“What now?” she asked.
He removed his hands from her tiny waist and let them fall to his sides. “We go inside and get warm.”
“Will we take a room?”
“Aye, but just until the storm passes.”
She turned away from him and began walking toward the front door while he handed Goliath over to a stable hand.
“We’ll use false names,” Lachlan told her as he caught up. “And it’s a good thing you look like a drowned cat. No one would take you for an heiress, looking as wretched as you do.”
It would help him if he could believe it.
“Thank you so very much for the generous compliment,” she curtly replied as he strode ahead to lead the way.
They entered the inn, which housed a taproom on the main floor, with dark paneling and hunting portraits on the walls. Lachlan took hold of Raonaid’s hand and approached the red-bearded barkeep.
“We need a room and a hot meal.”
The giant Lowlander waved a barmaid over. “Abigail, take these soggy travelers upstairs and ask them what they want to eat.” He wiped a cloth over the bar. “There are only two choices,” he added under his breath. “Stew and stew.” He lifted his eyes and regarded Lachlan steadily. “I’m Bill Anderson, and I’ll require payment in advance.”
Lachlan dug into his sporran and dropped a handful of coins onto the bar.
The innkeeper’s bushy brows furrowed as he counted the money. “You plan to stay more than one night, stranger?”
“Nay, but I don’t want to be bothered. Do you understand my meaning?”
The innkeeper peered over Lachlan’s shoulder at Raonaid, who stood behind him, wringing the water out of her hair. It splattered onto the floor.
“Someone’s going to have to wipe that up,” Anderson said, sounding offended.
Lachlan tossed him another few coins. “Will that cover it?”
“Aye, friend, it will. Now go with Abigail up the stairs. She’ll see to all your needs.”
Lachlan tossed his hair out of his eyes and waved a hand at Raonaid, who followed him across the taproom.
Upstairs, the corridor was narrow and dimly lit by a single candle in a wall sconce. The floor slanted sharply to one side, but the roof was sound, which meant they would at least stay dry.
The barmaid slipped a key into the lock and took them into the spacious room. It had a window overlooking the stable yard below, and a fireplace opposite a table with four chairs. A clean blue and white quilt covered the brass bed. It was big enough for two.
Abigail lit the lamp and soon a warm golden glow filtered through the room. Lachlan’s eyes turned to Raonaid. She, too, glowed like fire with that mass of wet hair sticking to her gleaming white skin.
“You’d like two meals sent up?” Abigail asked as she moved to the bed and folded back the covers.
“Aye,” he answered gruffly, turning away from the sight of that soft, welcoming mattress, and moving to the window. “And a bottle of something. Wine, claret. Doesn’t matter.” He needed to numb his passions.
She nodded and left them alone.
Raonaid crossed to the bed and sat down, but Lachlan refused to look at her. He could do nothing, however, about the sounds she was making. His ears were attuned to everything—the bed creaking under her weight, her soft breathing, the rustle of her skirts. With an exhausted sigh, she removed a shoe, dropped it onto the floor with a careless thunk, then removed the other one.
“I was never so happy to see a bed.” She flopped backwards onto it.
He did not share her joy, however, for it had been ages since he was alone in a bedchamber with a woman. And with this particular one, who was so bewitching to him in every way, he wasn’t entirely sure he’d be able to make it through the night without doing what he’d promised not to do.
* * *
Within minutes, Lachlan had an impressive fire blazing in the hearth. He dragged a chair across the floor for Catherine.
“Come and sit closer,” he said. “Dry your clothes.”
Pulling another chair forward for himself, he sat down and held his hands out to warm them.
Catherine watched him for a breathless moment, wishing he were not so … wet. His long hair gleamed strikingly in the amber firelight, and his shirt was clinging to his massive arms and shoulders, his kilt hugging his strong, muscular thighs. Ah, sweet Lord, he was a beautiful thing to behold when he was so shiny, dripping, and drenched.
He leaned back and propped both booted feet up on the opposite chair, which he had pulled forward for her. With a sigh, he crossed those big, sinewy legs at the ankles.
For the life of her, Catherine could not seem to tear her gaze away from the bulky plaid sticking to his lap, and his worn leather sporran, which rested on certain parts of his anatomy she was not meant to think about. It was all very disconcerting, and for the first time she truly wished she could lift that disagreeable curse, for what an absolute waste of manhood it was—for a man like him to be celibate.
Imagine the beautiful children he could sire.
Tipping his head back, he ran his hands over his face and yawned loudly with exhaustion. Or perhaps it was boredom. She wished she knew what he was thinking. She stared at him for a long moment, then finally shook herself out of her stupor.
Gathering her heavy skirts in her fists, she rose from the bed. “When you said to come closer, I hope you meant closer to the fire, and not closer to you.”
She pushed the toe of his boot with her hand, forcing him to lift his feet off her chair.
“Why? Are you worried you won’t be able to resist my deadly charms? Deadlier than ever,” he added, “thanks to you.”
She sat down. “No, I am not worried, because I do not find you charming at all. Not in the least.”
It was a complete lie, of course. Everything about him fascinated her. Even when she was quivering with fear.
Especially then.
“You should be thankful,” he said, lounging back comfortably, locking his hands together behind his head and making her wonder if he was some sort of dubious archangel of a man, for he intrigued her so.
“Thankful for what?”
“For that promise I made in the library, when I agreed not to touch you. Otherwise, I’d be removing your gown right now, one piece at a time—verra slowly—and you’d be whimpering with ecstasy and delight, begging me to undress you faster, and trying like hell to figure out a way to lift that curse.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “You’re that confident?”
“Aye.”
She sat forward. “But why would you even want to make me whimper with ecstasy? You despise me. Why not just force yourself on me, like you tried to do back at Drumloch?”
The fire danced and snapped in the grate, illuminating the golden clarity of his skin, reflecting the sparks of gold in his eyes. He leaned forward as well, so their faces were very close, almost touching, and her heart began to race with anticipation.
“Would you really like me to answer that?”
He asked the question with a teasing undercurrent of eroticism that sent wild vibrations through her body.
A knock sounded at the door just then, and Catherine sat back quickly. Abigail entered with a tray of food and a bottle of wine.
“Bowls of hot stew with dumplings,” she cheerfully said, “and a basket of bread with butter and cheese.” She set it all down on the table, then turned her flirty gaze to Lachlan, who observed her overall appearance. The girl was young and attractive, with dark, playful features. She grew instantly covetous while she stood there, caught up in the flattery of his attention.
“Is there anything else I can do for ye, sir?” she asked, sounding a bit light-headed as she admired him from head to foot.
“No, Abigail, that will be all.” He rested an elbow on the arm of the chair, his temple on a finger. His mischievous eyes smiled at her.
The maid’s lips quivered with excitement. She pointed at his bloodied sh
irt. “Perhaps I could launder that for ye, sir. If ye wouldn’t mind taking it off…”
Catherine rolled her eyes, and Lachlan gave her a spiteful look, raising a brow as if to say, See? See how you hold me back?
“A fine idea, Abigail,” he replied, returning his attention to the young barmaid. “I will place my shirt in your capable hands. Come back after supper, and I’ll remove it then.”
She uttered a nervous little giggle. “Very well, sir. I’ll be back.”
She spun around and walked straight into the wall.
“Oh my good gracious. I beg your pardon.” She giggled again and rubbed the red mark on her forehead, then skipped out of the room.
Lachlan leaned back languorously in the chair and inclined his head at Catherine. He peered at her with lazy, hooded eyes.
“I’m not going to say one word about that,” Catherine sighed. “Except that it turns my stomach to see a perfectly intelligent young woman behave so foolishly.”
But in fact, she understood it very well and was thankful for Abigail’s well-timed interruption, and the reminder that this man was a shameless rogue in plaid—for Lord knows what she might have said or done next, after he answered her earlier question. She, too, might have stood up and walked into a wall.
Feeling rather flushed all of a sudden, she rose and went to the table to eat. Lachlan remained in front of the fire, but she was intensely aware of his burning gaze while she inhaled the tempting aroma of the spicy, hot stew, and began to smear butter on both sides of her bread.
Chapter Seven
An hour later, Catherine stood at the window, peering out at the darkness beyond. The wind moaned like a ghost through the eaves. Rain pelted the glass like a pebble storm, and water streamed down the panes in shiny, jagged rivulets, like little knives of silver.
The storm showed no signs of letting up, and she could only hope that the squally weather had detained the magistrate at some point in his travels—for she did not wish to return to Drumloch. At least not yet. She wanted to recover her lost memories, and if that meant galloping into the Scottish Highlands with a volatile warrior who detested her, then that was what she would do.
It was unlikely, at any rate, that the magistrate had been able to follow their trail through the woods. The rain would have washed away their tracks, and besides, Lachlan had taken them south, rather than north, which was not what the magistrate would expect. It would take a bit longer to circle around in the direction of Kinloch Castle, Lachlan had told her, but they would reach it eventually.
Letting the curtain fall closed, she turned and faced the bed, just as he was climbing into it. Naked.
Her eyes darted to the hearth, where his tartan was draped over a chair, drying in front of the dancing flames. He had given his bloodstained shirt to Abigail a short time ago. He’d walked into the corridor where she was waiting for him and made a great spectacle of leaving the door open, so Catherine could watch while he pulled it off over his head.
Abigail’s eyes had gone wide as saucers, and Catherine was ashamed to admit that hers had done the same, when confronted with all those lovely, rippling muscles.
But none of that mattered now, she told herself, pushing the image from her mind. What mattered was how she was going to manage her anxieties through the remainder of this storm, with a naked and powerfully built Highlander lying in the bed she’d assumed was meant for her.
He drew the covers up to his waist, let out a lazy sigh, and tossed an arm up under his head.
Catherine noticed the gash across his ribs. It was covered in dried blood, but he seemed oblivious to any discomfort.
“How pleasing it is,” he casually purred, “to be warm and dry. Do you not agree, lassie?”
He turned his head on the feather pillow to look up at her directly, waiting for an answer.
Catherine cleared her throat.
“Is there a problem?” He asked the question with a glimmer of satisfaction in his eye, as if he knew exactly how he affected her and was amused by it.
A wave of excitement flooded through her treacherous body.
“Yes,” she haughtily replied. “There is only one bed, and if you were a gentleman, you would let me have it.”
He stared with casual indifference at the ceiling. “First of all, I’m not that sort of gentleman. I am a different sort altogether. And if you think I’ll try to seduce you…” He paused. “Ach, bluidy hell, Raonaid. Just take off your gown, hang it to dry, and get in the bed.”
She lifted her chin. “No, I most certainly will not get in that bed with you.”
He leaned up on an elbow and glared at her, all amusement gone now as his eyebrows pulled together in a frown.
Clearly they were at an impasse.
Catherine glanced at her wet skirts and knew he was right about hanging everything to dry, but there was no way on God’s green earth she was going to disrobe in front of him, then join him under the covers. He was naked!
She moved closer to the fire and plopped down into the wooden chair. She would sit there all night if she had to, if he insisted on behaving like a brute.
Savage, indeed.
“What are you waiting for?” he asked, rolling over onto his stomach and resting his chin on a hand.
She glanced over at him.
“You’re keeping me awake, lass,” he added, “and we both need our rest. We’ll be heading into some rugged country in the morning.”
He had already explained that Kinloch was nestled deep in the Scottish Highlands, beyond the Great Glen. It would take at least five days to reach it, perhaps longer if the weather was foul. Once they reached Fort William, the English garrison, there would be few opportunities for hot cooked meals delivered on trays. They would be forced to sleep under the stars and eat around an open fire. She only hoped the rain would hold off after tonight; otherwise, it would be a long and arduous journey, to be sure.
“Ah, come now,” he said, his voice teasing again. “Show me how brave you are. Slide in next to me, and see if you can resist any improper urges you might experience.” He regarded her with challenge as he lifted the covers.
Catherine lowered her eyes to the braided rug on the floor and wondered how difficult it would be to sleep on such a hard surface. Would he even offer her a blanket or pillow?
Lachlan sat up, and his long, damp hair fell forward across his bare shoulder. “Now you’re being ridiculous, lass. I’m only teasing. Think about it. Whether you are in the bed or on the floor makes no difference to me. If I grow tempted to unleash my pent-up desires on you tonight—and I haven’t completely ruled that out—I will do it, here or there.”
Catherine spoke sternly. “You gave me your word of honor that you would not touch me.”
He gazed at her in silence for the longest time, and she could not mistake the quiet, simmering desire in those beautiful onyx eyes. He wanted to do things to her—wicked, unspeakable things. She could see it in the brooding intensity of his stare. He wanted to slake his caged-up lust on her. To pleasure her and punish her, both at the same time.
“Maybe I’ll change my mind about that,” he said in a low voice of sensual allure. “Because if I made love to you, lass, you’d have no choice but to lift the curse, in order to save yourself.”
She shot him a threatening glare. “Go ahead. I dare you to do it. But keep in mind, Lachlan MacDonald, there are always choices. Perhaps I’d let myself die, just to spite you. Then you’d be cursed forever.”
A dark shadow of surprise passed over his features. “That’s insane.”
She shrugged arrogantly. “Perhaps. But it’s not as if I have much to live for. I have no memories, and everyone I know is using me for their own purposes—whether it’s to lift a curse or get their hands on a fortune that may or may not belong to me.”
She would never do it, of course. She wanted to live. She wanted that more than anything, or she wouldn’t be here.
Finally, he rolled onto his back again, rubbed his eyes w
ith the heels of his hands, and groaned irritably. “You are mad,” he said. “Fine. If you must have your way, I will be a gentleman for the night, and take the floor.”
He rose, fully nude, and reached for the folded woolen blanket that was draped over the brass footboard.
Catherine couldn’t look at him. He was too attractive, too spellbinding. Instead, she turned her gaze to the fire, where the flames seemed to dance with delight as he moved across the room. When at last she heard the sound of the blanket unfolding and flapping outward to cover him, she carefully looked down.
He was stretched out on his back on the braided rug at her feet.
“Thank you.” She stood up and stepped over him. “Now close your eyes and don’t look.”
“How you torture me so,” he said with frosty sarcasm, covering his eyes with a hand while she removed her skirts and bodice and hung everything on the chair. Wearing only her shift, she dashed across the floor on her tiptoes and scrambled into the bed. Quickly she turned down the lamp and drew the covers up to her ears.
Everything was quiet in the room except for the sound of the fire snapping in the grate. She rolled over and faced the wall, and was very aware of Lachlan’s movements as he, too, rolled to face the other direction.
* * *
Contrary to whatever form of torture Lachlan expected to endure while sleeping naked in a room with Raonaid (he’d had visions of waking up with his wrists tied to the bedposts while she chanted some dark spell), he somehow managed to sleep for an hour or two. When he woke, it was nearly dawn and the rain was no longer beating against the window. The fire had gone out, and the only warmth came from a few red-hot embers, pulsing like quiet heartbeats in the ash.
He rolled to face the bed. Raonaid, too, was curled up on her side, facing him. The sight of her lovely, curvaceous figure in the dim light was enough to affect the tempo of his heart. He felt yet another unwelcome surge of arousal in the pit of his stomach, which fanned the flames of his discontent, because he was sick of the torture. He was a man forced to live alone, without intimacy in any form, for if he ever made love to a woman, he would become a murderer.
Seduced by the Highlander Page 6
