wary, but I vow I will cause you no further trouble.”
    Another refusal was but a heartbeat away. Yet in the instant before she glanced away, Cameron glimpsed a naked dismay.