Beitris picked up her own dirk and a large kitchen knife for good measure. She pressed the knife against Maccus’s neck. “Set her down and leave her alone, Maccus. Go into the hall, and I’ll fetch ye some ale.” Glenna’s fists were clasped around Maccus’s huge wrist, her dark eyes clashing with his.
“Let her go,” Beitris said.
“Pah!” He dropped the girl in a heap and strode out of the room.
Beitris picked her up, saw the tears welling in the child’s eyes—not fear or pain, but fury. “I’ll kill him, Beitris. When he sleeps tonight, I’ll cut his throat.”
Beitris pulled the skinny child into her arms and held her tight. She stroked Glenna’s hair, laid her cheek on the girl’s head. “Ye can’t, Glenna. Ye must let him alone, no matter what he does.”
“Not if he harms anyone here, not if he means to harm Malcolm and take his place as laird.”
Beitris sighed. There was a great deal the child didn’t understand. “Even then, lass, even then. Ye must let Maccus live.”
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Ronat paced the laird’s chamber. It was late, but she couldn’t sleep. Her mind whirled. Malcolm had given the room over to her, while he chivalrously slept in the solar. He’d insisted on rigging up a bell on her door, so he’d hear if Maccus tried to enter at night. She felt safe. Surely Maccus wouldn’t dare come to this room, believing that Malcolm shared this bed with her. She glanced at the fine wide bed, built for a laird and his lady, for comfortable sleep, long nights of love, and the siring of children. She blushed.
Did she share such a bed with a husband of her own? That was the question that concerned her most of late, because she was falling in love with Malcolm MacDonald. What if she had a husband and children, a whole family she couldn’t remember? And when she did remember, which would she give up? For she’d have to lose someone she loved, and it would cause terrible hurt.
Perhaps it would be kinder if she never remembered the past, concentrated only on the future. A future with Malcolm.
He wanted her—she knew he did. She’d seen his arousal at the pool, knew what it meant. It made her body heat, ache. Yet beyond the few hungry, desperate kisses they’d shared, he didn’t act upon his desires. She held his body next to hers in the pool as he floated, saw the heavy pulse in his throat, felt the slight tremor in his limbs. She knew how hard he was fighting his fear of the water. She loved him for that, though it wasn’t the only thing. He was kind, gentle, honest, and lived under a code of honor. He protected her, slept in a chair for her. He was a good man.
If she had a husband, she hoped he was like Malcolm. She couldn’t bear it if he was not. Was there any way to know?
It was late, but she wrapped a plaid over her nightgown and opened the door carefully so the bell didn’t chime. She hurried down the hall to the solar. She knocked and entered without waiting for a response. If she hesitated, she’d lose her nerve, and she had to know . . .
He was sitting at his desk, the quill in his hand.
He rose, glanced at the door behind her. “Is it Maccus?”
She crossed the room and stopped before him, the width of the desk between them. He was so tall she had to tilt her head back to meet his eyes. He’d be heavy upon her now, she thought, though he weighed nothing in the water.
“No,” she said, her voice uncommonly husky. “It’s not Maccus.”
Something changed in his eyes—and she watched a moment of fear flash through the green depths, then resignation. Now, what did that mean? He came around the desk, took her elbow, led her to the chair. “Perhaps we’d better sit down. I suppose you’ve remembered who you are, and you want—”
She didn’t sit. She put her hand on his chest to still him. “I haven’t remembered, but I was thinking—” She swallowed. She felt the beat of his heart under her palm, left her hand there. His body was warm, male, alive . . . “I was thinking,” she began again, then forced herself to go on. “That is, I had an idea. There must be a way to know if I belong to someone, if I’m married . . .” She looked up through her lashes at him. “I mean, I’d know what kisses and caresses felt like, how it felt to touch a man and be touched.”
Heat flared in his eyes. Had someone else looked at her that way? Did he make her insides turn liquid, light a fire under her skin like Malcolm did? She hesitated, less sure now.
“Oh, lass.” He groaned. He clasped his hand over hers, tried to remove it, but she gripped the front of his shirt, held on, determined.
“Kiss me, Malcolm,” she said. “The way a man would kiss his wife.” His brows shot upward, and she thought he’d refuse, but he didn’t move. “You see, I thought I might recognize the way it felt, know . . .” So far, she only knew that she wanted Malcolm to kiss her, longed for it.
He shook his head but made no move to let her go. “’Tis a daft plan, lass. There’s more than the touch of bodies involved in a marriage.”
“Love?” she asked, breathless. “Wouldn’t I remember if I loved someone, was loved? I wouldn’t forget something so important.” Not if she felt about a man the way she felt about Malcolm.
He gripped her elbows gently, and his hands trembled. “You suffered a terrible bump on the head,” he said. “And there’s no way of knowing what else happened, how you came to be in the water. Perhaps . . .”
She felt tears sting her eyes. “Do you mean that they might have died, my husband, my children, my kin, and I was spared?” He nodded solemnly. “If we were in a boat and it sank, and even if I can swim, what if they could not? Do you think I haven’t considered that, tried to remember? I would have done everything to save the ones I loved. I’d want to remember them, mourn them. Nothing would block out that kind of love.”
She gripped the bare skin of his forearms, beneath the rolled-up cuffs of his sleeves. Desperation filled her, crushed her. “There’s nothing there—no one at all—in my heart or my mind. It’s empty. Yet the things I haven’t forgotten hardly seem as important by comparison. I know how to swim and how to use a dirk, how to dance. My body remembers those things, even if my mind does not know how or why, and—”
He put his finger against her lips to stop her words. He didn’t speak. He just looked at her, his eyes in shadow, his jaw tight. Then his hand curled under her chin, the touch warm and gentle but sensuous as well. This close she could smell the male scent of his body, and the slight tang of ink, and the drier smell of paper on his hands. “What if a kiss could help me remember?” she asked.
Before she lost her nerve, she stood on her toes and kissed him, her mouth brushing his, his lips warm and firm. She drew back, her body buzzing. She liked it, very much, but it did not bring her memory back. She put her arms around his neck, leaned into his hard body, and kissed him again.
He made a ragged sound of desire and responded this time, pulled her into his arms, held her close. She could feel his arousal against her hip. She felt his raw need in his mouth on hers. She opened for his tongue, reveled in the way the kiss deepened, and the power of it surged in her veins, rushing through her limbs like a tidal wave, pooling in her breasts and belly. She cupped his face in her hands, explored the stubble on his jaw, the planes of his cheeks, and the corded muscles of his neck. He plundered her mouth, and his hands roamed over her back. She pressed the apex of her body against him, and he gasped against her lips. Her heart pounded in her chest, but she wasn’t afraid. Did that mean something? It meant she wanted this man as much as he wanted her . . .
The room spun as he bent to lift her without breaking the kiss. Nothing else mattered but his mouth on hers, his arms around her. He carried her down the hall, shouldered open the door to the laird’s chamber. The bell clattered, but they ignored it. He kicked the door shut behind them. In three strides, he crossed the room to the bed, laid her down, and fell beside her, his body fully against hers now. It felt right. Nay, it felt perfect. She arched into him.
He kissed the side of her face, her neck, his hands working at the laces of her nightgow
n, opening it, his hand reaching inside to cup her breast, tease her nipple.
“Does this feel familiar?” he said, his voice low and thick. “Have you done this before?”
The rush of emotions, of pure physical need, was so powerful it stole her breath. Surely she’d remember the man who made her feel like this. But there was only Malcolm in her mind and her heart. Her desire was just for him. She shook her head, unable to speak.
He closed his eyes, rolled away from her and sat up, breathing hard. “We can’t do this,” he murmured, his voice thick and gruff. He looked down at her, and she saw the battle going on in the green depths of his eyes. She reached for him, touched his face, but he jerked away, got off the bed.
He stood out of reach, running his hand through his hair. His shirt was rumpled, untucked.
“I have no idea if you’re married or not, but this—between us—it can’t happen.”
She sat up, drew her knees to her chest and hugged them. She felt hot blood fill her cheeks. Her heart still pounded against her ribs, and her body still tingled with desire.
“Don’t you see? If you’re wed to someone else, what would he think, how would he feel if he knew I—we—” He swallowed, scowled. “If you were mine—I’d kill any man who touched you, Ronat. I wouldn’t share you.”
She frowned. Was it possible to be unfaithful to someone she didn’t remember, someone who might not even exist?
“And even if you aren’t wed, I—” His eyes moved over her, sitting in his bed. The desire was still there, but there was regret too. “I can’t marry you.”
“Why? If I wasn’t married, why could you not marry me?”
“It’s complicated, Ronat.”
She folded her arms over her unlaced bodice. “Then explain it to me.”
She saw his throat bob. She read guilt in his clear green eyes, torment. Her chest tightened. Now what did a man like Malcolm have to feel guilty about? He looked away, shook his head. “In the morning, Ronat. Not now.”
Before she could protest, he went to the door. The bell rang again, and he grabbed it, pulled it down, and tossed it aside. “Lock it behind me,” he ordered. “Don’t let anyone in. Not even me. Especially not me.”
For a long moment she stared at the door. The room felt empty and cold without him. She got off the bed and threw the bolt. She straightened her nightgown, tied the laces, and climbed under the covers, more full of doubts and questions than before she went to him. It had been a foolish idea. Her body still buzzed with desire.
Not for some unremembered lover, but for one man, Malcolm Ban MacDonald.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
She didn’t sleep, couldn’t. She watched the sky turn from black to gray to pink. As dawn crept into the room, Ronat dressed quickly.
She wrapped the plaid around her and slipped out. The air was fresh, the shadows still long, and the sun glinted on the dew. She hurried along the path that led to the pool. Would he be there, waiting for her? She bit her lip, breathless with hope. Her heart hammered against her ribs with the anticipation of seeing him.
There was a spot among the rocks where she could leave her gown and the plaid. Then she could climb onto a boulder that jutted out over the pool and dive, let the water cool her blood, soothe her. Then she’d teach him to swim, and he’d teach her—She felt a blush heat her whole body, despite the chill of the spring morning. Her heart flipped in her chest, made a restless circle.
She slipped through the foliage. The sound of flowing water masked the sound of her passage. She paused as she got to the opening of the glen where the pool was. He was already there, standing hip deep in the water with his back to her. She smiled and paused to admire him. He was a handsome man, his lean body lithe and perfect.
The fragile light and shadows of early morning played over his red-gold curls, his bare shoulders, the muscles of his back. He took her breath away. The water edged the curve of his buttocks, the top of the cleft there. Smoke curled through her belly. He was naked. His head was down, his focus on something before him. She saw his muscles tensing, flexing, working, though he stood still. Then she realized that his hand was on his male member.
Her eyes widened at the sight, and her body responded to what he was doing without fully understanding it.
His hand moved faster, and his body rippled and tensed. He threw his head back and moaned as his body jerked, the sound guttural, deep, and innately male. It shook the birds from the trees, sent them into panicked flight above the gorge. Her breath caught in her throat, and she bit her lip to keep from crying out with him. She curled her fingers into the rock and waited, afraid to move, yet unable to look away.
After a moment, he waded to shore. She watched as he rose from the water, his body lean and muscular. His manhood was soft between his thighs as he climbed the bank and reached for his breeches. He pulled them on, buttoned the flies.
Then he turned and saw her there, watching him. Their eyes met and held for a long moment. A flush rose over his skin, and he looked out over the pool. “I’m sorry. You weren’t meant to see that. I didn’t think you’d be here so early.”
“I couldn’t sleep. I thought I’d swim before our lesson.”
“I can wait,” he said.
She felt suddenly shy. She knew what caused an erection and what usually happened if there was a willing woman about. “What you were doing—is it about me?”
He shut his eyes. “In part. You’re beautiful, and I cannot act on my desire for you. Nor can I seem to ignore it, will it away. When you’re near me . . .” He stopped, gritted his teeth. “It’s about maintaining control, being honorable. You weren’t supposed to see,” he said again.
She took a breath. “I—” She swallowed. “I believe I understand. I think I feel the same way.” He looked at her in surprise. Under his breeches, his manhood twitched, tightened again, clearly outlined by the thin fabric. He threw his head back and laughed, and the sound echoed around her.
“You are the damndest lass. If you are married, your husband surely has his hands full. And if you’re not, your father must be a vigilant man. There must be men knocking down his door to offer for you.”
“But not you,” she said.
He didn’t reply, which was answer enough.
She unwound her plaid and dropped it. She tugged off her gown and tossed it onto the bank and waded into the pool, clad in her shift. She let the cold water stem the flush of emotions that filled her—frustrated desire, sorrow, anger, love. Her body was suffused with heat, knowing his eyes were on her. She wanted his hands there too. She kept on walking until the water was up to her neck and the bottom dropped out from under her feet. She swam further out, dove beneath the surface, held her breath until her lungs burned.
“Ronat?” She heard his voice echo off the rocks as she came up. He was knee deep in the water, coming toward her. She floated, stared at him. “You were under so long I thought you’d drowned. Come back to the bank.”
“You come out here,” she said.
He blanched. “I—can’t.”
“Yes you can,” she said. “Walk until the water reaches your chest,” she said. She floated where she was, waited, watched as the water edged upward over his thighs, his hips, the flat, muscular planes of his stomach. His nipples pebbled with the chill. His face was a mask of tension.
“The water’s cold,” he said. “That helps—things.” He stopped when he was neck deep and waited. She swam toward him, around him, staying out of reach. “Lie on your back, float,” she said. He looked doubtful. “Trust me. Rest on your back and look up at the sky.”
She waited until he tried, but he was too tense to float. She came closer, put her hands beneath his shoulders, supported him. His muscles moved under her hands, flexed the way they’d moved as he had . . . She swallowed, felt a sharp shiver of need rush through her, hot instead of cold. She stared down at his wet chest, wanted to press her mouth against him, kiss him.
Malcolm felt Ronat’s hands on his sk
in. He could feel the slight press of her nails, remembered how they’d felt last night, clasped on his shoulders as he held her, caressed her breasts, kissed her. He gritted his teeth, concentrated on staring up at the sky and the edges of the rock cliffs that rimmed the pool. The water filled his ears, blocked out sound, but it no longer felt cold. It was soft, slick against his skin, and he wasn’t drowning.
He felt like he was flying.
He turned to grin at Ronat. She stood beside him, smiling back. Then to his surprise, she began to clap her hands.
But if she was clapping, then he was—
He sank like a stone. She caught him, pulled him back to the surface, to light and air. He held her tight, spluttering. He could feel her legs moving, brushing against him as she kicked, holding them both up almost effortlessly. He wasn’t going to drown after all. She wouldn’t let him. He felt—safe.
He noted the swirl of her shift as it floated around her, and knew that her lower body was bare under the water. He felt her breasts against his chest, the nipples hard as pebbles in the icy water, with only a thin film of linen separating her skin from his. Her lips were inches from his. Her eyelashes were wet, her eyes heavy lidded with her own desire. She looked utterly irresistible, almost magical . . .
He groaned and gave in. He kissed her. Her lips tasted of sweet water, and when she opened to him, the inside of her mouth was hot, sweeter still. His tongue met hers, sparred, and she moaned softly and pressed herself against him in the water. He reached down, caught her leg under the knee, and dragged it around his hip, pressed himself against the core of her body. She pressed back, making sweet sounds of need as she kissed his cheeks, his chin, his eyes. It was his undoing.
He lowered his hand under the water, slid it along the silken length of her inner thigh, and went higher still, until his fingers touched her sleek, intimate flesh. She nipped at his ear with a soft cry, jerked against his hand.
He found his footing, stood with his feet on the bottom, and Ronat wrapped around him. It was extraordinary, touching her, holding her in the water, half floating, entwined.
When a Laird Finds a Lass Page 18
