Wrapped in his cloak and holding Alanna’s towel, Ian stood and watched as she bathed. Audaciously bare, she splashed herself with the chilly rain water. Her body, he was pleased to see, bore no relationship to the body of the witch she professed to be. Her delicate breasts sat high and firm on her chest, nurturing the swell of pride inside his drawers. Her hips blossomed from her tiny waist, and her legs…Normally he’d have been thrilled with a glimpse of those ankles, and now he could view the whole long, lovely length of her legs. Stripped of her masquerade, she looked more like a nymph than a crone. She looked like her portrait, and like the ghost who’d tried to slit his throat that night not too long ago.
She loosed her long braid and dunked her mane in the bucket, all the way to her scalp. He could hear her scolding murmur up as far as the tree trunk where he leaned. Chuckling, he listened—the lady wasn’t pleased with herself.
When he’d risen from the path behind her and raised his cloak wide, he’d given her a scare. Even now he couldn’t suppress a grin at her panic-stricken flight. He’d owed the little witch for the tricks she’d played on him.
But he hadn’t meant for her to hurt herself.
When at last she turned away from the rain barrel, her leg gave way and she landed on her knee in the grass. He started forward, but she fumbled for the edge of the rain barrel and hoisted herself up. He halted. Holding the affected foot up, she twisted it from side to side and he heard, “It’s swollen!” spoken in tones of heartfelt surprise. Again she started back, cautiously this time, and he watched anxiously. Still, his concern didn’t make him blind to the slender beauty of her back, or to the pride that carried her limping into her hut.
No light illuminated the room. The lingering damp extinguished any hope she had of setting flame to candle, but he strained to watch as she passed the open window. Back and forth she walked until she leaned from the casing, still gloriously nude, and pulled the shutters closed.
Ian sat down on a boulder and considered his next move.
If he were a good English gentleman, he would go away and never would she know what he had seen. But he wasn’t a good English gentleman; that had been made amply clear to him many times by many people. For one thing, he was only half English. The other half was…well, he didn’t often speak of the other half. And there was the little matter of the wedding license his parents hadn’t bothered to procure.
He didn’t think bastardy made him different from other men, but apparently it did. He was good enough for a woman to take to her bed—indeed, they seemed to enjoy that quite well—but not good enough for one to marry. Not his cousin Mary, who had fallen in love with Sebastian Durant so quickly Ian hadn’t had a chance. Not an impoverished viscount’s daughter desperate for the money he’d made working as a merchant. Not even Nell…
Pain squeezed his heart at that memory. Nell had been a Quaker, kind and not given to judgment. She’d adored him and returned his kisses so sweetly he’d thought he had gone to heaven. He had thought…he had thought she loved him. They had been betrothed, but slowly, gradually, her affection had turned to caution. Then to fear. When he couldn’t stand her little shivers of revulsion any longer, he’d gotten drunk and confessed the truth about his mother.
That had been the end. Nell had sent him a tear-stained note begging his forgiveness, but she couldn’t wed a creature such as he.
An owl hooted and swooped out of the trees, hunting for its supper. Hunting, talons out, an opportunist like himself.
Ian focused again on the hut below. The woman inside was the heir to an estate. Not the biggest estate in the British Isles. Not the richest estate, either. But it was a place of belonging. A place that called to him like a siren’s lure.
Leslie had failed to win Alanna. His own wickedness had worked against him. Now she lived in the woods, waiting to take her lands back on her twenty-first birthday, and by some mischance should she falter, Brice MacLeod came after her in the line of succession, and after him, Edwin, and after him…Who knew how many MacLeods waited in the wings?
Perhaps Ian was even doing her a favor. He shuddered at the memory of the cold that had swept from the MacLeods to him through the medium of the ring. If Brice knew she still lived, what might he do to secure the estate?
Yes, Ian could do only one thing—fall back on his Fairchild heritage. He would go down to the hut and visit Alanna’s bed.
Alanna’s hands trembled as she measured the herbs into the heated wine. Ground willow bark for her pain, chamomile to relax her, self-heal for her sprained ankle, and cinnamon to mask the flavor. The old witch, Mab, had taught her to prescribe for herself frugally, but Alanna put a generous dollop of laudanum in the wine to help her sleep. If she didn’t, she knew, pain from her injuries and worry about Mr. Fairchild’s handsome son would keep her awake.
She stirred the potion, then took a sip. Really, it tasted quite good. Sitting on the bench, she took another sip. Really good.
Ian’s bonny countenance was not what haunted her. His eyes haunted her. They were so large and brown, direct and measuring. Almost mesmerizing in their intensity.
Stirring the potion again to bring the powders to the top, she took a healthy swallow and ignored the gritty sensation it left on her teeth.
She felt as if she might fall into his gaze and never come out. Storms brewed in his eyes. Insight marked his face. And magic, she feared, dwelled in his touch.
Of course, she’d never find out, for who would want to love a witch?
If only there were a way Ian could gain these lands without molesting the lady…
There was not.
If only there were somewhere else he could live…
There was not.
So he would claim Alanna and her lands in the primitive manner so many men before him had used. This was Scotland, after all, a primitive place, and Ian came back to his lifelong circumstance: alone, with no one to depend on. For the respectability of a place of his own, for the right to father children, and for Alanna’s own safety, he had to have Alanna. And after all, there was a kind of pleasure in revenge, and a greater pleasure in belonging—to the land, and to the woman.
He shivered. The damp crept through the woolen cloak, up his legs from his soaked shoes, and the freshening breeze drove it into his bones. Stepping beyond the shadow of the hill, he examined the horizon. Another cluster of clouds roiled over the crest from the ocean. Soon it would storm again. With a shrug, he trod on noiseless feet down to the witch’s hut. Thus were the great matters of life decided: not by logic, but by the chill of a damp cape.
The hut stood quiet. He hoped she lay abed, already quiescent in sleep. It would make his plans easier.
He laid one hand flat on the door planks and pushed. The door swished open on leather hinges, and he slipped into the room. He heard her breathing; she almost snored. The faint rasp bespoke her exhaustion, and now he meant to tire her all the more.
Stalking deeper into the room, he laid the towel across the table to dry next to the silver drinking cup and fluted bottle, incongruously elegant against their simple surroundings. Groping for the shutters, he opened them wide. Moonlight rushed in, pooling on a square of the floor, lending a faint iridescent glow to every object in the cottage.
He glanced warily at the bed, but Alanna rested on her back, one arm flung out, one arm tucked at her waist. Her copper hair lay unbound around her, coyly hiding and revealing her fair shoulders, her slender neck encircled by a chain threaded with stones. The furs rested across her belly, and he winced to see the scratches that marred her chest—winced, too, at his reaction to the pale breasts she unconsciously flaunted. The fading bruise at her eye confirmed her identity and sealed her fate. The little witch. His witch.
He ought to feel ashamed of himself for securing his heritage in such a manner. Instead he fought a rush of anticipation. Alanna wasn’t like any other woman he’d ever known. She wasn’t afraid to take destiny by the horns. She wasn’t afraid of him. And he knew he could mak
e her love him.
A firm brush against his ankles startled him, and a meow identified Alanna’s pet. Catching the tom cat beneath its belly, Ian lifted it even with his face. The feline stretched his muzzle out and sniffed delicately, then pressed his nose against Ian’s. Ian accepted the blessing, then placed the hefty animal on the sill. It leaped into the grass and scampered toward the village.
Unclasping the brooch that held his cape, Ian slipped it off. Draping it next to the towel on the table, he freed the tie at his waist and pulled his shirt off over his head. Thirst drove him to the bottle, and he sniffed the contents. Wine! He raised the goblet—undoubtedly a remnant of her manor life—and with a flourish, he poured it full and dipped it toward the bed. “We share the wedding cup, my sweet,” he murmured, “although you are unaware.”
He drained the full-bodied, spicy wine. The dregs lay bitter on his tongue, and he shuddered as he swallowed the grainy stuff. Then, fortified, he stripped off his trousers. Bare-chested, he leaned over the bed and softly called, “Alanna.”
She gave no response at all: not a flutter, not a sigh. With gentle fingers he traced the outline of her face, traced the thin dark brows and the accented cheekbones. The unmasked countenance fascinated him.
What interest had he in the pretty little virgins of the nobility? He savored the strong, the diverse, the clear-minded, and these traits he knew Alanna embodied.
Fingering the stones that hung around her neck, he squinted, trying to read the carvings that decorated them. In the sharp edge of moonlight and shadow, he saw indecipherable markings, and realized he had seen them before. They were rune stones, used by the skilled to foretell the future.
He was not so skilled, nor did he even care, right now, why she wore them. He found himself smiling amiably at the girl. “We shall deal with each other very well, once you learn your master.”
He blinked. The sound of his own voice surprised him. It seemed louder, harsher, than he expected. “Strong wine?” he suggested, and grasped her shoulders. “Pretending sleep won’t save you.” He shook her lightly, and her head lolled back. He peered at her. “Pretend well.” Easing her back, he turned to sit heavily on the bed. The ropes beneath the frame groaned, and he floundered on the feather mattress. He wrestled his muddy boots off, and as he stood to release his hose, the floor moved.
Staring stupidly at his feet, he repeated, “Pretend well. Can’t sleep that hard. Did you…” He raised his head and glared at the woman. “Did you take a sleeping potion to ease your pain?” His eye fell on the silver goblet. Pointing, he continued, “In that cup?”
A deep sigh answered him as she turned on her side.
Putting his hands in his hair, he rumpled it wildly. With the unsteady dignity of a drunken man, he enunciated, “Witch, you won’t get the best of me, you hear? I’m claiming you”—he swayed—“now…I swear it…now…” He untied the hose and dropped his linen drawers, crawled into bed, and collapsed beside Alanna.
Blocked by the thickening clouds, the moon ceased to illuminate the two bodies tangled together on the narrow bed. Thunderheads towered higher and higher over the fell; then with one swoop they flung themselves across the valley. Jagged bolts of lightning transferred the heat from the earth’s surface into space. The roll of celestial drums shook the tiny cottage. Wind blasted through the open window, dragging rain in its arms: rain that woke Ian from his drug-induced slumber.
“What the devil?” He rose into the driven water, and struggled to close the shutters. Shaking his head to clear it, he glanced at the dim shape still reclining on the furs. His body retained her warmth, his subconscious mind the desire to know her, and the potion released its hold on his senses. A tiny laugh cleared his throat, and he let the rain drench him. Sealing the shutters, he locked them with a clink of the crossbar, and turned back to the bed.
To his witch.
Chapter 9
Hands. Hands smoothed hair from her face. They held her close to a marvelous silken warmth as thunder rumbled and lightning flashed so brightly it blasted behind her eyelids. One hand blocked her ear as she flinched from the cacophony. Her other ear listened to the steady rhythm of a strong heart, unfrightened by nature’s vibrant display.
Hands caressed her lips when she whimpered, when horror of a woodland monster resonated in her dreams. Hands directed her chin as light kisses fell on her mouth, and then they held her more firmly as some thing—some warm, wet thing—tested her teeth and swirled in and out like a feather maddened by the rising wind.
Those callused hands reassured her with their stroke. Hands offered succor, comfort, solace, as she shied away from the accompanying intimacies. At the same time, hands taught her to forget her memories, taught her new responses and new pleasures. They didn’t plunder, they enticed. A tracing of her shoulder blades, a touch at her breast, a pressure around her waist as they measured its span. Hands sliding her necklace aside. Hands soared shy and alluring from point to point on her body until she moved to hearten them with her response.
Then the hands changed.
Hands slid up her throat into her hair, holding her thrashing head still for a kiss—a kiss that probed and questioned and answered its own query. Hands laced fingers with her own and held them while a body taught her the weight of a man, the blend of muscles and hair and velvet hardness like no other.
Breath sighed in her throat under the skill of those hands. She shivered and tried to escape, and the hands brought her back again and again, ever more willing to yield secrets at their behest.
She had been lonely, isolated from human contact for so long, and each touch fed a long-suppressed hunger. The hands sought a gem, and she wished—nay, longed—to give it to them.
Hands slid up the inside of her thigh, and at her resistance, they petted and adored her. Relenting, she allowed them all they delved for.
Hands rested on her belly; hands ruffled the curly hair at the apex of her thighs and slipped through the niche when a warm moisture blossomed. Hands urged wantonness, hands originated passion, hands invented response as they caressed deep within her and she bit back amazed cries.
Murmurs of encouragement rose from the faceless man above her, murmurs broken by the nourishing kisses he pressed on her body. He coaxed and teased and pressed until her toes tingled and her fingers clenched and the cries could no longer be contained.
Then she was one with the rising wind and the tumultuous thunder and the shocking lightning. A quick pain as she broke through the clouds, and then she was one with the storm and one with Ian—
Alanna sat up in bed.
Sun shone through the slats of the shutters on the eastern wall and striped her legs with light. She blinked, tense with incredulous emotion. Was she alone?
Her gaze darted about the room, seeking, fearing to find—whom?
No one was there. The room looked the same as always. There was no reason for her heart to hammer in her chest as if it sought escape. There was no reason to perspire in the cool morning air and certainly no reason to feel self-conscious about her clothing—or lack of it. She was naked, the blanket kicked away in a fantasy fervor. Her hands clutched the furs and brought them up to her shoulders, gathered around her like a shield against her…nightmares.
Surely that was what they were. She’d dreamed about…a man. A faceless man close to her, touching her, doing unspeakable things in an enchanting manner.
She probed her mind delicately, afraid of uncovering some gibbering emotion that would defeat her. But nay, she seemed alive in a new way, tingling with curiosity. For the first time in her life, she was almost convinced God had not been a fool to create women with such vulnerable bodies. Pleasure still flowed through her veins, leaving her amazed and languid and embarrassed.
A dream. By the stones, it had to be a dream. She was just so tired of being alone. This self-imposed exile wore on her more each day, and she wished she could discard her disguise and again become Lady Alanna.
Lowering the blankets, she
glanced down—and gasped. Scratches trailed across her chest and limbs, welts marred her pale skin. Her fingers flew to caress a bruise on the inside of her thigh, and ready wit returned.
To the cat who slept on the rug, she said, “How could I have forgotten? The way I raced through the wood last night, I’m lucky not to have broken a bone.”
Whisky didn’t respond. Didn’t even lift his head.
“It couldn’t have been a dreamweaver. No man’s touch resembles…silk. No man can create comfort in a kiss, and at the same time create such…heat.” What an illusion! Of kisses pressed on her lips. On her breasts. On her belly, and lower. An illusion, indeed, that a single kiss could comfort and inflame.
Yet it seemed so real that even now her body throbbed. She pressed her thighs together tightly to rid herself of the sensation of fullness, and tried not to remember the ruggedness of his callused palms cupped around her buttocks.
His palms. Their calluses. Such a detail!
Most dreams were formless, contradictory, unassociated with physical substance. This dream she remembered for its specifics. Brown eyes lit by a fading flash of lightning. A man’s voice reassuring, cajoling, murmuring of her beauty, of his pleasure. The clink of her rune stones as he fingered them, then pushed them gently to the side. The goose bumps that raised her skin when he suckled, not like a child, who took, but like a man, who gave…passion. His fingers, caressing her arms, her hips, sliding inside her and creating wetness. His hands separating her thighs so her body could enfold him. His hands holding her in place when she struggled with a virgin’s final defiance. His hands stroking the hair away from her face when he had pushed himself deep inside her.
Alanna took a deep breath as she recalled her bewilderment. All her senses had been saturated, overwhelmed. She hurt—a little. She experienced pleasure—a lot. She had wanted to move, to cry out, to shrink into herself and become the girl she had been before.
A Well Favored Gentleman Page 8
