"Or mayhap 'twas my agreeable disposition," she said.
Finally, his mysterious dark gaze met hers and one corner of his lips lifted. "Aye, that could've been part of it."
Chapter Twelve
Cyrus wanted to kick himself. Why in blazes had he praised Elspeth's beauty? He often blurted out the truth without warning. Clearly, he'd shocked her, as well as himself, but he wasn't going to recant or apologize. He never did when he spoke the truth. Why would she not consider it a compliment? Because she wished her canny mind to be more highly valued than her beauty? He could understand that. Personally, he would not wish to be judged on his looks alone, but on his abilities.
Still, the way she'd eyed his bare chest earlier told him she was indeed judging his looks, and that she liked what she saw. In fact, her shy but interested glances had piqued his interest far more than he wanted to admit.
Deciding to change the subject before he got himself into trouble, he turned to her. "Rebbie said your businesses are highly successful."
Her elegant auburn brows arched and some of the disquiet left her expression. "Did he?"
"Indeed."
"I find being a merchant rewarding, especially dressmaking."
"I admire anyone who works hard and pursues what they want."
The corners of her beautiful lips lifted a fraction. "Then you're far different from most earls."
Was she referring to her former protector? Cyrus loathed thinking about the man, but he knew the type she referred to—those who felt entitled. They'd been born to privilege and had everything handed to them on a golden platter.
"Probably because my father was a baron," Cyrus said. "I've always worked hard and relentlessly chased after what I wanted."
"'Tis why you're an earl now." Her look was almost admiring.
"Aye. The king rewards those who are loyal and helpful to him."
"And soon you will have a marquess's daughter for a wife and her abundant dowry."
Ignoring the slight acerbic slant of her tone, he nodded. What astonished him was he didn't feel as fired up about the match as he once had. In fact, his spirits flagged when he considered it. What the devil was wrong with him? He still wanted to marry Lady Lily, didn't he? Of course. Why wouldn't he? With her status and her youth, she was perfect. It mattered not that he couldn't recall the shape of her face. "The alliance with Kilverntay is more important than the dowry."
"Of course." Elspeth looked doubtful, but he wasn't going to argue the point. 'Twas true the added wealth would benefit his clan.
He observed her, 'haps enjoying the view a bit too much. "What about you? Why haven't you remarried?"
"I have no need to. If I retain ownership of all my properties, I can one day give them to my son and he'll be all the wealthier for it. If I marry, the properties could go to my husband instead."
"'Tis true."
They were more alike than he'd realized. She was an incredibly canny woman who took the responsibilities for her family very seriously. He had not wanted to be even more drawn to her, but he found he was. He yearned to observe her closely but forced himself not to.
The flames in the hearth burned lower. But the stone receptacle designed for holding firewood was now empty, else he would've added more. As it was, the intimacy of the room increased in the dimness, teasing at his senses, inspiring forbidden fantasies of touching her, lifting her hand, kissing the back. Or maybe framing her waist, tugging her close and kissing her alluring lips.
Damnation, he had to get out of this room before he made a daft move he would regret.
"Well, I'm certain you're tired." He stood and set his empty glass aside. "I should not have kept you so long. I bid you goodnight."
She arose from the chair. "Goodnight. And again, if you should need anything more, let me know."
"I appreciate it." Damnation, he found he did indeed need something more, but he could never have it.
He followed her from the room. She spoke with the housekeeper, then disappeared up the stairs.
If all worked out as it should, his men would arrive on the morrow and they could better deal with Elspeth's tormenters and quickly solve her problems. But, oddly, he did not look forward to being done with helping her.
THE NEXT MORN AFTER breakfast, Cyrus and his men went outside to make defense plans while Elspeth created a plan of her own. In the cellar, she slipped her rolled deeds from their hiding place within a silver case, hidden in one of the old olive jars.
She carried the deeds upstairs into the study, removed them from the silver case and unrolled them. They were all here, except for her son's deed for Greymont, which she'd hidden at the castle.
Though these were but mere pieces of parchment, they represented her livelihood. She knew material possessions were not the most important things in life, but without these properties, neither she nor her son would have food, clothing or a home. She must hold onto these at all costs.
Henry's attack on Cyrus the night before had made it clear how determined the knave was to steal from her. It also told her she had to take action.
During the night, an idea had come to her—create faux copies of the deeds. If Henry stole those, or even made her sign them, it wouldn't matter. She could keep her genuine deeds hidden away. By the time he realized they were fake, she, Cyrus and all their staff could escape and find safety. Plus, Henry wouldn't legally be able to get his hands on her properties.
She opened the bottom drawer of the large desk, looking for the stack of fine blank parchment she had brought from Greymont Castle when she'd moved. It had been her husband's. Aye, there it was. She pulled out one piece and examined it by the window. 'Twas yellowed with age. Who knew how old it was? The baron could've bought it when he'd been a young man, almost forty years earlier. Perfect.
The only difficult part would be keeping the ink from appearing fresh and dark. 'Haps after it dried, she could rub it with rough fabric to wear it off a bit.
After dipping the quill into the inkhorn, she set to work. She studied the lettering of each word before she carefully copied it. She would make subtle changes in the wording near the end to make the deed null and void.
Her grandma—her ma's mother—had been the youngest daughter of a baron from the Borders. She had taught Elspeth to read and write when she was a wee lass. Grandma had passed when Elspeth was eight, but she continued to practice. Her father, as a merchant, had also been educated, but he hadn't much time or patience to teach her reading. He did teach her much about numbers, mathematics and trade so that she could, in turn, tutor her younger brother. He'd cared naught for it, while she'd found it fascinating.
She prayed she could keep her businesses, for she truly loved them. Having not visited the shops in days, she was antsy.
She would keep these faux deeds a secret from Cyrus for now. She might not need them.
Even more important than retaining her properties though—she had to make sure Cyrus remained safe. He risked his life for her every time he went outside.
THAT EVENING AT GLOAMING, Cyrus stared out the study window through the wavy diamond-shaped panes of glass toward the torch-lit courtyard, hoping to see his own warriors riding through the gate so he wouldn't have to send more men to Castle Rebbinglen for reinforcements. All day, between rain showers, he had paced from one side of the courtyard to the other, waiting for them. He had also spent some time in the tower room three floors up, trying to spy any enemies in the distance or climbing the walls. All had been quiet but tense. In his gut, he sensed an impending conflict.
Had the light rain showers delayed the guards escorting the coach back? The weather had never stopped MacKenzie soldiers before. Heavy rains might slow them down a bit, but a light misty rain was a near everyday occurrence. 'Twould be no more than a mild nuisance.
Had Sean and James made it safely back to Rebbinglen? Or had they gotten lost since they'd only traveled the route one time? He trained his men to notice landmarks so they could travel anywhere he require
d them to. He wished he'd told them to forget the coach and simply bring back two dozen soldiers.
His eyes scanning the courtyard again, Cyrus noticed a figure moving at the top of the wall in a different place from before. The blackguards were back.
He strode into the dining hall, his gaze first landing on Elspeth speaking to her housekeeper on the opposite side of the large room, then shifting to one of his guards sitting at the table, eating a late supper. "The archer is back. MacNeil, I need your bow and arrows."
His guard bounded from the bench and snatched his bow from the floor. "Allow me to shoot them, m'laird."
"I’ll do it. I want to exact some revenge." His shoulder was healing, but it was still sore.
MacNeil handed the weapon and quiver over.
"You and Reid guard the front and back doors." Cyrus strung the bow. The remaining men were resting in preparation for the late watch.
"Aye." MacNeil raced off to find his fellow guard.
Cyrus hastened up the steep winding stairs that ascended three stories into a small round tower room containing two windows. After hearing a light tread behind him, he glanced around, finding that Elspeth had followed him.
"Go back down below where you'll be safe." He used the mildest tone he could muster despite his concern for her safety, then sidled up to the window that faced the courtyard.
"Very well. But... have a care."
"I will." He certainly didn't intend to be struck a second time by the knaves.
He watched her descend the steps out of sight, then turned to take a quick look through the wavy glass. The dark blurry shape of the miscreant was still visible.
As slowly and quietly as possible, he unlatched the windowpane and opened it inward. From his ladder, the bastard was peering over the ten-foot wall toward the entrance. Cyrus would love to kick the ladder out from under his feet and watch him topple to the ground. But any sound of approach would send him scurrying like a wee mouse.
After nocking an arrow, Cyrus drew the string back, aimed and released. The point struck the stone wall a couple of inches in front of the blackguard and glanced off, missing him entirely.
"Hell." When Cyrus reached for another arrow, the man raised his bow and shot in Cyrus's direction. He was forced to dodge out of the way. The arrow struck one of the glass panes of the open window, shattering it.
"Are they shooting at you?" Elspeth ran upward, emerging from the narrow stairwell.
"Go back down!" he commanded, terrified she would be hit.
Stubborn woman didn't listen. Instead, she latched her hands onto his forearm and tried to drag him farther from the window. "I should've never allowed you up here."
"Elspeth, what the devil? 'Tis too dangerous for you to be here."
"And too dangerous for you to stand before the open window and take aim! The last thing I want is for someone to be killed in my home while protecting me."
They both crouched against the wall, beside a small bed and out of range. Damnation, she had him completely distracted from his objective of destroying the enemy. She was taking it upon herself to protect him. Was she mad?
"You think so little of my archery skills?"
"'Tis not that." Her eyes pleaded with him to see reason. "You're not immortal."
"I never claimed to be." And what the hell business did she have worrying about him? He couldn't do his duty of protecting her if she wouldn't let him.
An arrow struck the open window, driving into the wood frame and spraying splinters. Cyrus put Elspeth behind him, shielding her body with his. She wrapped her arms around him, much as she had on the horse, except now they crossed over his chest.
As he tried to move her arms back, a quick succession of three more arrows flew into the room, each ricocheting off the brick wall. In the chaos, one metal tip bounced off Elspeth's forearm, piercing her skin. She gave a startled shriek. Damnation! 'Twas what he'd feared most.
Thankfully, the arrowhead did not embed.
Growling a curse, Cyrus laid the bow aside, then snatched her up and carried her down the narrow stairwell, out of range. "Are you all right?"
"I think so." She breathed hard and her heartbeat thumped against his chest. Her jittery hands clutched at his doublet and plaid sash.
"Are you mad, woman? You should've never gone back up there." Still moving downward past the first landing, he found it was still too dark to see her wound.
"I am well. Truly," she said in a breathy tone. "I can walk."
After reaching the next landing, he lowered her to her feet, glad to see she had no trouble standing. "Should be safe enough here."
By a wall sconce, he examined the wound on her forearm. The nick was small, thank the saints, but a thin trickle of blood ran a couple of inches down toward her wrist. "If you would've kept your arms behind me, this wouldn't have happened."
With wide, panicked eyes she observed him. "Then you would've been struck again."
"It wouldn't have hurt me."
"Nor does it hurt me," she stated firmly.
"Stubborn woman."
She frowned. "No more stubborn than you are."
God's teeth, they truly were too much alike.
Finally believing she was safe, he inhaled a deep breath. "How do you feel?"
"It stings, but I'll be fine." She appeared overly pale to him and her eyes big and haunted. Clearly, she was still frightened.
"Aye, you will. Don't be fainting on me."
"Have no worries about it. I have never fainted." She gave him a rebellious, annoyed look which seized his interest and made him want to smile. He admired the hell out of her courage.
Though the stairwell was dim with only one candle's flame, her beautiful features were clear to him. He found himself paying special attention to her sensual lips and wanted to kick himself. He forced his gaze down to her arm again. The bleeding had almost stopped. "You need to have the healer put salve on this and wrap it. You shouldn't have gone up there with me."
"I'm just glad you weren't hurt again." Her troubled expression showed true apprehension over his safety, something he had rarely glimpsed in a woman's eyes. Though 'twas a foolish decision, she had come up there to drag him out of harm's way. He was stunned. A woman had never attempted such a rash thing for him before. And yet, he found her concern for him bizarrely arousing.
He had gone daft to think of such things during a dangerous situation. He should return upstairs and shoot arrows at the blackguards.
But he couldn't move from where he was right now. For a suspended moment, he was held captive by Elspeth's dark amber eyes gleaming in the candlelight. Her lush rosy mouth lured him closer, compelling him to steal a kiss.
She might well slap his face, but he couldn't resist this brief indulgence. Never could he recall such an extreme hunger for a woman's mouth.
The first touch of her soft lips against his was like a sizzling bolt of lightning. Nothing could have wrenched him away from her in that moment. Marveling at her delicious sensuality, he melded his mouth to hers, tasting her astonishing sweetness. At first 'twas only wee flicks of his tongue, but he craved more, deeper.
Saints! He didn't ken what madness had overtaken him, but he was powerless to resist it. She tasted as intoxicating as honeyed, spiced wine. He wanted but another sip... and another. He near drowned in the rich experience of her.
Need rampaged through his body as never before, hot and hard-driving. Her soft curves against him fired his blood, insisting that he take her now.
Chapter Thirteen
Elspeth could scarcely think at all with Cyrus's firm mouth claiming hers. His powerful, masculine presence propelled a staggering craving through her. Good lord! Was he a warlock who had bewitched and paralyzed her?
His taste was a potent combination of virile male with a hint of fiery Scotch. His chin whiskers rasped her, making the kiss ever more relentless. Hard body pressing against hers, he cupped her face in one hand while his hunger dove deep inside her.
In t
hat moment, it seemed he gave her something she didn't even know she'd been missing. Something she'd never believed existed.
With his forceful kisses, he tugged at her, body and soul, demanding something she could not name.
Was it desire? Passion? She had heard of these but never felt their heady allure.
But now she did and could not believe the power they held over her... the power he held over her. How was it possible that Cyrus had awakened such a great and yearning need inside her?
"M'laird!" a guard shouted from below.
Breathing hard, she tore herself away from Cyrus. Though she tried to clear her head and make sense of what had just happened, she couldn't. 'Twas madness. She pushed by him to descend the stone steps.
"Elspeth?" His tone was halfway between a growl and a demand.
Ignoring him, she lifted her skirts off her boots and rushed down. She needed a few moments to breathe and compose herself.
MacNeil moved out of her way as she emerged from the stairwell.
"Are you well, Chief?" he shouted upward.
"Aye!" Cyrus's boots clunked down the steps behind her. "Lady Grey, have the healer look at your wound."
"Aye." She didn't slow down but instead headed toward her chamber. He loved ordering people about, didn't he?
"The lady was wounded?" MacNeil questioned just before she closed the door behind her.
Glancing again at her minor injury, she saw that the blood from the small nick had dried. This was what she should be most concerned about—someone trying to kill them. But the fact that Cyrus had kissed her overshadowed the peril.
Why?
Was it because he was also a danger to her? Not deadly, but if he sought to insinuate himself into her life like the last earl who'd bargained with her to be his mistress... nay, she couldn't think of it. Cyrus was to be married to Lily. He would never make such a proposition to Elspeth.
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