Temptation in a Kilt

by Victoria Roberts

  They needed to move.

  He blew out a loud whistle for his men to return and Aiden cast him a questioning gaze. “What the hell was that about?”

  Ciaran waved for his men to come near. “Ye willnae believe… The lad is a lass. We need to take our leave.” When all of his men held similar shocked expressions upon their features, he added, “Aye, she has cut her tresses and wears a lad’s clothing. Those arenae bruises from a fallen mount. She was badly beaten. She runs from someone but willnae say who. She says she is unwed but willnae say why she runs. Mount up. I donna want trouble. We will take her to the next village.”

  The lass emerged from the brush and his men gawked at her. She shifted from foot to foot and stared at her hands.

  Silence grew tight with tension.

  “We will ride with ye to the next village,” said Ciaran, his voice ringing with command.

  She immediately tensed. “Nay, ye have done enough. My thanks to ye and your men,” she spoke firmly, her eyes proud.

  “Lass, we willnae leave a woman, especially an injured woman, alone. We will all escort ye to the next village and seek the healer,” he insisted. When she did not move and held her ground, he stared at her, perplexed. No one ever disobeyed his orders and this would not be a first. He grabbed her mount and led him over. Dropping the reins, Ciaran moved to assist her.

  She placed her hand on his forearm, and a shiver ran through him from her mere touch. “Please, nay, I can do it.”

  Was she completely daft? Why was she so insistent on doing everything herself when she could barely stand to take care of her personal needs? Women. She was a frustrating lass. His eyes widened when the black beast actually started to kneel upon the ground.

  Wincing in pain, she pulled herself upon his back. She kicked him once and the beast actually rose. “He is mine. I didnae steal him.” She spoke with light bitterness.

  He shook his head in nonbelief. This woman was an ever-changing mystery. He and his men mounted their horses and moved in single file. He rode behind her for her own protection, but also to ensure she did not flee. For some reason, he would not have been surprised if she tried. They continued to ride in companionable silence for the next couple of miles. It was a slow pace, but at least he was getting closer to home. He longed for the mountains of the Highlands.

  The lass was quiet—too quiet. When Rosalia placed her hand at her side for support and stretched her back, he knew she was uncomfortable.

  “How do ye fare?” Ciaran asked with concern.

  She jumped at the sound of his voice and her horse shied, but she easily controlled her mount. “I am fine. My thanks for asking,” she murmured.

  He grunted in frustration—loudly. Perhaps he even growled. He was not sure. Was everything “fine” to her? Did she not realize the danger she was in? If someone else had found her, she would surely be… Ciaran shook off the mental image. She was a stubborn lass. It reminded him of why he was not wed. He heard enough of Aisling’s ire to be thankful he was not Aiden. He would never understand women, let alone why anyone would want to be shackled to one—obstinate, bellowing creatures.

  Aiden stopped his mount ahead on the path and waited for Ciaran to catch up. “Donna ye think we should rest, brother?” he asked, reining in his mount behind Ciaran.

  He chuckled. “Why is it ye always ask me to rest, Aiden? Is it your bloody arse again?”

  “Nay, ye daft fool. The lass probably needs to stop and rest,” his brother chided him.

  Ciaran sighed. “I suppose. We will stop at the next clearing. Howbeit only for a short time. I want to keep moving in case trouble follows.”

  He halted his men at the next clearing, and Aiden quickly dismounted. Rushing to Rosalia’s side, Aiden extended his hand. “Lass, can I assist ye down?”

  An easy smile played the corners of her mouth and she remained as still as a stone statue. “Thank ye, sir—”

  “Aiden.”

  “Thank ye, Aiden, but Noonie will go down for me.” She pulled on the horse’s mane and he went down on bended knee.

  His brother shook his head in amusement. “’Tis truly incredible. Noonie?”

  “His name.” When she dropped Noonie’s reins and stepped away, Aiden picked them up.

  “Here, lass, I will take him for ye and tether him.”

  Turning, her movements were stiff and awkward. “There is nay need. He knows to stay when his reins are upon the ground.”

  “Truly?”

  “Aye.”

  Ciaran pulled out a piece of dried beef from his sack as Aiden approached him. “Do ye know the horse will stay when his reins are upon the ground?” Aiden shook his head in amazement.

  “I heard her speak as much to ye.”

  “Where did she get this mount?”

  Ciaran swung his head around as Rosalia struggled to sit upon the ground. “I donna know, but I intend to find out.” He patted his brother upon the shoulder and walked toward her with steely determination.

  ***

  She was going to die. Dropping to the ground, Rosalia attempted to mask her pain. They could not see her suffer. They needed to be gone, and the sooner she could be rid of them, the better. She needed to keep moving. The closer she traveled to Glengarry, the better her chances of escape. The swig of ale she took earlier had only assisted for a short time and was starting to wear off. She winced as she lifted her tunic to adjust her bindings to be more comfortable.

  “Do ye need me to assist ye?” When Rosalia yanked down the tunic, Ciaran added, “I didnae mean to startle ye.” He handed her some dried beef and the wine sack. “’Tis just wine. Ye may have another drink of ale before we mount. Did it help the pain?” He sat down beside her.

  “For a time.” She placed a piece of dried beef into her mouth and then cast her eyes downward.

  “Aiden tells me of your horse. Where did ye get such a trained mount?” When she took a drink of wine and ignored Ciaran’s question, he repeated it. “Lass, ye know I willnae harm ye. I only ask where ye got him.” This time his voice held a degree of warmth.

  From his demeanor, she did not think men or women often refused to answer his requests or demands. She spoke cautiously. “I’ve had him since he was young. He was trained that way,” she muttered uneasily.

  “And where was he trained?” A suggestion of annoyance at her vague reply hovered in his eyes.

  Rosalia chose her words carefully. “Er… Scotland, of course.”

  “And where in all of Scotland might that be, lass?” he drawled with distinct mockery.

  Suddenly anxious to escape from his disturbing presence, she spoke hastily. “Pray excuse me. I believe my monthly courses have arrived.” Pulling herself to her feet, she bit her lip to keep from crying out in pain. Holding her ribs, she walked stiffly into the trees. She was running out of diversions.

  Did she actually tell him her monthly courses had arrived? She was at a loss for what to say and had to think of something quickly, so she spoke the first words that came to mind. That tactic usually worked on James. In fact, it would stop him dead in his tracks and he would always stop questioning her if she broached the subject. Rosalia could never understand why men were so adverse to womanly nature. They had no trouble bedding women, but mention a woman’s time or birthing…

  ***

  Did she intentionally change the subject? Ciaran was usually skilled at getting the answers he sought, but he had to admit he never saw that one coming. He was speechless. She obviously did not want him asking any more questions. When he remembered her response, he had to laugh. She was good. He would give her that.

  He gave an impatient shrug as he approached Aiden. “It was all for naught. She would speak of naught. All she said was that the horse was trained in Scotland and she has had him since he was young.” Ciaran placed the
wine sack in his bundle. “Let us keep moving and see the lass safe to the next village. Besides, I am sure your wee wife wants ye home.”

  Aiden’s mouth twisted wryly. “I am sure she does. Ciaran, ye cannae keep running the lass so hard to get her to the village. She is injured.” Ciaran was about to interject when Aiden cut him off. “Let us ride for a few more miles this day, and if we make it to the village, we make it. If we donna, we donna. Ye cannae stress her wounds even more, brother.” He spoke in a disapproving tone.

  “Aiden, ye know trouble will follow her. We will see her safe to the village, but we didnae ask to be her champions. I wish to be home to Glenorchy and—”

  “Ciaran—”

  He held up his hand to stop his interruption. “Ye know someone will come searching for the lass. If nae her, at least the mount—”

  “Ciaran—”

  Again, he held up his hand. “And when they do… She is the one who decided to run. ’Tisnae our fight, brother.”

  Aiden closed his eyes and shook his head downward. Unfortunately, it was at the same moment Ciaran heard someone else gasp from behind him. He spun around as Rosalia turned on her heel.

  Aiden slapped him on the shoulder. “Verra tactful.”

  “God’s teeth!” Ciaran moaned, rubbing his hand over his face.

  “And I wish ye luck with that, brother.”

  Rosalia stood next to her horse, patting him on his muscular neck. She would not look at Ciaran, and considering the words that had escaped his mouth, he did not blame her. He placed his hand on Noonie’s head and rubbed his ears. “He is magnificent.”

  She glanced down, her faint smile holding a touch of sadness. “Aye.”

  “Rosalia…”

  “Please donna speak of it, my laird. I am fine. If ye wish to take your leave, please donna feel ye must chaperone me. I am one and twenty, and I assure ye that I donna need a chaperone or a champion.” Tears welled within her eyes.

  Ciaran drew his lips in thoughtfully. “Lass, we have been riding for well over a fortnight and—”

  Rosalia set her chin in a stubborn line. “Please, my laird, nay apologies. I am ready to ride. How far to the village?” she asked, her eyebrows rising inquiringly.

  “Half a day’s ride from here,” he sighed. “Rosalia, I didnae mean—”

  She pulled on Noonie’s mane so he would kneel. “Come, my laird. Ye are wasting precious light.” She grunted as she tugged herself onto Noonie’s back.

  Staring at her, Ciaran stood motionless. Her face was black, she was battered and bruised from head to toe, frightened of something or someone, and he’d told her she was not worth the trouble she brought. Shaking his head, he realized he could be such a dolt.

  Aiden brought over his brother’s horse and nudged his shoulder. “Take your mount before ye look even more the daft fool.”

  “Aye, there is that.” Before Ciaran mounted, he pulled out the wine sack from his bundle and handed it to Rosalia. “’Tis the ale. Take at least two swigs for the pain.”

  He could see her weighing her options. After a brief hesitation, she took the ale and drank two healthy gulps, choking both times. She handed the sack back and turned her head away from him.

  He was an arse.

  Four

  “It appears only one room remains. We will sleep in the stable, and ye and your wife will be sharing a room,” said Aiden, masking a smile. When Ciaran’s men pulled Aiden aside as soon as they crossed the threshold of the small inn and then bolted out the door, Rosalia knew something was amiss. This, however, was not what she had expected.

  “What?” Ciaran and Rosalia spoke at the same time.

  Aiden shrugged his shoulders with indifference. “There arenae enough rooms. Donaidh and Seumas thought ye would rather stay with the lass than have any of us stay with her. Besides, Aisling would have my—” he paused, looking down at his manhood, “er… head if I stayed with her. They go to seek the healer now, and it was easier to explain if the lass was posing as your wife.”

  Silence grew tight with tension. Rosalia did not like this—at all. His commitment was to take her to the village. It was not to be sharing a room and pretending to be man and wife. He was asking too much of her. “Nay, I willnae share a room. Ye have done enough, my laird. I will see the healer and then be on my way. ’Tis what we spoke of. Ye and your men have my thanks.” She spoke with a faint thread of agitation in her voice.

  An unwelcome tension stretched even tighter between them.

  Ciaran placed his hand gently on her shoulder. “Rosalia, ye can barely ride and need to rest in a bed. And ye will spend the night in a bed. How do ye expect to heal if ye donna take care?”

  His hand remained on her shoulder for a moment too long. She felt a shiver run through her body and pulled her eyes away from him. Ciaran placed his fingers under her chin. “Look at me, lass. Ye know there is nay need to fear me. I will sleep upon the floor.” She tried to protest, but he left no room for debate. “My men are right. ’Tis less to explain if ye are posing as my wife.”

  Clearly having no voice in the matter, Rosalia sought her room while Ciaran and his men headed to the tavern. She climbed the stairs, step after miserable step, and could feel a growing pain in her arse that was not from her injuries. Frustration consumed her. She was stuck with these men for another night. And now she had to maintain the pretense that she was his wife? The way he barked orders at her—God’s teeth! She could not even run away to Glengarry without things running awry. Opening the door to her room, Rosalia felt the scent of fresh-cut flowers tickle her nose. She closed the door and found the space was small with only a bed, a table, and two chairs, but at least it appeared clean. As she sat down on the bed, she noticed the cut flowers bundled on the pillow beside her.

  There was a knock at the door and three burly men carried in a tub, followed by a couple of lads with steaming buckets of water. A maid entered, ushering the men out. Rosalia was speechless and needed a moment to gather her wits.

  “Your husband ordered a bath for ye, my lady. My apologies ye lost your trunk in the accident. I know ’tisnae much, but I have a worn day dress ye may have. ’Tis at least clean,” the maid said, holding up the dress.

  Pulling at her tunic, Rosalia muttered the first words that came to mind, “Aye, my gown was badly torn. Ye have my thanks.” She accepted the dress from the maid, then panicked because she was unsure how to answer if the maid questioned her cut tresses. Rosalia simply prayed that she would not ask.

  “May I assist ye with your clothes, my lady? Your husband says ye are injured from when ye fell from your mount.”

  Rosalia could not let pride stand in the way of a warm bath. It would definitely soothe her sore and aching bones. How very thoughtful of her husband to order it for her! Once she was in the tub, she immediately dismissed the maid. The water felt positively delightful on her bruised skin. She moaned, letting the hot water work its magic. She had not felt this peaceful in days. Closing her eyes, she enjoyed the warmth that surrounded her.

  Someone pounded on the door, and for a moment, Rosalia forgot her surroundings. She must have fallen asleep. “My lady, the healer is here for ye,” called the maid through the door.

  “Just a moment.” Grabbing the edge of the tub, Rosalia pulled herself from the tepid water, not so gracefully exiting her bath. The room was tiny, so the washtub made it more difficult to maneuver. Needing to dress quickly, she dried herself and donned a fresh tunic. “Come.”

  The maid entered with an elderly man and shut the door.

  “My lady,” said the gentleman, giving her a quick bow. He placed his bag upon the bed and gently pushed her shoulder to lie down. He examined her bruises and his eyes narrowed. “That must have been some fall. Ye have several cuts and swelling in the face. Are ye light-headed?”

  “Only when I stan
d too quickly,” she offered. As he applied pressure to her arms, ribs, and legs to check for broken bones, she closed her eyes to abate the sharp pain.

  The healer murmured to himself and then smiled as he covered Rosalia with a blanket. “I donna think ye have broken bones, but I would advise ye to accept a treatment of bleeding.”

  “Bleeding?” she squeaked. Rosalia was too startled by his suggestion to offer any objection.

  “Aye, I donna know if ye have inside injuries, and I find bleeding will prevent fever and infection from setting in.”

  The door opened and Ciaran simply walked in. It was getting a bit too crowded in the small room. “And how does she fare?” His eyes caught and held hers.

  The healer cleared his throat. “I was explaining to your wife that I donna think there are broken bones. I donna know if she has injuries inside so I will bleed her.”

  “Bleed her?” The lines of attentiveness deepened along Ciaran’s brows and under his eyes.

  “Aye. I find bleeding will prevent fever and infection from setting.”

  “Ye willnae bleed my wife,” Ciaran said smoothly. His expression was a mask of stone. He reached into his pouch and handed the healer some coin. “For your time.”

  The healer shrugged indifferently. “As ye will. I will leave a salve for her bruises,” he said, searching through his bag.

  “Nay, ye have done more than enough. I will care for her.” Ciaran ushered the man out the door and then turned toward the maid. “Have the tub removed and inquire on the tray I asked for my wife,” he ordered.

  “Aye, my laird,” she said, bobbing a small curtsy and scampering out the door.

  Ciaran stood frozen in the doorway. He would not look at Rosalia, and he surely was not speaking to her—again. He placed his hands on the wall and tapped impatiently. Running his hand through his hair, he stepped aside as the men came back to remove the tub. When they left, he closed the door and his eyes.