My Fierce Highlander

by Vonda Sinclair

She pressed her eyes closed and clenched her jaw. “What do you think? Someone to…warm his bed, of course.”

  The image revolted Alasdair. He couldn’t fathom this woman, whom he craved and dreamed about, in bed with the man he’d hated most in the world. Unable to look at her another moment, he turned away and gripped the back of the chair by the bed. The hard oak wood bit into his palm. He felt as he did when ambushed—he wanted to destroy something.

  He pulled in a deep, cooling breath. “And Donald, was he involved in the marriage arrangements?”

  “Of course. I was his ruined cousin, and he wanted to get me married off. He didn’t care whom I married. The fact that his friend and most loyal follower wanted me pleased him.”

  Alasdair forced himself to look at her again.

  Her wide blue eyes were deceptively innocent, her lush lips alluring. Her bare shoulders above the water, and the knowledge she was naked beneath, aroused him fully. He imagined the rosy tips of her breasts, yearned to see them peeking from the water. The urge to yank her from the bath and drape her wet body over his near overpowered him. He hoped she couldn’t see how he trembled from the waning rage and the burgeoning desire. His reaction shamed and alarmed him. No woman took his control. None! He’d come here for answers to his questions, and he would have them.

  “Precisely when did the marriage take place?” he asked with considerably more calm than he felt.

  “October in the year of our Lord 1612.”

  “What day?”

  She frowned. “The twenty-fifth. Why?”

  God’s bones. This was no coincidence. A cold frisson spiraled down his spine. “A week after my father’s murder. Do you not think it strange that the two events happened so close together?”

  “Yes, I do.” She stared down into the bath for a moment, then lifted her open—dare he say trusting?—gaze to him. “You think I was Donald’s payment to Baigh for murdering your father, do you not?”

  “Were you?” He managed not to growl the words…just barely.

  “Possibly. I heard the two of them talking one night about some kind of bargain. Donald told Baigh he could marry me if he followed through with his end of it. They didn’t say what the task was, but they left the castle and returned two days later. A few days after that, Baigh and I were married. Nothing about the bargain was ever mentioned again.”

  “I see.” It was true, then. Everything he’d suspected. Yet, what did it matter? Even if she was payment, Gwyneth was still innocent of any wrongdoing. Baigh was still the murderer… a dead murderer. There wasn’t enough evidence to implicate Donald, even if he did hire someone to kill his enemy and used a woman as payment.

  Alasdair’s anger at Gwyneth drained away and left him feeling raw. She had done naught wrong—not to him or his father, only to herself.

  “Rory doesn’t know Baigh isn’t his father, and I would appreciate it if no one tells him,” she said in a vulnerable tone.

  “Your secret is safe with me. I ken your father is an earl, and that your correct title is indeed ‘lady’. Why do you not use it?”

  She shook her head, sadness in her eyes. “’Twould be a mockery.”

  His chest ached at the pain and humiliation she must have suffered, all because she’d trusted the wrong man. “Why did your father not force the scoundrel Southwick to marry you?”

  Her blush reappeared, and she stared into the flames of the fireplace. “He fled to Spain or France. Besides, I had already told him of my condition, and he wasn’t willing to do the right thing. He wanted someone more beautiful, someone with a much larger dowry.”

  Alasdair couldn’t understand a man like that. He’d never seen a woman more beautiful and appealing than Gwyneth. How could a man abandon her when she carried his child? “’Twas utter lunacy,” he muttered. But he was glad for it now. Else the tempting fairy wouldn’t be sitting in his castle, in her bath before him.

  Naked.

  Time for talking was past.

  Chapter Ten

  Gwyneth didn’t care for Alasdair’s mood in the least. Pacing by the bath tub, he seemed to be barely suppressing his rage. But he had a right to it if Baigh had murdered his father.

  Alasdair’s eyes had been cutting in their intensity while he’d questioned her. Now they darkened and strayed to the water of her bath. Despite the flickering dimness of the firelight, maybe he could actually see through the thin white smock that floated over her. She did not want him to see her naked. Did she?

  No, indeed.

  On the morrow, the whole of Kintalon Castle would likely be wagging their tongues over what their laird had done, barging in on her bath. They might even surmise what had happened yesterday—a quick shocking tryst in his bedchamber.

  “Would you be willing to step outside while I dress? The water is turning cold.”

  One corner of Alasdair’s lips lifted, and his eyes turned devilish. “I was hoping you’d invite me to join you.”

  “No!”

  Clearly, he now thought to make free use of her body any time he chose. He no longer respected her, and why should he?

  “I’m in need of a bath.” He unfastened his bronze brooch and let the upper portion of his plaid fall behind him. His hand went to his leather belt. She closed her eyes before he unclasped it. A buckle thudded upon the floor. His linen shirt brushed over his skin in a whisper.

  Oh, good lord, I’m trapped, naked.

  Covering her front as best she could with the sodden smock, she pushed to her feet in the center of the tub. Water sluiced down her body and from her hair. The cool air sent chills and gooseflesh over her skin.

  She snatched a brief glimpse of Alasdair standing nude a few feet away. He was built like a pagan deity and displayed a full erection. Though she’d touched him there before, and had his raw power inside her, that didn’t stop her from wishing the room was dark. Now, she didn’t have the fog of arousal to dull her inhibitions.

  Trying not to look at him, as well as keep herself covered, she stepped from the tub. Water drained from her smock onto the carpet.

  Alasdair moved toward her. She scuttled away and retreated behind a wooden screen.

  Please don’t let him follow.

  His brief, low chuckle echoed off the stone walls, and water splashed.

  He took supreme delight in her discomfiture, didn’t he? I’m the greatest fool.

  She peered around the edge of the screen and found him sitting in the tub. While it had almost swallowed her whole, he fit into it perfectly.

  “This water isn’t cold,” he said. “I’m thinking you’ve never bathed in Loch Morlich.”

  No, indeed. She didn’t bathe in lochs.

  She dressed quickly in a clean, dry smock and dressing gown. Both were too thin for her comfort. Determined not to tempt him or fall for his seductive charms again, she also put on her arisaid and belted the bulky, woolen plaid about her waist.

  “M’lady, I wonder, would you be willing to help a man with his bath? I cannot reach my back.”

  She stiffened her spine and stepped from behind the screen. I’ll be strong. I won’t let him affect me. That was easy to think, but harder to achieve, she realized once her gaze ran over Alasdair’s powerful shoulders and chest above the water. His predatory gaze tracked her movements, and she gave him a wide berth.

  “Who usually washes your back?” She could well imagine any number of female servants enjoying the task.

  When he didn’t answer, she slid her gaze to him. He reminded her of an amused scoundrel, wicked and dark. “I’ve had no one in my bed, save you, for a good long while, if that’s what you’re asking,” he said.

  Her face flushed and she shrugged, trying to pretend it mattered not. That hadn’t been what she was asking, but the information surprised her, relieved her, though she shouldn’t even care. They had no attachments or bonds between them. Yet she found cutting jealousy edged along her nerves when she imagined him with another woman.

  “I won’t bite you, m’lady—
” He chuckled. “Well, I would like to, but I promise I will only do so if you ask.”

  Heavens! Such outrageous remarks he made—she supposed she deserved it. She had certainly asked for what he’d given her yesterday, and reveled in the wild, thrilling abandon of it. But now, she was not proud of her recklessness.

  She should take the key from his sporran, unlock the door and leave, but he’d likely follow. Naked. Another spectacle was the last thing she wanted.

  “I have it on good authority that a woman likes a man with a clean body and a dirty mind.”

  How ridiculous he was. She bit back a grin. “And who told you that?”

  “Lachlan, of course.”

  “I wager Lachlan doesn’t know as much about women as he thinks he does.”

  “I’m thinking you’re right.” Alasdair smiled. “’Haps even I ken more than he does about women.”

  Likely he did. Certainly he appealed to her with his clean, hard-muscled body. As for his mind, she would not call it dirty, though he did know well how to seduce her with his sensual, lascivious words and scorching kisses.

  “You don’t wish to help me? Stubborn, aye?” He winked. “’Tis only fitting. You have a fair bit of Scots blood in you.”

  Trying to ignore his teasing, she strolled away, searching for something with which to occupy herself. But she slipped secretive glances back at him. Using the soap, he lathered her cloth and stroked it over his powerful chest and sculpted arms. His slow movements were beyond enticing.

  She would mend a pair of trews one of the women had given her for Rory. That should take her mind off the tempting man in the tub.

  No, it wouldn’t, but she could pretend it did.

  With a sloshing sound, Alasdair slid down and dunked his head beneath the water, then sat upright again, water streaming down his face and off his long black hair. He rubbed the chunk of soap over his hair, making a miserable attempt to wash it.

  He reminded her of Rory, who couldn’t wash his hair, either. Impatience overcame her. “Here, let me.” She moved in behind Alasdair, then realized she’d have to remove her bulky arisaid to avoid getting it wet. That done, she rolled up the sleeves of her smock and dressing gown and took the mushy soap from him.

  “I thank you, m’lady.” His voice was deep and tantalizing.

  “You won’t when I’m done with you.” She suppressed a small grin. “Rory always complains when I wash his head.” She lathered Alasdair’s hair and briskly rubbed. She scratched her short, blunt nails against his scalp, careful to avoid the spot where he’d had the injury.

  “God’s truth, ’tis the most thorough head-washing I’ve had in all my days.”

  “Are you complaining?”

  “Nay. Never has anything felt so good.” He released a brief chuckle. “Well, I take that back. One thing does feel better.” He sent her a potent look over his shoulder.

  Needing to get away from him, she rose. “There, I think you’re ready to rinse.”

  “Would you wash my back first?” He gazed up at her, more innocently this time. “If you please.”

  What a manipulating scoundrel he was. “Very well.” She took the soapy cloth and stroked it over his broad back.

  Aside from a couple of scars from knife or sword wounds, his back was smooth and sleek, hard with muscle and ribs. He straightened his spine and the muscles rippled. His low back tapered in toward his hips in a most appealing way, drawing her gaze downward.

  Wonder struck her again—how could a man be so beautiful? He was a marvel of creation. She found herself recalling all too vividly their encounter yesterday in his room, the dangerous and sensual magic that had drawn her to him against her rational will. She had given herself to him fully. That same magic crept into her bloodstream now, the tingling warmth flowing down toward the V of her thighs. Such delicious sin she craved with him.

  She stood abruptly and laid the cloth on his shoulder. “There, it looks clean to me.”

  “Many good thanks.” Even his deep murmur threatened to seduce her.

  She wiped her hands on her dressing gown and stepped back. Feeling completely bereft, she fought down the treacherous sensations humming through her that urged her to watch him, touch him. Invite him into her bed.

  He slid down again, his knees coming up, and dunked his head beneath the water for a rinse. Coward that she was, she shifted her gaze to the fire before she could see whether his position exposed his most masculine parts. When he surfaced, water poured from his hair.

  He flung it back from his face, spattering the floor with droplets, took up the rag again and flicked an amused glance her way. “Would you be willing to help me wash something else?”

  Good lord. Ignoring his chuckle, she turned her back on him and paced to the opposite side of the room. No wonder he treated her as he did—she’d practically dragged him to his bed yesterday. Clearly she had no shame when Alasdair touched her.

  She turned the wooden chair by the bed, sat with her back to him and took up her mending. Anything to keep her mind and eyes off his captivating naked form.

  Minutes later, water splashed, and she imagined him standing. Oh, what a sight that would be. Bending, she focused harder on her task. Almost no sound came from behind her for a long, tedious moment. She squeezed her eyes shut and listened. Imagined. Soft, dry linen cloth whispered over wet, bronzed skin.

  I hope he will go now. Yes, her conscious mind did, but her body tingled with anticipation.

  He padded closer on the Turkish carpet.

  “You should dry your hair beside the fire, m’lady.” He burrowed his hand into her long hair. She’d forgotten it was wet. He stroked her neck with his warm, moist fingers.

  “’Tis drying.” She prayed he’d go and spare her further temptation.

  On one knee, he knelt beside her chair. “Gwyneth,” he murmured in a rough, intimate voice she would dream about.

  He’d wrapped the linen cloth low about his hips, so that he was barely decent. His muscled shoulders, chest and arms were just as appealing and arousing as the rest of his body. He should cover himself entirely. Beads of water dripped from his hair onto his chest. She tried not to drink him up with her eyes. But when their gazes met, his dark intensity penetrated her defenses. She knew he saw the truth in her eyes, the truth of how he disturbed her, of how she was vulnerable beneath his touch.

  He rose, took the mending from her hands and placed it on the bed. “Come.” When he held out his hand in invitation, no part of her could’ve refused him, even though she was unsure what he intended. His hand warm around hers, he pulled her up. “We shall dry your hair.”

  Impulses warred inside her—to flee…or press her face to his chest. Resisting both, she let him lead her to a chair by the fire.

  “Do you have a comb?” he asked.

  She shook her head, feeling every bit the penniless pauper she was. “I’ll borrow Tessie’s tomorrow.”

  He sat in the chair first and startled her by pulling her down onto his lap.

  Heavens, he was practically naked. She stiffened and tried to rise again. “No, I should not. It is not…”

  “Proper? I ken ’tis the truth. Nothing about us is proper, m’lady.”

  And he didn’t care one whit. But she did. No matter her past, she could not be a man’s paramour.

  He seated her firmly on his thighs and pulled her hair over the wooden chair arm. “Your hair is very long and beautiful.” He combed his fingers through it, loosening the snarls. Her scalp tingled.

  Oh, do stop. Her hair was mousy brown and straight as a spear. No one with an eye for fashion or beauty would find it appealing.

  She tried to ignore the clean, masculine scent of him, which the light floral and herbal soap could not disguise. His face was another enticement, as were the sensual, hard curves of muscle that formed his chest.

  When she shifted, his aroused shaft straining against the linen nudged her hip. He was so hard, he would feel glorious sliding into her. Moist heat pric
kled between her thighs and she squeezed them together.

  “Relax,” he murmured, working gentle fingers through the wet strands of her hair. “London society, your da, nor anyone else is here to judge you.”

  Her chest tightened and guilt surged through her. “You’re a man. You cannot possibly understand what it is to disgrace yourself before God, your family and your community.”

  “’Haps not, but ’tis done. You cannot go back and redo your past.”

  “No, but I can behave better in the future.”

  “And you will, I’ve no doubt.”

  “Now. I must do better now. I must resist the temptation of…” She let out a breath, hardly able to believe the sharp, conflicting feelings within her.

  “Of what, m’lady?” His whisper in her ear sent a tingle over her shoulders.

  “Of you.” Never had anything or anyone enticed her as much.

  A smile played upon his lips. “I’m not a temptation to you.” He stroked a finger down her neck. “I’m but a Highland barbarian, and you a lady of fine breeding.”

  She shivered at the sensation his calloused finger wrought. “You are no barbarian. You’re an earl and a chief.”

  “Aye, but compared to you, I’m not very impressive.”

  How could he be so daft? He was the most impressive man she’d ever met—honorable, trustworthy…tantalizing. “Oh, you don’t know.” Yearning to nuzzle her face against his chest, breathe him in, and taste him, she resolutely covered her face with her hands. She could not believe the liquid desire aching low in her belly. How could she turn into such a brazen wanton in his presence?

  “Don’t know what?” His breath, warm, sweet and ginger scented, fanned against her ear.

  “How I feel.”

  He stroked his mouth and nose against her hair, inhaling her scent. “You smell prettier than a flower, and more delicious than a strawberry.”

  “You see? You shouldn’t say things like that.” She lowered her hands and risked a glance at his playful, inviting expression.

  “Why not? ’Tis the truth. Would you have me lie?”

  “No.”