“Because ye bloody almost got killed,” he said, his voice erupting as if he could no longer keep the tempest inside.

She threw her arm wide. “You ride out to battle all the time. You could be killed every day as you train and fight.”

“Ye are a fragile woman.”

She twisted in her seat and glared up into his face. “I might have to stab you for that comment.”

He looked over her head. “Not fragile.” He huffed. “Women are strong, very strong, but in ways of giving birth, not in slashing through warriors.” He looked down at her. “And as for giving birth, perhaps it is too dangerous. My mother died doing it. Maybe we should not have bairns. Plenty will come from my brothers.”

Ella’s mouth dropped open as she stared at him. She blinked, not believing what she was hearing. His worry over her was making him lose his sanity. “Are you trying to tell me that I am not allowed to have a babe? As if you have control of my body!” she yelled. Even though the plan to kill him was becoming harder to imagine by the heartbeat, a new plan to kick him in the ballocks was becoming very clear.

“And how exactly will you stop that?” Ella asked. Pompous ass! To think he meant to tell her what she could or could not do with her body. No bairns? Her temper emboldened her, and she slid a hand up his kilt. He was already halfway hard. His jack was heavy and long. She grasped it, making it turn to granite under her fingers, and slid up and back down while she watched his jaw tighten.

“Ella.”

“What?” she asked, stroking again. “Will you stop me from doing this so as not to risk spilling your seed in me? Will you keep me locked up so I cannot get hurt?” She moved her hand faster and watched him clench his teeth.

Flipping his kilt up, he caught her hand where it lay wrapped around him and leaned his face close to hers. “Ye have a power over me,” he whispered, his voice a husky rasp. “I cannot allow ye to rob me of my senses. ’Tis too dangerous.”

She yanked her hand away from his hold. “What does that mean? As if you have control over where I am allowed to go or what I can do, or touch, or even birth?” Her voice was high, full of indignant seething.

He dismounted, his hand on his rock-hard staff, rubbing it through the wool to adjust it.