by Siobhan Muir
Bloody hell, lass. Focus on what you’re doing.
“Welcome to the Careless Wench, good sir. Are you lookin’ for a pint?”
“To be sure, but also for a warm bed. Have you one of those as well?” The stranger’s voice painted images of comfort, contentment, and far more lustful things in Isabelle’s mind.
“Well now, I may have one for you at that. Isabelle!”
She set down her cloth and straightened her skirt before answering her father’s summons. She could feel the violet gaze of the stranger on her, and it made her skin tingle, but she kept her own eyes on her father’s chin.
“Aye, Father?”
“Have the extra rooms been cleaned since our last guests?”
Isabelle wanted to snap at him that of course they’d been cleaned, but it would only irritate her father. Usually she liked nothing more than to needle the philandering prick, but she made herself play the dutiful daughter in front the elder and the stranger. She wouldn’t give them a reason to select her for the Virgin Sacrifice until she’d secured her ineligibility.
“Aye, Father, they have been cleaned.” The beautiful warrior met her eyes, and everything heated as if she’d caught on fire. How could one look do such things to her?
“Very well.” Her father narrowed his eyes and grunted with suspicion, but he turned to the stranger with a smile. “There be a free room at the top o’ the stairs that should suit you well enough. Say five coppers a night with supper.”
“Done.” The warrior reached beneath his plaid for his belt pouch, but his gaze returned to Isabelle. “How much for a bath? It’s been a long road between them.”
Oh, Lord, why does the idea of this man bare tease me so?
“Three coppers, four if you want some of my wife’s special soap cakes.” Her father always pandered Elizabeth’s soap cakes for no other reason than to get extra money out of people. The soaps smelled heavenly, though, and her stepmother made them from fresh herbs, improving everyone’s scent. “They cause a healing, they do. Best soap cakes in the Highlands, I warrant.”
The warrior chuckled, and his laughter sent a shiver up her back. He could laugh around her any time he pleased. The timbre of his amusement made her think of the richest velvet sliding against her skin. She clenched her teeth as her womb tingled, and she shifted her legs to relieve the ache. Dear Goddess, perhaps she’d already become no better than a brazen hussy if his laughter could get her wetter than a soft Highland rain.
“Four coppers it is, if I can have it tonight.” The warrior’s brilliant blue eyes fastened on Isabelle as he smiled, creasing the edges of his mouth upward. She wanted to kiss them.
“Very well. Your name, sir?”
“Swift.”
“Be welcome at the Careless Wench, Master Swift. I’m Joseph, the tavern keeper, and anything you need, you have but to ask.”
Her father waddled his way back to the bar, maneuvering his bulk into a crouch with a guttural grunt. Isabelle often wondered how her stepmother could stand the fat bastard. Joseph fished around under the counter as Master Swift and Isabelle followed, and she took lascivious pleasure in ogling his backside.
“Here it is.” Joseph rose and handed Isabelle a key. “Take Master Swift to his room and see that he has enough linens and towels. And tell Martin to fill the wash basin in the laundry for Master Swift’s bath. Go on, gel! Quick now, before the year is out.”
’Tis spring, you fat bastard. We still have most of the year of our Lord 1547 left.
Isabelle tightened her lips around the incendiary words, but she held her tongue and nodded. “If you’ll follow me, please, master.” Nodding politely, she walked past him and headed for the stairs.
“Thank you,” Master Swift said, though she had no idea whom he thanked.
Though Isabelle knew he followed, she could barely hear his footsteps over the thunder of her own heart. She sensed him behind her like a fire, and the heat burned all the way to the top of her head. An idle thought shifted through her head, making her wonder what it would be like to lie pressed against him. Would it be as warm as she felt just walking in front of him? She took a deep breath as the blood rushed to her face, heating her skin, and she thanked her lucky stars he only saw her back.
Get a hold of yourself, lass! She mentally slapped herself. Have a little decorum. You can’t just throw yourself on him.
“Your room, master.” She unlocked the first door at the top of the stairs and stood back to let him pass.
“Thank you.” His elbow brushed against her arm and breasts accidentally, hardening her nipples until they strained against her bodice.
She tried not to gasp too loudly, but the sensation of his body against hers, even clothed, shocked her system. Pleasure set her on fire, and she shivered.
He turned to her lightning fast and stared intently into her face. “I beg your pardon, miss. Did I cause you pain?”
“No, master, no pain,” she whispered, trying to back away from him a little so she could breathe. Goddess above, he took her breath away. “Let me get you your towels and linens.”
Before he could do more than open his mouth, she turned and darted down the stairs at a brisk pace, trying to control her heartbeat. Her breath came in harsh pants, and the blood rang in her ears so loudly she almost forgot her intended task.
Linens and towels, you brainless twit. And tell Martin to fill the basin with hot water. When she’d hoped for a handsome stranger to relieve her virginity, she’d never expected such as man as Master Swift. I can barely breathe around him. She almost caught her shoulder on the edge of the doorway to the kitchens. Dammit. I am a brainless twit. Linens and towels. Linens and towels!
Isabelle took a deep breath and closed her eyes, hoping her expression reflected determined purpose, before she opened the linens closet off the edge of the laundry room. Martin stood working on the dishes as she came back through, his ragged working kilt stained with dishwater from the sink. She remembered to tell him to heat water for a bath. He glowered at her as if she asked him for too much, but she ignored him and headed back up the stairs to their newest guest’s room.
Stopping outside the door, she took another stabilizing breath then knocked firmly. When the man with the lupine-blue eyes opened the door, she damn near swallowed her tongue. Her womb tightened, and her undergarments flooded with cream.
Master Swift removed his chainmail shirt, the linen shirt he wore beneath it, and his boots and socks. His plaid still wrapped around his waist and draped over one shoulder, but it did nothing to conceal the acres of muscle and winter-pale skin of his belly and chest. He had a sprinkling of dark hair across his chest and outlining his abdominal muscles, and a dark line of it disappeared into his kilt.
An old scar slashed across his right collarbone, and another scored his left side, but otherwise he remained unmarked. A small ink drawing filled the pad of muscle at the edge of his left shoulder, but she couldn’t tell anything about the image.
Isabelle just stood there taking in the view. She would’ve stood there longer if he hadn’t given her a half smile and chuckled.
“Oh, oh! Sorry. Here are your linens, and the bath should be ready anon.” Heat zinged through her and stained her face. Bloody hell! What is wrong with you?
He reached out for the linens, and she handed them to him. When his hand brushed hers, she snatched it back as if she’d been burned. She certainly burned for him.
“Thank you, Miss…?”
“Isabelle—Isabelle Andersen. tavern keeper’s daughter,” she blurted then grimaced. Why did she tell him all that? Of course she was the tavern keeper’s daughter.
“Well, Miss Isabelle Andersen, you are most gracious, and I thank you again.”
The sound of his softly accented voice wrapped around her and held her like a thick wool blanket. More melodic than the rough Highland brogue, she wanted to listen to him speak just to hear it, regardless of what he said.
“You’re more than welcome, Master...?�
� To her astonishment, she heard herself waiting for him to supply his Christian name. What was wrong with her?
“Jon Swift.” His eyes twinkled with amusement in the light of the candles he’d lit in his room.
She nodded curtly to hide her embarrassment. “Very well, Master Jon Swift. I shall return in a trice to alert you when the bath is ready.”
“Lovely.”
Isabelle had to turn away before she threw herself into his bare arms. She wanted to bury her face in his broad chest and press her breasts against his body until the pressure relieved the tingling in her nipples. Bloody hell, she was worse than the feral dogs she’d seen humping anything walking by. What had gotten into her? She admitted she’d made the decision to find a man willing to take her virginity, but she never thought she’d want to throw up her skirts and give him a go the moment she saw him.
Shaking her head, Isabelle returned to the laundry room and made sure a candle and two cakes of her stepmother’s soap sat ready for Master Swift to use in his bath. The basin stood empty, and Isabelle frowned. Where had Martin gone to? She knew it took a while to heat up so much water, but it seemed to take longer than usual.
Just be glad it gives you time to settle before you see him again.
She rubbed the small of her back and closed her eyes. Holy Mother of all, I thought I’d find a tolerable man, end my celibacy, and be done with it. But this man…
You asked for a handsome stranger and you got one, a pragmatic voice reminded her. He’s not Scottish, though he speaks it tolerably well, and he’s not English, so you’re safe there.
Isabelle straightened out the laundry room to offer Master Swift a little more room for bathing. She folded the dried linens hanging on the line in front of the fireplace and gathered the washing boards out of the way, stacking them beside the shelves. After a few minutes, the room appeared a little more organized when Martin came in with a bucket of steaming water, grumbling.
“Haul hot water for some bloody fool to come in late at night, but do I see one penny of it? Nay sair, not a one,” he muttered angrily, dumping the water into the basin. “Haul and clean for that fool and his half-breed daughter. The sooner she goes to the Sacrifice, the better we’ll be, yes sair.”
Isabelle’s blood hardened in her veins, and she froze, watching the grumpy old man as he went back to get more water.
Sweet Mother Mary, even Martin hates me?
She’d had no idea he thought so meanly of her. Despite her harsh personality and bold words, the village’s disregard for her, in marriage or otherwise, cut her deeply. She felt joy for her sisters and the men they’d chosen, even if Thomas MacArthur and Ronald MacIntyre were the least handsome men she’d ever seen. Still, both were good and honest men who cared for her sisters as much as they cared for their own clans. She wanted such acceptance and love, but none of the young men in her village wanted the Yowling Cat of Lochmore Cott.
She leaned back against a pile of old canvas sacks in a dark corner where Martin wouldn’t see her and wondered how much time she had to make her request of Master Swift.
* * * *
Jonarrion tried to think of walking along a muddy spring road or mucking out stalls of draft horses to get his cockstand to drop, but his mind refused to cooperate. Instead, he kept getting flashes of Isabelle’s lips stretched around the girth of his cock or what it’d be like to have her ride him while her full tits bounced on her chest above him. Hs body responded by getting harder than ever. Damn, his kilt was tenting.
He groaned and decided he’d have to do push-ups or maybe even stab himself with his dirk to get his body back into line. It’d been a long time since a female human had tempted him so, but something about Mistress Isabelle Andersen made him stand up and take notice. She had generous curves that enticed his hands to fondle, and glorious auburn hair he could fist in his pleasure. The light had reflected off the green-blue of her eyes, a color he’d only seen in necklaces from the world away west, and he’d been lost in their mesmerizing depths. They reminded him of a Faerie pool in the summer sunlight.
However, beneath the beauty he sensed fire and intelligence, like a wild falcon biding its time before its hood is removed. Her restlessness and discontent burned under her calm facade. He scented muted unhappiness from her, but strain showed around her eyes and mouth, a mouth meant for smiling. And other things. Jonarrion wished he could ease her frustration.
I can’t even ease my own frustration. How in Hellwinds am I to relieve hers? He growled at himself. A voice he recognized from his rogue days suggested he could relieve both their frustrations by one simple night in bed together, but he snorted and shook his head. It’ll be just like it was with Colleen. She’ll be dishonored, and I’ll be hunted. There’s no worth in it.
Fortunately, the thoughts of Colleen O’Rourke did what they always did, killing his cockstand enough to face the pretty Isabelle without revealing his lust. By the time she knocked, he’d composed himself, smiling gently for her as he followed her down the stairs. She led him to the laundry room, where a large tub of water steamed gently in the cool air.
Jonarrion scented Isabelle’s agitation, her woodsy perfume changing with an acrid tang of sorrow. She’d seemed excited when she first led him to his room, and he’d been hard-pressed to keep his lust in check. Even now, each sway of her hips tightened his groin, but her body carried melancholy like a banner, and he again wished he could take it away.
“Your bath, Master Swift.” She gestured to the tub as she moved to the small table set next to it. “Towels are here, as well as Elizabeth’s soap cakes. I knew not which scent you would choose, so there are two. All of them are good, but you may take your pick.”
To his surprise, he heard himself ask, “Which do you prefer?”
“My favorite is her rosemary mint.”
“I’ll have that one, then.”
“Very well, master.” She set a mottled brown-and-green cake down beside the towels. “Will that be all?”
Jonarrion almost told her he wished her to stay and talk with him while he bathed, but he clamped his lips together over his words. Human communities didn’t allow a young, pretty, unmarried woman tend to a strange man where his genitals could be seen. Hellwinds, they wouldn’t even allow a married woman to stay and speak with a strange naked man.
“Aye, mistress, that will be all.”
She hesitated as if she wanted to say something more, and Jonarrion scented desperation. Her green-blue eyes searched him for a few moments, her expression anxious, but in the end, she closed her mouth and nodded.
“Good night, then, Master Swift.”
“Good night, Mistress Andersen.”
Her scent shifted into defeat and embarrassment as she retreated from the room, and Jonarrion damn near reached to enclose her in his arms. Amazement splashed over him, and he rubbed his hands over his face. Why would he feel like he could bring her comfort? He was a dragon, and she an unmarried girl of good breeding, at least in this village. He could do nothing for her, even if she did light his fire. He snorted in amused irony. He didn’t need a woman to light his dragonfyre, but he’d be grateful if she was willing to try.
Careful there, boyo. You can’t have this one. Jonarrion undressed and settled his weary body into the hot water with a soft, grateful hiss. He’d rest for one night before he braved the weather once more and continued his hunt for the demon. And though he knew he’d never touch her, he entertained himself with thoughts of Isabelle Andersen as he relaxed in the bath.
Chapter Three
Morning came with the usual routine of cleaning the remnants from the night before. Isabelle hadn’t slept well, and her temper hovered somewhere around surly when she opened her eyes. She’d tossed and turned all night with the revelation of Martin’s dislike and the pressure of her decision to ask Master Swift for his help.
Oh holy saints, don’t let him laugh at me.
She rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands and pushed herself out of bed.
She dressed in the dark, too tired to even light a candle.
You’re gonna have to do it today. Though the idea of asking Master Swift her favor scared her, she knew she had limited time before the elders announced her as the next sacrifice. But how would she approach him? How could she broach such a taboo subject with a stranger?
Caught up with her thoughts, she barely remembered to comb her hair and pull it back out of her face with a leather cord. Isabelle wrapped her shawl around her shoulders and shuffled down the hall, pausing at Master Swift’s door to listen for him. He made no sound, and the heavy oak door gave no indication anyone resided within, but she doubted he was awake. Sighing softly, she continued on her way down to the kitchen.
Silence greeted her, and she slowly lit the lanterns and stoked the kitchen fires to make ready for the day. The large tub remained full of water in the laundry, and she grimaced at the foggy liquid. She’d always hated cleaning out after someone’s bath. The idea of such foul water on her skin made it crawl.
Sighing again, Isabelle fetched a bucket and bailed out the tub. A grimy film covered the surface, but the water smelled like rosemary, mint, and highland heather. She recalled Master Swift’s choice of soap, and a little thrill of pleasure cracked some of her morning gloom. He’d chosen her favorite because she’d recommended it.
Ah, get a hold of yourself, girl! He just didn’t know the choices, is all.
She wrinkled her nose in distaste, but the thrill of his choice remained as she continued bailing. Her thoughts returned to the man in question, and a delicious frisson of excitement slid through her body, tightening her nipples and making her breath catch. Holy Mother of all, the man excited her with just a thought. Now she only needed the courage to make her proposition to him.
All pleasure left her as she considered what needed to be done. When she’d emptied the basin enough for her to move by herself, she dragged it outside and dumped its contents on the rain-soaked ground. She poured a little clean water into the bottom of it to get out the sediment, swirled it gently, and upended it and leaned it against the wall to dry. She wished her problems were so easily handled, but they still loomed ahead of her. At least Martin wouldn’t be able to blame her for leaving all the work to him. She nodded to herself and gathered her basket, tightening her shawl around her head as she stepped out into the predawn wind.
