by Lois Greiman
“Mary,” he whispered, his arm still around her. “Me bonny Mary.”
“Aye?” ‘Twas all she could do to force out that single word, to remain where she was.
“You kiss like an innocent, sweet lass,” he said and she forced herself to glance up through her lashes at him. “But …” He touched her chin, locking his gaze on hers. “You lie like a wanton.”
Chapter Four
“What!” She reared away from him. In the darkness, her eyes looked as wide as a child’s. The innocence was a lie, of course. But against his arms her hands trembled, and for an instant he was tempted to pity her. To learn her past. To right the wrongs.
History, however, had taught him better than to give in to temptations. The price was more than he was willing to pay.
“You lie,” he said simply. “And quite convincingly, I might add.”
“Whatever do you mean?” She tried to pull away, but he kept his arm wrapped loosely about her back so that her upper body was slanted slightly away from him. The light from the tallow candle behind her shone through the thin fabric of her night rail. Her breasts, small and soft and hopelessly enticing, seemed to glow with an iridescent light of their own.
He had always had a weakness for glowing breasts, he thought wryly. Pulling his gaze from the sight with a hard effort, he snapped his attention to the conversation at hand.
“The Munro,” he said simply. Arousal lowered the timbre of his voice to a rumble, and he resented both the desire she caused and the proof of its existence.
She was staring up at him again, her eyes ungodly wide, her delicate body all but naked to his gaze. Beneath his plaid, his clueless arousal nudged toward his belt, and he scowled at its stirrings.
“Wh—who?” she murmured.
He managed to laugh. His wick had the sense of a drowning cow; it could do little more than bob to the surface. But his mind could learn from old wounds, and despite the sight of her breasts, the touch of her skin, and the sweet curve of her bottom against his arm, he remembered the pain of feminine lies.
“The Munro,” he said, feeling the words come a little more easily, though his hard desire refused to subside. “You said his name quite clearly.”
“I did not,” she gasped.
“Aye, lass, you did. When you so cleverly collided with me, you uttered his name.”
She stared at him for a moment longer and then she laughed. He felt her relax a smidgen in his arms. “I fear your hearing is not what it might be, good sir.” She turned slightly. Her breast brushed his arm, burning on contact. Against his conscious will, his muscles contracted, and she drew smoothly from his grip while he struggled for composure. But it had been some months since the pressure in his groin had been relieved and hard edged desire and clear-headed thinking made rare bedfellows indeed. “What did you say then?” Crossing his arms against his chest with hard won nonchalance, he watched her wander toward the light.
“I said, ‘Let me go.’ “
Munro. Let me go. They did share a certain similarity, but he canted his head with noncommittal brevity and rested his shoulder against the wall.
” ‘Twas not I who ran into you, lass,” he reminded her, “but the other way about. I was merely attempting to keep you from hurting yourself. Which brings me to the most logical of questions: why were you fleeing down the hall like a frightened hare?”
“I told you, I dreamed a dream.”
“Aye,” he said, his tone evidencing the doubt he felt. “The dream in which I saved you.”
She did not try to deny it, but raised her sharp little chin and stared at him in the wavering candlelight. “Tell me, my laird Ramsay, is it all women you dislike, or just me in particular?”
He refused to let her see his surprise. “I fear you do not judge men as well as you think, lass. For I do not hate women at all.”
“Oh?” The hint of a smile played across the pink bow of her lips. He had always had a weakness for pink bows … and lips. “Angry, then.”
“What?”
“Are you angry at all women, or just me?”
“Is there some reason I should be angry at you?”
She shrugged. Her nipples caressed the gossamer fabric of her gown, but he refused to notice. Refused to be aroused. Refused to feel breathless. “Nothing comes to mind, sir. Thus I think you must be peeved with all of the fairer sex, and I wonder why that might be?”
Because women were supposed to be nurturing, loving, kind, when instead …
He jerked his mind back to the situation at hand.
“Methinks you are trying to lead me away from the original topic,” he said. “I asked about your dream.”
She shrugged. He knew better now than to let his gaze drift even the slightest inch from her face.
“I dreamed that my people were in trouble,” she said.
“And you thought to race back through the night to save them?”
“They are my kin,” she said simply.
” ‘Twould be rather foolhardy of you to endure such a dangerous journey alone, would it not?”
“What choice do I have?”
He stared at her for a moment and then laughed. “I am certain you know exactly what choice you have.”
She raised a brow at him and for a moment he saw a spark of anger flash across her delicate features. “Mayhap you overestimate my intelligence,” she suggested, her tone as cool as spring water.
“Nay. I doubt that,” he said. ” ‘Tis me brothers. The two of them would trot grinning through the fires of hell for the privilege of making fools of themselves for you.”
“Fools of themselves?”
“Did I say fools? I meant, they would trot through hell for the privilege of escorting you home.”
“Oh?”
“I fear they are quite smitten,” he said in brief explanation.
“But not you.”
He raised a placating hand, palm outward. “Me apologies, lass. But you cannot expect to have every man swooning at your feet.”
“I see. So you are above …” She turned slightly, as if searching for the perfect words. She was standing very close to the candle now. Close enough, in fact, that he could see the dark circles of her nipples through her kindly gown. “Swooning?”
His groin tightened with painful urgency, but he wrested his gaze back to her face and his thoughts back to the conversation. “Again, I apologize.”
She laughed, and somehow the sound only made the ache in his groin more insistent, for this was honest humor. No subterfuge, no simpering; a forthright from-the-gut laugh that seemed incongruous coming from her baby soft lips.
“So tell me, MacGowan, are you immune to all feminine charms or just my own?”
“I fear there is no way to answer that without insulting either me or thee,” he said and she smiled.
“Please, speak freely.”
“I am as attracted to women as the next man.”
“Ahh,” she said, and turned to pace slowly along the wall. Her night rail hugged her thighs as they moved, and though there was little more to see than the outline of her delicate form and the flicker of her tiny feet below its hem, the moment seemed hopelessly erotic. “So what is it about me that you find unbecoming?”
He watched her. “Dishonesty.”
“What?” She stopped in mid stride.
“I have little use for lies.”
“Is that it, then?” she asked. “Does the fact that you have decided—wrongfully, I might add—that I am less than truthful, turn you away from me?”
“I have no fondness for women who manipulate men to gain their own ends.”
“And is that what I am doing, MacGowan?”
” ‘Tis what you are trying to do, though I don’t know why or how.”
“Am I so deceitful?”
“Aye, I think you are.”
“Then mayhap there was no dream. Mayhap I knew you were here and ran into the hall with the express purpose of finding you thus.”
“Mayhap I calculated just how I would look with …” She tossed her head at the candle. Golden light flickered in the tangled mass of her glorious hair. “With the light at my back and my night rail so thin.” She pressed it to her abdomen, stretching the fabric tight across her bosom so that it fell in a V between her legs. “Mayhap I thought myself irresistible.”
He wrestled his gaze from her hand, forced it past her breasts and locked it on her face. His own felt hot. “Mayhap you did.”
“So …” She stood directly before him now, her tiny feet nearly touching his, her face raised. The laces of her gown lay open, caressing her breasts and showing the smooth lawn of her ivory throat, and he swallowed hard. “Mayhap I hoped to seduce you.”
He said nothing.
Their gazes melded and desire flared like a smithy’s fire in his gut.
She leaned a fraction of an inch closer, her lips slightly parted, her eyes half closed.
“But there was a dream, Sir Angry,” she said. “There was a dream and you saved me from its terrors.”
“Did I?” ‘Twas no easy task to force the words past his stuttering lips. ‘Twas more difficult still to make them sound nonchalant.
“Aye, you did. And for that I give you this.”
She rose on her tiptoes. He felt the brush of her breath against his cheek, felt her nearness like an onslaught to his senses, and then her lips touched his. Lightly, like the stroke of a butterfly’s wing, they caressed him. He closed his eyes to the rushing feelings and tightened his fists, keeping them resolutely by his sides, but there was little hope of restraining other parts of his anatomy. Though he remained where he was, his erection pulsed against her.
Eyes wide, she halted the kiss abruptly. He slowed his breathing with a determined effort and held her gaze.
“My good sir.” Her voice was cool and she watched him from beneath lowered lids, like a consummate seductress. Yet her hands were clasped together like a lost child’s. “I fear ‘tis you who is the liar.” And turning away, she disappeared down the hall.
* * * * *
Ramsay sat quietly near the door of the solar.
“So you did not find the warrior who was following our bonny Mary?” Roderic asked, turning toward Gilmour.
“Nay.” Mour took a bite from the scone he’d charmed out of the kitchen maids and scowled. “Even his tracks disappeared.”
“Disappeared?” Lachlan scoffed and fiddled with his knife. “Like a puff of smoke?”
“Nay,” Gilmour said. “Like a ghost.”
“You should have sent me after all, Da,” Lachlan said. “I fear me brother was in too big a hurry to return to the infirmary to follow the trail.”
“Unlike you, brother, who certainly has not been mooning about waiting for a single word with the lass,” Gilmour said.
“I but worry that you’ll wear her out with your constant—”
“And what of you, Lachlan?” Flanna interrupted. “What news from Braeburn?”
“None, Mother,” he said, “but ‘tis of no import now, surely, for the lass is awake and has told us herself whence she hails.”
She paused for just a moment. “Of course. Levenlair was it not?”
“Aye. Her entourage was attacked and she was left to fend for herself.” A muscle jumped in Lachlan’s jaw. “I think I will take it upon meself to look for the warrior this day.”
“A fine idea,” Gilmour said. “As for me, I have business here in the keep.”
“In the infirmary, more like.”
“Nay,” Gilmour insisted. “I’ve no such plans. Surely such a delicate thing needs her …”
Ramsay’s thoughts drifted away.
Aye, the lass did look to be a delicate thing; but beneath that satin soft skin there was probably a core of iron. She hardly needed his help. He’d been a dolt last night. Aye, and worse. Why he’d been unable to sleep, he didn’t know, or why his restless feet had then taken him in the direction of the infirmary. After all, he wasn’t attracted—
Well, mayhap he was somewhat attracted, but only because his wick was a hopeless hound. His head wasn’t the least bit intrigued. He should have stayed away. Shouldn’t have touched her. Shouldn’t have talked to her. Shouldn’t have questioned her honesty. After all, what did he care if she lied? What did he care that she had the voice of a queen, the eyes of a wanton, and the hands of a wee, frightened lass? What did he care that he could not tell which she truly was? He had no intention of getting involved with her. He didn’t like her, wasn’t interested in her, didn’t plan to—
“Mary!”
“Mary!”
The dual gasps startled him out of his reverie, and he jerked his head up just in time to see her curtsy in the doorway.
“My apologies, my lairds. My lady,” she said. “I’ve no wish to disturb you, but a servant said I might find you here.”
“Mary,” Lachlan said, stepping toward her, “you should be abed.”
“Aye,” Gilmour agreed, and pressing past his brother, reached for the girl’s hand where it rested on the door jamb. “Come, I’ll escort you back to the infirmary.”
“I must not.” Her voice was soft yet firm, but when she pulled her hand against her skirt, it was with unbridled haste. She was fully dressed in the indigo gown they’d found her in. It had been washed and repaired and made her appear only marginally more sturdy than the nightgown had. “Though I thank you for all your help and hospitality, I fear I cannot stay any—”
“Cannot stay!” Gilmour cried.
“What?” Lachlan chimed in.
“I must return to my home.”
“Surely you cannot—”
“Not so—”
“My sons—” Flanna sent them each a withering glance. “Shall we let the lass speak, or shall we bind and gag her before carting her off to abide in the infirmary forever?”
Lachlan cleared his throat. Gilmour grinned sheepishly.
“Come in, Mary of Levenlair,” Roderic said.
Ramsay filled his starving lungs with air as she glided across the floor. Not a glance did she spare him, as if last night had never been.
Flanna smiled at her. “There are many things I could ask you, young Mary,” she said. “What brought you here. Where you were bound. Who troubled you. But mostly I wonder, however did you escape Elspeth’s watchful eye?”
“I am quite well and have no need—” she began but Flanna interrupted her.
“So you sneaked away.”
From his place beside the door, Ramsay saw the girl’s face color. Like a harmless lambkin, she looked— all soft and pale and helpless.
“I believe your Elspeth thought me asleep, my lady,” she admitted quietly.
“Ahh, I see. And why did you feel such a need to hurry from your bed?”
“I must return to my homeland immediately.” She paused for a moment. ” ‘Tis my old nurse. Her health is not good. Still, she insisted I travel to my cousin’s during her travail, but I did not plan to be gone so long, and now with the further delay … I must return home today.”
“Today!” ‘Twas Lachlan who could no longer remain silent. “Surely not.”
“I’ve no wish to seem ungrateful for all you’ve done, and no wish to ask for more, but …” She paused. “You haven’t by chance found a white palfrey running loose, have you?”
“Lass,” Gilmour said, “truly, you cannot take on such a grueling journey at this time. If you are so concerned about your nurse, we could certainly send Lachlan to see to her health.”
Ramsay rose. “So it is a white steed I should be searching for?” he asked.
“Aye.” She turned toward him. “A bonny mare with an unruly mane and a crimson saddle pad. There’s been no word of her, then?” Her voice was cool, her chin raised at an indifferent angle, but her hands … once again they seemed to be at odds with her words, for they gripped her mended skirt with tenacious ferocity.<
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“Nay. No word thus far,” Ramsay said, and lifted his gaze from her hands to her face.
She loosened her grip abruptly, as if caught in the act of something disgraceful, and let her velvet skirt swirl to the floor. “Well, there is naught to be done for it, I suppose. She is only a steed, after all. I must away without her.”
“Surely you cannot think to go alone,” Flanna said.
“I would not ask more from you than you’ve already given. Indeed …” Her sky blue eyes swept sideways, encompassing Lachlan and Gilmour, but somehow missing Ramsay entirely. “It seems I owe you my very life, but I must leave immediately.”
“Surely not.”
“Not alone, at any rate,” Lachlan said, and shifted his weight slightly, so that his solid form was balanced between wide spread feet.
“Aye,” Gilmour agreed. “I shall escort you.”
” ‘Tis I who shall go,” Lachlan corrected, but his brother shook his head as if saddened.
“Truly, brother, there is none I would rather have at me back than thee as I accompany the fair lass to her home in the north. But Mother needs you here.”
“And though she is eager to be rid of the likes of you, I fear I must disappoint her,” Lachlan argued. “For ‘tis I who shall escort the girl.”
“Nay. I—”
“Lads!” Flanna interrupted. “Mayhap it would be best if you did not speak of me as if I were not here.”
“My apologies.”
“So sorry,” Lachlan murmured.
“Aye,” she said and glanced at one, then the other, before turning her gaze to Ramsay. “And what of you, my son?”
He pulled his gaze from the girl’s face. Something had coiled hard and fast in his stomach, but he shrugged with deliberate nonchalance. “If my brothers manage to refrain from killing each other, I am certain she will be quite safe with the two of them.”
Flanna raised her brows. Roderic rose beside her. “The two of them?”
“Together?”
” ‘Twould mayhap be more than the lass had bargained for,” Flanna opined.
