17
One wrong move, Mary decided, her mouth hanging open, and the Scot was clearly a dead man.
Jaime stood, her fingers wrapped around the knife that she jabbed directly at his throat. Bare-chested, the Highlander sat at the edge of his bed, his eyes ablaze with fury. Distracted by the movement at the door, his gaze flickered in her direction before fixing again on Jaime’s face. Then, as Mary stared, the Scot’s face tightened in an obvious spasm of pain, and his hand clutched at the wound in his chest. Expending tremendous energy in an effort to keep himself upright, the man faced the knife once again.
“Put the dagger down, you murderous wench.”
“Not until you agree.” Jaime lifted her wrist and pointed the weapon straight at Malcolm’s face. “And you give me your word on it.”
“Hell will
