by Lois Greiman
“She merely loved the sea. Some do. My maid servant is also quite adept at swimming. There’s naught unusual in that, surely.” She watched him for an eternal moment, then shifted her gaze back to her hands. “But I fear the sea did not love my mother in return.”
“Thus you have no family.”
“I have family. Stout Helena was my uncle’s wife.
My maid, Isobel, is as dear as a sister to me, and Ailsa, who cares for the goats, is my cousin’s—”
“I meant, no immediate family. No siblings or parents.”
“Nay.”
“Mayhap that is why you do not believe in love.” Her eyes flickered up. “Your brothers … do you love them?”
He scowled, searching for an answer that would not undermine any masculinity she might believe him to possess. “In an irritating sort of way, aye.”
The beginning of a smile twitched her lips, but she sobered in an instant. “And I, too, care for my own people. Therefore I must reach home. I do not deny that I need your help, MacGowan. Thus, I would bind your wound now so that I can achieve that end sooner.”
She reached out and touched his arm. Warmth skittered across his flesh in the wake of her fingertips and all hope of sensible dialogue fled like loosed doves.
“I do not think it requires stitches,” she said.
“Nay.” He dropped his head back against the bed board again and refused to look at her. Lust was good and well to talk about, but he knew better than to allow such feral emotions into his own life. Better by far to remain distant, controlled, aloof. But maybe he’d drunk a bit much to reach for those lofty standards. ‘Twas to be hoped, though, that it was not too late for sanity. “It will heal on its own,” he said, and congratulated himself for his outstanding rational.
” ‘Tis hot to the touch,” she said.
Aye, beneath her fingertips, he did indeed feel warm. He refused to look at her, as part of his bid for sanity. “Do not worry yourself,” he said, but she was already rising. For a moment he glimpsed a flash of trim ankle. He’d always had a weakness for trim ankles, but in a moment her gown fell modestly back in place. Still, his wick had a damnably fine memory, and it stood alert, lest she bare the tiniest scrap of skin again, and it be called into emergency service.
Ramsay watched her hurry away from the bed with the remainder of their meal. In a moment she was bending away from him. Her bottom, hugged by her saintly gown, was shown to rounded perfection. His desire swelled to aching proportions. He’d always had a weakness for round bottoms hugged by … in that instant she turned, his dirk clasped in her delicate hand.
“What are your plans for me blade?” he asked, keeping his tone level.
“Are you worried?”
“Should I be?”
“Mayhap,” she said and eyed his chest for an instant. “If I were the lustful sort.”
“Ahh, fortunate I am, then.”
“Indeed,” she said and putting her knife to a bathing linen, sliced twice into the edge. She ripped off two strips, rolled the cloth into misshapen bundles and retraced her steps to the bed. Retrieving the bottle he’d brought earlier, she doused a rag and settled next to him on the mattress. It sighed happily beneath her tight little bottom. Ramsay gritted his teeth to keep from doing the same.
“Are you well?” she asked, pausing with the cloth only inches from his wound.
“Aye.” He exhaled deliberately, tried to relax, and reached, in some desperation, for the bottle. She touched the cloth to his wound just as he took his first sip. It tasted considerably better than it felt, but it was the slow brush of her fingers against his flesh that forced the hiss from his lips.
“I hurt you.”
“Nay.” He took another drink.
“I am sorry.”
“That you did not hurt me?”
“Nay.” Retrieving a rolled bandage, she set the edge to his arm. “That you are such a poor liar.”
He chuckled, but the mere rasp of her knuckles as they slanted across his chest was almost more than he could bear. Surely mead could drown his desire. ‘Twas said to have strong calming powers, but thus far his wick didn’t seem the least bit calm.
The silence in the room was smothering.
She cleared her throat. “You are dark.”
He could actually feel the tickle of her breath against his shoulder. The linen across his lap strained. “Aye.” Her hair was drying to feathery softness. He balled his hands to fists and concentrated on the pain. It was pathetically easy to ignore, so he thought about porridge. He had a strong revulsion for porridge. “I bear French blood on me mother’s side.”
“And hard,” she said.
“What?” He snapped his gaze to hers. She reared back as if struck.
“Scarred!” she said, wide eyed and undeniably startled. “You are scarred.”
He glared at her, his torso feeling too tight to accommodate all the necessary organs. “Oh.”
She leaned fractionally nearer to continue her job and the backs of her fingers slid languidly against the straining muscles of his side. “How …” She cleared her throat again. He couldn’t help but notice that her cheeks were pink with color that fingered delicately toward her bosom. He dragged his gaze away and remembered how porridge looked after it had cooled and congealed. “How did you come by the scars?”
Her voice was like nothing he had ever heard. Husky yet soft, and each whispered note seemed to pump his manhood more firmly toward his belly.
“The scars.” He dragged his attention back to her question. “I have brothers.”
“And I used to resent not having siblings,” she said, still bandaging. How damn long were those cloths?
“The scars were not intentional … usually,” he said.
“That one?” she asked, nodding toward his shoulder.
She was sitting painfully close, and each time she wrapped the cloth, her knee nudged his thigh. Porridge with gizzards! he thought frantically, and took a good long swig from the bottle. Ah, yes, he could remember how it smelled after it had been congealing for a day, but it was difficult to concentrate on it like he should, and if he didn’t answer she was likely to believe any sort of outlandish nonsense. Such as, her touch was driving him toward the teetering edge of insanity, and if she didn’t stop soon, he would be tempted beyond control to do something truly idiotic.
The back side of her wrist brushed his ribs, but her gaze remained on that half forgotten scar. He gritted his teeth and dredged up a memory. “Lachlan always felt a need to prove himself me equal, even when he was no bigger than a hare.”
“He attacked, you?” Her eyes were soft and wide, but he refused to notice.
“He hid himself in a tree and planned to land just in front of me as I walked beneath. The element of surprise has always appealed to him.”
“But?”
“But he misjudged and landed atop me. Bullock had made him a wee wooden sword which Lachlan always kept strapped to his hip. ‘Twas a more effective weapon than any of us suspected,” he said.
“And that one?” she asked, staring at a nick on the underside of his forearm. ” ‘Tis fresh.”
“Me brother Iain is still young.”
“It should be cleaned.”
“I cleaned it.”
“With mead,” she said, and reached across his body with her doused rag.
He tried to tell her no, to stop her from leaning across him, but he couldn’t force out the word. And though her breasts never actually touched him, his lungs compressed as if her bosom were pressed with heartfelt passion against his, as if he could feel the peaked bliss of them against his naked chest. The rich, warm scent of her filled his head, and the innocent brush of her gown against his bare leg was nearly more than he could bear.
Their faces were mere inches apart, the sassy tilt of her lips a breath away.
He hated her! his mind argued, but his doltish desire didn’t care a whit. Holding his breath, he reached out, no more able to stop hims
elf than to still the beat of his heart. Her hair felt blissfully soft against his fingertips, and her skin, when he touched it, seemed like heaven. She didn’t move, didn’t speak. Instead, she sat perfectly still as he skimmed down the delicate length of her throat and curved his hand behind her neck. He gave her one more chance to fly, gave himself one more chance to think, but the only organ that seemed to be functioning properly was insisting that he not think. That he just act.
He leaned closer. At the base of her throat, a pulse thrummed with insistent life. She stared at him, lips parted and so tempting that there was nothing he could do. Nothing but kiss her.
Their lips met softly. Desire roared like fire in his veins, consuming all thought. But he couldn’t afford to be consumed. He tried to pull away, to stop such madness, but he had lost all control to his least productive organ. So instead he leaned closer, deepening the kiss, and she moaned against the caress.
It was that single, raspy sound of desire that ripped away all hope of control. He pulled her to him. Her breasts crushed against his bare skin, igniting a thousand fires in his soul. Her waist felt tight against his palm and when he cupped his hand over the delectable curve of her buttocks—
“Nay!” She rasped the word into his mouth.
It took him a moment of hazy pain to realize she was pushing away with both hands pressed against his chest, a moment longer to force himself away.
They sat facing each other. Her breathing was ragged, her eyes impossibly large in the delicate oval of her face.
God, he was a dolt. Once again he’d read her entirely wrong. She did not desire him, did not want him at all. Yet she was not retreating, not flying to the far side of the room. She sat perfectly still, either paralyzed with fear, or …
Nay, he would not let himself consider the options. So he balled his hands to fists against the mattress and watched her.
“No lust?” he asked. His voice was so low it was barely audible to his own ears, but she heard him. He knew it by her eyes, and yet, for long breathless seconds she didn’t speak, didn’t move.
“Mary,” he said, and leaned forward again.
“Nay!” she said, and jerked back, breathing hard. “Nay. No lust.”
He watched her. Her eyes were as wide as the heavens, and the pulse in her throat thrummed like that of a cornered hare or like that of a woman who desperately wished to be loved. But who was he to call her liar? He was a fool, and probably far worse.
“Well, then,” he said, and drawing back, shoved his feet over the edge of the bed. It was immensely difficult to move even that far, but rising was even worse, like thrusting oneself from the edge of a cliff. “I will let you take your rest.”
“Where are you going?”
Anywhere but here, so near the flame when he was freezing. “Below stairs.”
“In a linen?” she asked.
There was something about the way she spoke— so full of hope and hopelessness all at once that his heart felt as if it had stopped dead in his chest. But no. He would not look for hope where there was only trouble.
Reaching dismally for his plaid, he wrapped it about the towel. There were few things less inviting than five yards of wet wool. Still, its chilly weight would do him good. Belting it sloppily about his waist, he allowed himself one last glance at her. “I go to find dry garments,” he said.
“Oh.” Her tone was already cool. She drew her knees toward her chest and it suddenly seemed that a thousand rods were placed between them. “Of course.”
“Aye. Well, good night to you, then.”
“Good night.”
He dragged himself toward the door, turned the handle with an effort and stepped into the hall, but as he trod along her words rang in his head.
“Of course,” she’d said. As if she did not believe him at all. As if he were the liar.
The common room was empty but for a trio of men just finishing up their meals and a pair of serious drinkers who sat near the door. One was balding and squat, the other scrawny and listing haphazardly to the left.
A fire burned in the nearby hearth. It drew Ramsay across the room, for his damp plaid had already cooled his blood. If he was so foolish as to be aroused by a woman whom he didn’t like and who didn’t like him, soggy clothes had a grand way of chilling his ardor.
Lifting his hands toward the heat, he stared into the flickering flame.
She’d felt so soft in his arms, so tempting, and though she’d pushed away, it almost seemed as if she did not quite want—
Nay, he wouldn’t think about that. It didn’t matter. Yet her eyes had seemed so unearthly bright, and her mouth …
Damn! Her mouth was probably lying. While she told him she didn’t want him, it trembled as if she did, while she really didn’t. Did that make her a double liar or just a consummate actress?
He ground his teeth. He must have no pride at all. What kind of man made a habit of wanting women who did not want him in return?
“Of course,” she’d said, in that seductively innocent voice. Of course he was going to find new garments. Why would he not? His own were sodden, yet she seemed to think he would lie. Why? Because ‘twas what she herself would do most probably. Or—
“Me laird!”
So deep was he into his own thoughts that he jumped at the interruption.
Glenna dimpled as she curtsied. Her bosom bobbed with a rhythm of its own.
“Good eventide,” she said. “I am so pleased you decided to come.”
He stared.
She dimpled again. Then, reaching for his arm, she tugged him toward a chair and plopped a mug and a pitcher on the table before him. Ale sloshed over the rim. “Sit. I’ll only be a short while. I’ve little enough to do this eve—since me master hired the new maid.”
He scowled as he pulled his gaze from his ale to her face. “I need a change of garments. Mayhap you know where I could acquire a tunic and plaid.”
She gave him a slanted smile. “A mite chilly in your room, was it?”
Ahh! Reality struck him somewhat belatedly. She was hoping to seduce him, just as Mary had suspected. ‘Twas the very reason she had said “of course.” She had expected him to fly from her arms into another’s— but had there been disappointment in her voice?
He turned abruptly toward the stairs at the thought. His feet were ready to charge back up toward her, but the maid stood in his way.
“Have a seat, me laird,” she purred. ” ‘Twill only be a few moments afore I am finished for the night.”
He dragged his gaze from the stairs. “Mayhap I’ll come back later,” he said, and moved to step around her, but she turned, blocking his path.
“Don’t go, me laird. ‘Twill be a lonely night for me, as well. Drink your ale,” she urged, and tugged him into the chair so that he was at eye level with her cleavage. It was deep enough to drown in.
“I shall return before you can say Colin McGinny,” she said and rushed away.
He stared after her, watching the sway of her generous hips as he tasted his drink.
She was an earthy sort; earthy and honest. If the truth be told, she was the type of woman he preferred. There had once been a time when he imagined he would be one of the lucky few to marry for love. He would find a lass who needed him, who cherished him above all others. She would bear his children and they would cling together for all eternity. But that foolish dream was no more. So why the hell shouldn’t he accept this buxom maid’s offer?
But if Notmary was so cold—so why was he so damned randy? It wasn’t as if her beauty was overwhelming, and her personality left a host of things to be desired. He drank again. Aye, she was a liar and she hoped to manipulate him. Still, he would see her safely home. ‘Twas his duty, but he would do no more than that. No matter how soft her skin or how big her eyes or how lost her hands.
“Of course,” she’d said. Regally, like a queen, yet beneath the cool tone, was there a touch of pain? Was she disappointed?
Ramsay scowled into the
fire.
On the far side of the room, the trio of men finally exited quietly. Minutes slipped away, as did the ale.
“Here, then.” Glenna was back, refilling his horn. “I’ll be with you in a blink.”
Ramsay took another swig. What if Notmary was disappointed? ‘Twas probably only because she felt her grip on him slipping. Though she sometimes seemed as innocent as a lambkin, she knew he yearned for her. And he knew she was not above using that yearning. ‘Twas the difference between her and this Glenna.
“I’ll be the one to say when I’ve ‘ad enough.” The balding man’s voice was raised and not entirely happy.
Glenna glanced toward Ramsay and smiled. He lifted his horn and drank to her straightforward ways as she leaned over the table. The balding man’s eyes followed her bosom. Ramsay couldn’t hear her words, but he thought, with the dim part of his mind that was still functioning, that the bald fellow jumped when she leaned closer.
“All right. As you wish, then,” he said, and jerking from his seat, rubbed gingerly at his flat chest.
Glenna glanced toward Ramsay and dimpled another smile before turning back to her patrons and nodding toward the sleeping fellow. Again, he couldn’t hear her words, but the balding fellow’s were clear.
” ‘E ain’t my worry.”
She stepped closer. The man cringed away, covering his chest with a bony hand.
“All right then. ‘Arry. ‘Arry, wake up.”
After a bit of prodding, the second fellow was on his feet and the pair tottered from the inn.
Glenna was back at Ramsay’s table in a moment. “They had to leave.”
“All good things must come to an end,” he said, and stared dismally at the bottom of the mead pitcher.
” ‘Tis only the beginning,” she countered.
He glanced up. Aye, she was offering herself, he thought as his eyes fell into her cleavage. And the lovely bit was … there was no reason for him to refuse. Certainly not because of Mary. She was the last one to care.
“So …” She took the chair next to his and propped her elbows upon the table. “Shall we get you out of that wet plaid?” Her bosom swelled with lively enthusiasm as she squeezed her arms together. He liked bosoms with lively enthusiasm.
