A smile touched her lips and a feeling of joy spread through her like warm honey. She was home. Home with her father. It must be his voice, his words, for no other man had ever carried her in his arms. And the soothing strokes had to come from Moira, her old nurse. The Highlands had been nothing more than a bad dream. As was the Highland savage, Dillon Campbell.
At the thought of that name, her smile fled. Nay. Not a dream. Reality was the Highland savage. Dillon. Dear heaven. The voice in the dream was his, as was the touch. It all came rushing back. She had fallen asleep after washing herself. She had not even managed to stay awake long enough to go below stairs to sup. This was not a dream. It was actually happening.
Her eyes blinked open as Dillon settled her among the furs of his pallet and sat beside her.
“What are you doing?” She pushed herself into a sitting position, unaware of her state of undress. She shoved the heavy hair from her eyes, fighting the effect of sleep. “You must not—”
“Shh.” He touched a work-roughened finger to her lips to silence her.
Shock waves collided within her at his simple touch. She tried to pull her hands away but he held her fast and began to apply a soothing ointment to her palms.
“Please. You need not—”
“It is little enough to do after what I put you through, my lady.” His tone was intimate, sending tiny slivers of fire and ice along her spine. “To think that I accused you of some devious plot. Your hands say otherwise. Besides, the servants who worked alongside you sing your praises.”
She felt a sting of guilt and trembled beneath its weight. If he only knew how she had plotted and schemed…She ducked her head, afraid to meet his steady gaze. That was when she realized that she wore nothing more than her chemise. She tried to reach for a covering, but he held her fast.
Though he continued to hold her hands, his fingers had stilled their movement. He studied her bowed head and felt an overwhelming rush of emotion. “I have denied the truth long enough.”
Her head came up. “The truth?”
“I want you. And have since I first beheld you in your father’s home.”
“Nay.” She drew back, terrified of the feelings that had rippled through her at his words. Feelings that had no place between a captor and captive, between an Englishwoman and a Scot.
“Aye, my lady. God help us both, it is true.”
He lowered his mouth to hers with all the power, and all the force, all the fury that, until now, he’d been holding back. Now it was up to heaven itself to stop him, for he had no more willpower left.
She had never felt such passion. Always, she had been aware that he had held something back, exerting rigid control over his emotions. Now his kisses spoke of hunger, of need, of unbridled passion.
He moved his hands along her back. The thin fabric of her chemise, barely covering her from breast to thigh, excited him. Her skin was as cool and pale as the white sand that shimmered beneath a Highland stream. Fascinated, he slipped his hands beneath the fabric and discovered her heat.
Still drowsy from sleep, Leonora’s movements were slow. Though she lifted her hands to push him away, her limbs betrayed her. Her hands slipped around his waist. Her fingers dug into his back, urging him closer.
Her body hummed with needs. Needs that pulsed through her, setting tiny fires to her flesh, heating her blood until it flowed like molten lava through her veins.
How could she react so wantonly? And with her enemy. Even as she experienced a wave of shame, she couldn’t seem to hold back the sigh that escaped her lips.
He brought his lips to her throat. Against her delicate flesh he murmured, “Tonight, my lady, I can no longer resist the need for you.” His voice held the hint of danger, the promise of paradise. “Tonight I will have what I most desire.”
He ran hot hungry kisses along the sensitive column of her throat, then lower, to the soft swell of her breast.
Instantly her nipple hardened beneath the gauzy fabric. Frustrated by even this small barrier between them, he brought his hands to the ribbons that laced her chemise. With quick, impatient movements he slipped it from her shoulders.
The realization of what she had permitted was like a dash of icy water. God in heaven, what had she been thinking of? She had permitted this savage liberties granted to no other man.
“Nay!” Frightened by her sudden arousal, she began fighting like a cornered animal, scratching, pushing, struggling against the arms that held her.
Aroused, angered, he caught both her wrists in one big hand and pinned her arms over her head. With his other hand, he caught her chin, forcing her head still as he plundered her mouth.
Blinded by rage and desire, he kissed her as no man had ever dared to kiss her before. With teeth and tongue and mouth he teased and tormented until, on a cry, her lips softened and her mouth opened to him. While he continued kissing her, he ran his hand possessively over her until he felt her gradual response.
“You see, my lady.” His breathing was ragged. His voice was a low whisper of triumph. “Though you deny it, you want what I want. And tonight we shall—”
It was then that he tasted the salt of her tears.
Tears?
He lifted his head. In the firelight, her face was bathed in tears. She could not seem to stop herself. Though this display of weakness shamed her further, the tears streamed from her eyes and coursed down her cheeks in rivers.
In that instant, he knew that he had overstepped all bounds of decency. God in heaven, he was no better than those he had scorned as cruel, wild animals.
With his thumbs he wiped the tears from her cheeks. His voice was choked with pain and frustration. “Forgive me, my lady. I was possessed by madness.”
Muttering a savage oath he strode from the chambers.
Chapter Fifteen
L eonora stood by the balcony window, watching as ribbons of light on the horizon signaled the arrival of dawn. She had spent the long, sleepless night huddled on the balcony, prepared to leap to her death if Dillon Campbell should return.
It was not that he repulsed her. Nay, she still blushed each time she thought about her reaction to his kisses. If truth be told, she had wanted him. Though it shamed her to admit it to herself, she had wanted him as much as he claimed to want her.
How could this be? She knew not. But this much she knew—last night, in Dillon’s arms, she had almost brought dishonor to her father’s name. She knew now that she could no longer trust herself with this man. Though he was a primitive savage, Dillon Campbell touched her is a way that no other man ever had. She was weak and spineless, she reasoned. A foolish romantic, who had somehow become confused in her mind about right and wrong. She was actually beginning to believe that there was a goodness, a kindness about this Scots laird that she had not found in any of the men who had tried to court her in her own land.
She had come to a decision. She must not remain under this roof another night. For to do so would be to bring shame upon herself and her father. She knew that she would not have the strength to resist Dillon Campbell’s advances again. No matter what, she must make good her escape this day. Another night and she would be lost.
Hearing the servants moving about in the hallway outside her door, she hurriedly washed and dressed herself. When the door to her chambers was opened, she looked up sharply, then gave a sigh of relief when she spied Gwynnith.
“Ah, my lady. I see you are about early, as well.” The servant lowered her voice. “The laird is below stairs in a fierce black temper. Mistress MacCallum has cautioned us to walk softly in his presence this day, else we shall feel the sting of his displeasure.”
“And does he display these black tempers often, Gwynnith?” Leonora turned her back and busied herself with a comb and brush.
“Nay, my lady. In fact, it is not at all like the laird.” The little servant giggled before coming up behind Leonora to help with her hair. “If I did not know better, I would think he had been up all night tipping a goble
t. But the laird has never been known to enjoy the ale like some.” After securing a jeweled comb, she took a step back to study the English lady’s reflection in the mirror. “Mistress MacCallum says a temper such as his can only be because of a woman.”
Leonora felt her cheeks flame and turned away quickly. That was when she realized that the object of their discourse was standing in the doorway. On his face was a scowl of displeasure.
“Do you not have chores, Gwynnith?”
“Aye, my laird.” The little servant fairly flew from the room, leaving Leonora alone to face him.
He studied her for long silent moments. He still wanted her. With every fiber of his being, he wanted her. And hated himself for it. “You will remain in my chambers this day so that your tender hands can heal.”
At his words, her head came up sharply. “Nay, I must not.” She caught herself before she said anything more that might reveal her scheme. She must convince him that she was able to leave the confines of these chambers.
He was watching her with a wariness that unnerved her. As if, she thought, he could see clear through to her mind. He walked past her, poured water into a basin and, stripping off his tunic, began to wash.
“I…cannot lock myself away now.” She paced to the balcony, then back. “The work is going so well. I have given my word to Mistress MacCallum that I will teach the servants how to—” her mind raced “—make my father’s favorite brandied pudding.”
He dried himself with a square of linen. “Mistress MacCallum will understand why it cannot be done today.”
“It must.”
The passion with which she protested made him curious. Tossing aside the linen, he crossed to her with the agility of a predatory animal. “Let me see your hands.”
He seemed unaware of the fact that he wore only tight black breeches. But Leonora was aware. Aware of a broad expanse of hair-roughened, muscular chest. Aware of arms corded with muscles. Aware of a trim, narrow waist and flat stomach. And a face close enough for her to feel the warmth of his breath on her cheek. The rush of feeling was so swift, so overpowering, it nearly took her breath away.
Reluctantly she held up her hands for his scrutiny. The moment his fingers brushed hers she felt the jolt and had to struggle to show no emotion.
“They are healing nicely.” He looked up, meeting her direct gaze. “How do they feel? Is there any pain?”
“Nay.” She tried to pull away but he held her fast. “Truly,” she insisted.
He gazed into her eyes and saw, in his mind’s eye, the way she had looked the night before, wearing nothing more than a flimsy chemise. She would never know what it had done to him. Had it not been for her tears…
He could still recall the shock of her tears. It was the only thing that could have penetrated the lust that had driven him mad with desire. To have been the cause of this strong, proud woman’s tears still grated.
The sudden urge to kiss her was stronger than ever. To cover his feelings, he said sternly, “I cannot return you to your father blemished in any way, else he will accuse me of having mistreated you.”
She felt the sting of disappointment. “I should have known you did not act out of kindness, Dillon Campbell, but out of a sense of duty.”
He released her and watched as she stalked to the fireplace. “It is not kindness that dictates my treatment of you, my lady. It is prudence. As you are treated, so shall my brothers be treated by your father.”
This was better. Safer. Anger was preferable to tenderness. The woman must never know that he harbored tender feelings for her.
He went on in the same impersonal tone. “In a day or two, the torn flesh will heal. But until then, I cannot give you my permission to continue the work of the servants.”
She was equally determined to be allowed to roam the fortress without restrictions. This must be her day of freedom. Else all was lost. “Then I shall assist Mistress MacCallum. Even if I cannot do the work, I can instruct the servants in the proper ways to cook as well as clean this hovel.”
Hovel, was it? His eyes narrowed at her superior tone. Did the woman spend every waking hour thinking of ways to anger him?
The truth was, he knew his overburdened housekeeper would benefit from the Englishwoman’s knowledge. But he dared not permit Leonora too much freedom, or she would devise a way to use it to her advantage. Besides, he was still smarting from his momentary lapse of the previous night.
He pulled on his shirt and tucked it into the waistband of his breeches. “I see no harm in permitting you to instruct the servants. So long as Rupert is by your side.”
She turned toward the fire to hide the little smile of triumph that touched her lips. It was a victory of sorts, and one she would use.
“If you are ready,” he said, opening the door, “we will go below stairs and break our fast.”
She swept past him, keeping her head high, her gaze averted. In her pockets were the knife and linen-wrapped packages of food.
“You must lay the rushes like this.” Leonora moved across the floor on her knees, positioning several rows of rushes in an intricate pattern.
The servants nodded and followed her example. Mistress MacCallum stood and watched, her arms crossed over her ample bosom.
When Leonora continued working alongside the servants, the housekeeper admonished her, “Nay, m’lady. The laird has said ye must give ye’r hands time to heal.”
By now, all of the servants had heard of the lady’s valiant efforts to hide her pain, and most had seen the evidence of her work etched on her tender palms. Their own hands had been callused and toughened by years of hard labor, but many could still recall the early years of discomfort, and admired her courage.
“Perhaps I could do something less challenging in the kitchens.” Leonora tried to hide her eagerness. From the kitchens, it was a short walk to freedom.
“Aye, m’lady. A grand idea. All who tasted your tarts last night asked for more. Perhaps you could make them again?”
“I would be happy to, Mistress MacCallum.”
Rupert held the door and followed the two women down a hallway that twisted and turned until it ended at the huge kitchen. Inside, the ovens were already overflowing with loaves of bread, and two deer were being roasted over a fire.
Leonora joined several other servants in rolling out the dough for the tarts, then ladled sliced apples laced with honey and flour into each delicate crust. When all was in readiness, the confections were placed in a large stone oven to bake. Soon the wonderful fragrance filled the room, making Rupert’s mouth water.
With Mistress MacCallum beaming her approval, Leonora proceeded to show the servants how to make her father’s favorite brandied pudding and a sweet, dark cake laden with bits of fruit.
Instead of the usual gruel to accompany the bread, Leonora made a fruit conserve that had even the housekeeper sighing with pleasure when she’d tasted it.
“Have you a garden?” Leonora asked, though she was already aware of the answer.
Mistress MacCallum nodded.
“Perhaps I might be allowed to pick some tender young vegetables to accompany the venison.” The housekeeper seemed about to refuse, so she added quickly, “Your laird will proclaim your meal fit for a king.”
She saw the light that came into Mistress MacCallum’s eyes as the housekeeper wiggled a finger at Rupert. “As long as the lad is with ye, I see no reason not to allow it.”
“Thank you. We will not be gone long. I will need a warm cloak,” she said to Rupert.
“It is not that cold outside, my lady.”
“Perhaps not, but I…I get chilled quickly,” she lied.
He led her to a peg where she selected a warm hooded cloak. As she followed Rupert along the passageway that led to the outer door, she slipped the knife and packages of food into the deep pockets of the cloak. When they stepped into the garden, she lifted her head and breathed deeply. “Ah, Rupert. Do you smell it?”
“Smell what, my lady?”
Freedom, she thought. But aloud she merely said, “The scent of freshly turned earth. Herbs. Fruits and vegetables. They are scents that remind me of home.”
“You miss your home, do you not, my lady?”
“Aye.”
“Soon enough you shall see it. And I shall miss you, my lady.”
His words pricked her conscience.
The lad picked up a shovel and began to dig into a row of carrots. As he stepped his foot on the shovel and turned the earth, Leonora bent down to retrieve the golden carrots from their nest of earth. While the lad’s head was bent, she peered around, searching for the door she had spotted from Dillon’s balcony. On the far side of the garden, set into the wall, she spied it. Because it led directly to the forest, no one dared use it. Thus, no guards were posted. On the other side of that door lay freedom.
She and Rupert worked the row together, with the lad digging and Leonora retrieving the carrots, until they had enough for the evening meal. As the pile of vegetables grew larger, her mind was awhirl with plans. She must find a way to elude her young guard. But how? Her mind raced.
Lifting her head, she sniffed the air. “Do I smell roses, Rupert? Are there roses nearby?”
“Aye, my lady. Would you like to see the rose garden?”
“I would indeed.”
He led her beyond the vegetable garden to a small plot of land ringed by overgrown hedges and a thick tangle of vines. Roses, which had been allowed to grow wild, bloomed in profusion. Their perfume filled the air.
She made her way to an old stone bench and draped her cloak over it.
“Ah, Rupert,” she said on a sigh. “There is nothing quite like a rose garden. Even one as neglected as this.”
“Aye, my lady.”
She began to walk along an overgrown path, all the while keeping the door in sight.
“This could be a lovely garden,” she mused aloud, “if anyone loved it enough to tend it.”
“With all the fighting, there is little time to tend gardens, my lady.”
She looked up at the lad, who watched the flight of a bird. It pained her to misuse him in this way, but she simply had no choice if she were to assure her escape. “I believe I will pick a few roses for Mistress MacCallum. While I do that, do you think you could fetch me a basket from the kitchen, Rupert? We will need it to carry the carrots.”
The Highlander Page 17
