The Highlander's Return

by Marguerite Kaye

  Alasdhair hadn’t noticed the blood. He didn’t like having Donald’s blood on him either, but right now it was the least of his worries. He was finding it almost impossible not to look at the way her sark clung to the sweet curves of her body. He was finding the notion of sharing her bath water horribly appealing. His mind was conjuring up distracting images of her standing naked in the tub, with water streaming down her body, the valley between her breasts, the soft mounds of her bottom, droplets clinging to the damp curls between her legs. Under his plaid, his erection hardened.

  ‘Alasdhair?’

  He opened his eyes. She was standing right next to him. Close. Not close enough. Too close. ‘I should …’

  She wanted to tell him. The words fought for expression, clogging her throat, tingling on her lips. She wanted to tell him. She was taken aback at how much. She wanted to kiss him. She wanted him to hold her in his arms. He was looking at her so strangely. He must be so weary. She would not tell him, but she could tend to him.

  Without giving herself time to think about how bold she was about to be, Ailsa nudged Alasdhair towards the tub. ‘Let me.’ She started to undo the strings of his waistcoat.

  ‘What are you doing? I can manage fine myself.’

  ‘It’s in a knot. I have smaller fingers.’ She loosened the fastenings and pulled the heavy leather garment down over Alasdhair’s arms, dropping it to the floor.

  Alasdhair clenched his hands rigidly at his sides. If only she would move away, he would be able to regain control of himself. But instead of leaving him, she dropped down to her knees. ‘Ailsa, what on earth …’

  ‘I want to do something for you, that’s all.’ She undid the laces of his boots, her tongue peeking out between her lips as she concentrated on the task, tugging first one, then the other from his foot. Then she unlaced the ties on his stockings, rolling them carefully down his calves.

  Rising to her feet again, she teetered, clutching at Alasdhair for balance. He closed his eyes. He could feel the movement of her hair tickle his chest.

  She picked up the huge iron kettle from the hearth and topped up the bath water. ‘Get in,’ she said to Alasdhair, pushing him to the rim of the tub and picking up the flannel.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  He looked dazed. He must be very tired. ‘Get in,’ Ailsa said with renewed determination. ‘Let me wash you. It is my fault that you are in such a state.’

  She wanted to wash him. Dear God, he wanted to let her. Alasdhair summoned up his last ounce of resistance. ‘I can manage.’

  ‘Please.’ She looked up at him, all big violet eyes and pink lips and curling gold hair. ‘Please. There is so little I can do, and you have done so much, let me do this one thing for you.’

  Alasdhair took a deep breath. It just required him to take the flannel from her. To tell her to turn her back. He opened his mouth to say the words and instead found himself stepping into the water. It was what she wanted. For some reason, she seemed intent on it. Who was he to deny her? He would endure it. He could endure it. He gritted his teeth as she stooped to fill a cup with water and stood on her tiptoes to empty it over him. Who was he fooling?

  He was beautiful, Ailsa thought, as she stooped for another cupful of water. She had not expected to find a man beautiful, but Alasdhair was. His entire upper body was tanned. Naked save for his plaid, he seemed much bigger, broader. A bruise was purpling on his shoulder, another on his ribs. She trickled water down over his shoulders, watching mesmerised as the droplets clung to the hair on his chest, into the hollow of his stomach, dipping into his navel, forging their tantalising way down beneath his belt. She trickled it down his back next, over the strange faint white ridges she had noticed earlier. ‘Where did you get these marks?’ She traced the pale lines with her finger tips.

  ‘I told you, my first job was on a slave plantation. Let us just say they terminated my employment in a somewhat physical manner.’

  Ailsa stared at the scars in horror. ‘Do you mean they whipped you?’ Tears started into her eyes. ‘What did you do to deserve such barbaric punishment?’

  ‘The overseer was very cruel to the workers, especially the slaves. I stood up to him, so they decided to make an example of me. It made a lasting impression, in more ways than one. Since that day I have always ensured that my workers are treated well and work in the best conditions possible. Here, give me the soap, let me do this.’

  She snatched her hand away. ‘No.’

  ‘Ailsa, I really don’t think …’

  ‘Don’t think, then. And don’t talk,’ she said, placing a finger over his mouth to shush him.

  He ought to think. He ought to get his thoughts straight now, before it was too late, but his thoughts refused to be marshalled. Still reeling from the shock of her abduction, staggered by the fierce wave of protectiveness that engulfed him at the very notion of harm coming to her, Alasdhair was frightened by the strength of his own feelings. He did not know what to do with them, nor what to make of them, for they made everything else seem insignificant in comparison, and he could no longer fool himself into believing they were the remnant of anything from the past. This painful, tugging, wrenching thing inside him, which seemed to say mine with increasing conviction every time he looked at her or thought of her, had nothing to do with anything so insipid as calf love. He had never felt anything like it. He wasn’t sure he wanted to. The only thing he was sure of was that he had to excise it, for it was painful, and he didn’t want to have to endure it any longer.

  He ought to think. He really ought to think. But how could he, when there was Ailsa standing so close, smelling so sweet, looking so incredibly lovely and horribly vulnerable and achingly desirable. The voice picked up volume again. Mine, it said, like a fierce growl. Mine.

  He had never felt anything so sensual as the slow, sweeping motion of the flannel on his skin, the delicate touch of her fingers as she swept his hair back from his brow, leant against his back, his chest, his shoulders, to steady herself as she worked. Her breasts brushed against him through the damp cotton of her sark. He had never experienced anything so erotic as the rhythm of her stooping and pouring, stooping and pouring. Never known anything like the gentle intimacy of the scene, the scent of her damp skin against his, the sharing of the water, and the flannel.

  She washed his hands and his arms. Standing on tiptoe, she worked her way across his chest, his shoulders. Down his arms. He stood perfectly still. The corded sinews on his forearms stood out like ship’s rope. The muscles on his calves, too, braced. As she reached his stomach, he knew he could not resist much longer. The poor lass had just escaped from one seduction; the last thing on her mind was another, he was sure. She was doing this out of kindness and obligation, she had no idea of the effect she was having on him. None. And he would not allow her to see.

  ‘That’s enough.’ Gently, reluctantly, determinedly, he wrested the flannel and soap from her. ‘Thank you, but I can manage on my own now. You look exhausted. You should go to bed. I’ll leave you in peace in a minute.’

  Ailsa nodded and did as she was bid, sitting on top of the bed, a blush stealing over her cheek as wanting warred with belated embarrassment at how bold she had been. Not that she for a moment regretted it. Every inch of him that she had touched was recorded for ever in her mind. It was a worshipping, an adoration, and like to be her only chance to do so. She would never regret it. How could she when she loved him?

  She loved him. She loved him. She loved him. The words filled her with delight. She closed her eyes, a smile guarding her precious secret.

  Chapter Eight

  When she opened them again, Alasdhair was standing before her, his body still damp, his hair sleekly brushed back on his forehead. He wore only his plaid, that was also damp. ‘Alasdhair,’ she said, just for the pleasure of saying his name.

  He sat down beside her. He smelled of soap and damp wool. ‘Do you think you will sleep now?’

  ‘Not yet. I want to know how you found
me.’

  Alasdhair hesitated. ‘Maybe in the morning, when …’

  ‘No. I want to know now. It’s all right, I assume my mother had some part in it.’

  ‘Lady Munro seems very eager for you to marry Donald.’

  Ailsa’s mouth trembled. ‘Enough to connive at my abduction. What a care she has for me.’ She rubbed the back of her hand over her eyes. ‘You know, the irony of it is that just before Donald broke into my room I was thinking I had been too hard on her. She said to me last night—I can’t believe it was just last night—she said to me that despite how it looked, she cared for me. I thought, she’s my mother, perhaps she deserves one final last chance. I should have known better. When Donald burst in I knew he would not have dared such a thing without my mother’s knowledge.’

  ‘Twisted as her logic was, I really do think she believed she was acting in your best interests in trying to speed your marriage to Donald.’

  ‘How can you say that? She knows—I made it plain—that I do not want to marry him. How can she imagine that making me unhappy is in my best interests?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Ailsa, I don’t know the answer to that. I do know that she loves you though, for she told me so.’

  ‘She actually said those words?’

  Ailsa’s big violet eyes looked eagerly at him. Such a simple, obvious thing for a mother to say, yet she obviously had not. Ever. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you think she meant it?’

  Alasdhair felt as if his heart was being squeezed. He couldn’t bear her to be disappointed, but he couldn’t bear to lie to her, either. In his own mind, Lady Munro had behaved unforgivably towards her daughter. Whatever her motives, she had connived at Ailsa’s kidnap and would have allowed her to be forcibly wed too, knowing full well how Ailsa felt about Donald. It was not just a selfish action, nor even just a thoughtless one, but a cruel one, and he despised her for it. But to say so, to make his feelings plain, would only hurt Ailsa, and she had suffered enough. Lady Munro had shown some contrition, but it was too little and too late; besides, he had pretty much had to force it from her.

  ‘I think she meant it in her own way,’ he said cautiously.

  Ailsa ran her fingers through her hair, pushing the curls back from her face. ‘Aye, perhaps. But those sentiments will be short-lived, once she finds out that she’s been thwarted, thanks to you.’

  Alasdhair sighed heavily. ‘I think she’ll just be relieved that you’re safe. Truly, Ailsa, I don’t think she means to make you miserable. It’s more that she’s so set on having her own way that she can’t see beyond it.’

  ‘It’s good of you, and I know you mean to make me feel better, but honestly, Alasdhair, you’ve no need.’

  ‘Have you thought of what you will do next?’ he asked.

  Ailsa shook her head. ‘I don’t know. I don’t want to think about it right now, if you don’t mind. Stay with me a minute, tell me your own plans.’ She didn’t really want to know, for the implications were bound to be painful, but if she did not know then she would hope. And that would be even more unbearable. ‘My mother let fall that she has known all along where your own is living. She told me you were heading off in search of her.’

  ‘I was. I am. I intended to travel to Inveraray, where she is, after saying farewell to you, but when I got to the castle and found you gone I changed my plans.’

  ‘Inveraray is not so far from here, I haven’t taken you too much out of your way after all. You must have so many things you want to ask her.’

  Alasdhair frowned. ‘Maybe. I mean of course, yes, I’ve questions for her. I just don’t know if her answers matter any more.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘She left my father for another man and abandoned me in the process. She made no attempt to get in touch with me. She must have had her reasons, I’m sure she does, but what difference does it make now?’

  Ailsa could not resist taking his hand. ‘Alasdhair, you must not be putting off this business on account of me, if that is what you’re worrying about. You’re worn out and it’s my fault. Tomorrow you will have regained your perspective. I can make my own way back to Errin Mhor quite easily, you know, I would not like—’

  ‘No! Absolutely not.’

  ‘I am perfectly capable—’

  ‘No. You’re not going anywhere on your own.’ Or anywhere without him, until he knew what was going on.

  ‘You can’t possibly be worrying that my mother would engineer another abduction? Even if she wanted to, Donald is hardly in a fit state to be thinking of matrimony.’

  Alasdhair smiled. ‘No, McNair will not be capable of going down on bended knee any time soon, that will come as welcome relief to the womenfolk of Argyll.’

  ‘You mustn’t worry about me, Alasdhair.’

  ‘But I do.’

  The fire crackled. Alasdhair turned to tend to it, laying two dried peats on top of the embers. How well the plaid suited him, Ailsa thought, watching him. Some men had such spindly legs, but Alasdhair’s were shapely. She hadn’t really noticed before, how well the plaid showed a man’s body—when he had the right body. Not many men looked as well as Alasdhair in Highland dress. None, really, now that she thought about it. She was willing to bet no man looked as good as Alasdhair.

  He left the fire and came back to stand before her. ‘I should leave you to get some sleep. Will you be all right?’

  ‘I’ll be fine.’ But her voice wavered. She didn’t want to be alone. She didn’t want to think about what had so nearly happened to her, but mostly she didn’t want Alasdhair to go.

  ‘Ailsa, come here.’ Alasdhair stooped to wrap his arms around her, hugging her tight against his chest. ‘You’re safe now, I promise. No harm will ever come to you when you are with me. Please don’t cry. I can’t bear it when you cry.’

  ‘I’m not crying.’ Her voice was muffled, for her face was pressed against his chest. He smelled so achingly familiar, so painfully perfect that if she could have found a way of bottling it, she would wear it as a perfume.

  Alasdhair stroked her hair. She smelled of soap and sunshine. She felt soft and pliant and very disturbingly right nestling there.

  Ailsa snuggled into Alasdhair’s bare chest. ‘I’m sorry to have put you to so much trouble,’ she whispered, her voice muffled by his skin.

  ‘I’d endure anything to keep you safe.’ As he said the words he knew he meant it, meant it with all his heart. Her hair was dry now, tumbling in a river of gold down her back. Alasdhair laced his fingers through it, stroking the curls down the length of her spine, and the atmosphere between them shifted, so suddenly that they both tensed. Awareness.

  He let her go. He stood back. ‘I should go.’

  ‘Don’t.’

  ‘You should sleep.’ But he made no move. Her bare feet dangled down from the bed. He remembered then, that feeling of them on top of his, on the boat. The most erotic thing he’d ever felt. Before he could stop himself he knelt down to clasp one of them. It was high-arched, the ankles shapely. Her little toes looked unbearably delicate in the palm of his hand. Sadness, piercingly sweet, and longing, achingly painful, gripped him so fiercely that he could scarcely breathe. It was like seeing a picture of a dream he had not known he’d had, so clear, yet even as he looked he knew he would not remember it again, not exactly like this, not so clearly as this.

  He kissed the pulse that fluttered above her heel before gently releasing her foot. Then he reached for her, meaning only to kiss her forehead. A consoling kiss, a comforting kiss, a keep-safe-and-goodnight kiss, that was all. But she smiled at him so sweetly, her violet eyes wide with anticipation, her skin softly tinged with the flickering firelight, and he was convinced in that moment that if he kissed her everything would be put right, and he would understand why his mind was in such a turmoil. And she would be healed, too, of all the hurt that had been inflicted on her today. His kiss would take her hurt away and keep her safe, if only he would kiss her.

  He took her face gently in h
is hands, and held her there, gazing into those violet eyes of hers. The way she looked at him, he had the uncanny feeling that she saw right inside him, that she could reach in and show him himself, his real self that only she knew. He had never felt such tenderness, nor such a rush of longing to please, to ease, to pleasure. ‘Ailsa.’ He said her name just for the sake of tasting it. ‘Beautiful Ailsa.’ Then he kissed her.

  Her mouth was even sweeter than he remembered, like a delicate flower, dewy and plump with nectar. He kissed her gently, the softest of kisses, running his fingers through her hair, twining its golden coils around his fingers. He kissed his way along the line of her jaw and suckled on the delicate shell of her ear. He felt her shiver and felt an answering shiver in his belly, that pierced like an arrow and connected directly to his groin. With a soft moan, he wrapped his arms around her.

  Ailsa made no protest. She could not have; even if she’d thought about it, she would not have. It was right. She knew this with a certainty that would have astonished her former self. In this moment there was no past and no future, no barriers, no whys and wherefores. It was right. She had not the will or the energy to resist, but she would not have, anyway. He needed her. She could feel it in the way he touched her, see it in the way he looked at her. He needed her and she would give him anything, everything he asked, because she loved him unequivocally.

  His kisses were soft, caresses rather than kisses, soothing, reassuring kisses that asked, but did not take. Like sinking into the downiest of beds, cushioned in satin, cosseted in silk. She felt as if she were melting, slowly, like the snow from the mountains in spring. His skin heated her. She clung closer, her fingers tangling in his hair, stroking the breadth of his shoulders, exalting in the rippling of sinew beneath her fingertips.