The Rogue Read Online Free PDF

only to have it trapped by a heavily calloused hand, as well. Before she could scream he yanked her forward by the ankles and loomed over her on hands and knees, his long thick fingers managing to lace through hers and press her hands firmly into the earth by her head. His knees then locked onto her hips as he blocked out the sun. “Where,” he asked in a soft growl “do ye think ye’re goin’ without so much as a by-yer-leave?” He dipped his head and sniffed.
    She managed a screamed this time but his mouth locked onto hers, smothering the sound. Her eyes flew wide in shock. What manner of predator was this? No weasel, no fox on the hunt did such. She stared into deep blue eyes and waited—her breath hitching, heart hammering at her ribs—waited for his mouth to slide from hers and settle on her throat. Waited for the pain, the crunch of bone, for her neck to snap.
    Instead his lips soften, the pressure eased. She then felt the tip of his tongue stroke her bottom lip. Once. Twice. Just a lick, nothing more, yet a searing tingle raced down her spine. Her heart tripped. Was he tasting her? Testing her health and soundness as meat? Oh Goddess, please!
    To her monumental relief he lifted his head. As he did, his hair swung around his face and the tips brushed her cheek. To her surprise his hair felt as soft as her own, mayhap more so. Yet she held her breath, didn’t dare release the last one she might ever take.
    “Ye, fair lass, are as sweet as I feared.”
    As he feared? She was the one about to be eaten alive! To be torn apart and then ground down between brilliant white teeth set in a menacingly square jaw. “Nay!”
    In response, he released her hands and settled back on his haunches, his mountainous weight keeping her hips trapped. “Aye. Definitely too sweet to be running loose, lass.” He sighed heavily. “I mean ye no harm, though ‘twas I who felled ye and for that I humbly apologize; I meant only to save ye from the wolf.”
    Wolf! She’d forgotten poor Wolf. Dreading the answer, she asked, “Is he dead?”
    “Nay. My blade missed him and struck thee.” He ran agitated hands through his hair, pushing it off his face. “How I missed, I’ve yet to ken.”
    Her relief in learning Wolf survived was sorely dampened by his admission that he’d been the one who brought Wolf down. Her breath caught in her chest. This man killed without thought.
    Angus ground his teeth, seeing fear and fresh tears erupt from behind the lass’s heavily lashed, ice-blue eyes. Feeling the strong need for a stiff drink—a gallon of whiskey would do nicely—he brushed a calloused thumb across her delicate cheek. She jerked. Dear God above, she did look the hizzie with her face all scarlet, her brow furrowed, and her teeth bared. He’d have laughed but for knowing it would only terrify her more. Many a brawny man had soiled his sarks when Angus laughed—and without being sat upon, though he was usually holding a blade to the bastard’s throat...
    “Lass, ye have nay reason to fight me. None. I promise. Hush now.” He moved to her side, but held tight to one hand. “There now. Better?”
    “Aye.”
    As she took a few shuddering breaths, he looked at her side. Finding no fresh blood, he blew out a breath in relief. Now, to the matter at hand: finding out who she was and to whom she belonged. “What, lass, is yer name?”
    She eyed him like a cornered timber-wolf; her magnificent, icy eyes narrowed, her straight nose twitching and sniffing as her head cocked ever so slightly first this way, then that, as if listening for a rescuer. Or a means of escape. ‘Twas a futile effort. He was not called Angus the Blood for naught.
    Finally she murmured, “Birdalane.”
    Birdalane? Nay. She must have misunderstood him, for no mother with any sense would burden her bairn with such a sorrowful moniker, an endearment reserved for a babe without kith or kin. “Lass, I meant yer Christian name.” He had to have her surname—her