“They were never badly bruised,” he insisted, neatly deflecting her question.
Joan’s shoulders tightened. A man’s pride was a foolish and fragile thing. While Malcolm might appreciate her concern, he was also mildly offended by it. “Still, ye need to be careful,” she reminded him.
“Hmm. Did ye have a pleasant day?”
“Aye,” Joan replied honestly. “I was with yer mother, sister, and Brienne this morning and the children in the afternoon.”
“Since I’ve not heard anything, I assume that Brienne hasn’t recognized any of the McKenna warriors.”
Joan shook her head. “Isn’t that good news? Knowing that whoever impersonated ye wasn’t one of yer own?”
Malcolm shrugged. “It makes the task of capturing this man harder.”
Joan’s brows furrowed. “’Twas always going to be a very difficult undertaking. A nearly impossible one, most would agree.”
“Dinnae let my father hear ye say it. He insists that a true Highlander faces his enemies squarely.”
“Is this man truly an enemy?” Joan questioned. “I’ll wager he’s naught but a landless knight who used yer name to impress a young, vulnerable lass.”
“Aye, and that left Brienne with a bastard child and nearly started a war between the McKennas and the MacPhearsons.”
“What will happen to the fellow if he is caught?”
“At the very least, he’ll spend time in the McKenna dungeon before being turned over to the MacPhearsons.”
Joan winced. “Do ye think the MacPhearsons will show any charity to the man?”
“Who knows? Though she was badly deceived, Brienne once had tender feelings for the man. I doubt she’ll want her father to run a sword through him. Although Laird MacPhearson might be tempted to cut out his tongue.”
“Or cut off his bollocks,” Joan murmured.
Now it was Malcolm’s turn to wince. “And they say warriors are bloodthirsty. Let us speak of something far less barbaric. How are the children?”
“Napping.”
Malcolm’s jaw lowered. “Lileas is taking a nap?”
“Aye. She and Callum have been joined at the hip since we arrived. The overexcitement has led to some rather high-spirited behavior from both of them. A nice long nap seemed the perfect solution.”
Malcolm leaned back against the tub. “How did ye manage to get Lileas to do it?”
“I told her a story.”
A slow smile spread over Malcolm’s face. “Were there dragons in it? She loves dragons.”
“Aye. Dragons. Knights. Fairies. Princesses. And a loyal dog who saved them all.”
“Sounds like quite the tale.”
“’Twas epic.”
They shared a quiet laugh and then silence fell between them. The crackle of the small fire echoed in the chamber, mingling with the sound of slopping water from Malcolm’s bath. The intimacy of the moment suddenly struck her. Joan clenched her jaw and hurried to complete her original task, dumping the newly mended clothing into a chest and slamming it shut.
“I wouldn’t refuse if ye wish to wash my back,” Malcolm said, holding out a cake of soap.
“Ye appear to be doing a fine job on yer own,” she said briskly, hoping her dismissive tone would dissuade him from the notion.
Being rude had always been the way she protected herself, yet a part of her felt guilty for acting this way. Malcolm didn’t deserve such treatment.
His mouth thinned. “I cannae reach all the way around. It makes my ribs ache. Ye would do much better, I’m sure.”
Joan swallowed the lump in her throat, trying her best to appear unaffected by the sight of so much solid male muscle. Truthfully, the very last thing she wanted was to get close to a naked Malcolm—in the middle of the day, no less. But he seemed quite determined to have his way and she could find no legitimate excuse for refusing such a wifely duty.
Sighing, Joan pushed her hair away from her face and rolled her long sleeves up to her elbows. Then keeping her eyes firmly trained on the wall tapestries, she slowly approached the tub.
“I’ve never bathed a grown man,” she admitted.
“Truly? Did ye not assist yer mother when there were noble guests at Armstrong Castle?” Malcolm asked, watching her as she circled near the tub.
“Only once, when I was a young lass of fourteen. The Campbells were at the castle and my mother bade me to help her with the old laird’s bath.”
“What happened?”
“It all started out fine, but the maids had forgotten to bring clean towels, so my mother went to call the servants to bring some. The moment her back was turned, Laird Campbell reached up and pinched my breast.”
“The dirty bugger!”
“Aye. I was shocked, yet I knew it would cause more problems if I complained. So I held my tongue. But I got my revenge. I picked up a bucket of cold rinsing water and poured it directly over his head.”
Malcolm threw back his head and laughed. “He shouldn’t have underestimated ye.”
“Aye, ’twas a grave mistake.” She smiled, remembering the old man’s sputtering shouts of outrage and her mother’s feeble attempts at an apology. All the while, Joan had stood there, an innocent expression on her face, feigning ignorance, claiming she thought the bucket was filled with warm water.
“I’m a man who learns quickly from the errors of others,” Malcolm declared. “If I promise not to pinch yer breast, will ye wash my back?”
The instinctive refusal sprang to her lips, but she didn’t utter it. The reaction sobered her. Perhaps she was starting to come around to Malcolm’s notions of marriage. Or maybe her pride was merely insisting that she honor the bargain she had struck with him and try to be the kind of wife he deserved.
Joan drew in a shuddering breath and straightened her back. “Where’s the cloth?”
Malcolm’s head dropped back and he released a soft sigh. “It’s sunk to the bottom of the tub. Ye’ll have to fish it out.”
Joan’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not about to put my hands down there,” she announced indignantly.
“Why not? Ye never know what ye’ll discover.”
Joan stared down at him, letting her gaze rest on his glistening chest, which was visible above the water. The hair on it was wet and matted, emphasizing his clearly defined muscles. His knees rose above the water, affording her a clear view of his powerful thighs and manhood. The sight made her belly flutter and her heart dance against her ribs.
She could see the steady throb of his pulse at his neck, beating as rapidly as her own heart. His bold challenge flustered her and his taunting grin told her that he knew it.
Joan didn’t realize she had plunged her hand into the bathwater until she felt its wet warmth. The feel of it knocked out what little breath was left in her lungs. But she was not about to retreat from the path she had so impulsively taken until she achieved victory. She would conquer her nerves and her fears.
Her hand swirled rapidly through the water. Reaching down between Malcolm’s knees, Joan’s fingers closed triumphantly over the wet cloth. She snatched it from the tub before Malcolm had a chance to react.
Water droplets flew in all directions, wetting the front of her gown. A few landed on her face. Sputtering, she rung out the cloth. Then rubbing the soap a bit too hard into the wash rag, Joan knelt behind Malcolm and began scrubbing his back. She smoothed her fingers across the muscles of his broad shoulders, slowly running the soapy cloth over his skin, wondering if he could feel the tremors in her hands.
He shifted abruptly. Joan stared in fascination as rivers of water glided over his magnificent flesh, then splashed onto the floor. He shook his wet head, sending a spray of water whirling around him.
“Ye’re getting my gown wet,” she scolded, trying to master these odd feelings pulsing through her.
“Then take it off.” His voice was sultry and coaxing. “Better still, take it off and join me in the tub. There’s plenty of room.”
“�
�Tis the middle of the day,” Joan replied, astonished to realize her breathing had become strained. From the sheer perversity of it, she told herself. Not because she was becoming lost in the wicked gleam in his eyes.
“There’s never a wrong time to indulge in a bit of passion.” Malcolm caught her chin in his hand before she could move away, his strong fingers cradling her jaw. “Shall I show ye?”
The air filled with expectancy. Malcolm pulled her closer and put his mouth against hers. She could taste the richness of the ale he had drunk, could smell the warm spice of the soap on his skin.
It was heady, intoxicating. He moved his tongue along the curve of her bottom lip and Joan could feel herself trembling as she savored the sensations that coursed boldly through her.
A groan reverberated in Malcolm’s throat. His hand moved to her nape, his fingers gently massaging the soft tendrils of hair. He deepened the kiss, slipping his tongue between her parted lips, freely exploring her mouth.
Joan closed her eyes and absorbed the feel of him. Her body felt strained and sensitive as her tongue entwined with his and she was filled with a sudden craving she couldn’t identify. Unsteady, she broke away, her breath locked in her throat.
She stared down at him mutely, waiting. It had been . . . pleasant. Nay, more than pleasant, the kiss had brought on a restless, urgent longing that left her wanting. For what? She knew what came next. Joining with Malcolm wasn’t nearly the trial it had been with Archibald, yet neither was it something that she was impatient to embrace.
Or so she had thought. Malcolm’s kisses had managed to addle her, to muddle her thinking. Intrigue her. Make her believe that perhaps there was more to passion than she knew. Something shifted inside her and a shiver moved over her skin. Uncertain, Joan wrapped her arms across her stomach.
Malcolm tugged at her wrist, then pulled her hand to his lips and pressed a kiss against it. She shivered again. He extended his other hand, passing it over her breast. She flinched at the contact, yet didn’t turn away. Her nipple hardened under his palm and she felt the excitement twist through her. Yet along with the passion, she felt a startling sense of vulnerability.
She looked into his eyes and saw that they were filled with possessiveness. The sight brought her back to the moment, back to her senses in a thrice. She let out a startled cry and stepped back.
“Dinnae pull away,” he murmured. The deep timbre of his voice was hypnotic, but Joan’s memories of the past were still too vivid. “Stay with me, Joan.”
The nightmare of being Archibald’s wife had left deep scars. Being forced to lie with him had left her feeling dirty and defiled. She had lost something enduring those years of humiliation—something precious, something essential, and there was no regaining it, no matter how gentle, considerate, or playful Malcolm acted.
“I must go. I promised yer mother and sister that I would help in the stillroom,” she said, hearing the note of pleading in her voice and hating it. Weakness was something she deplored, especially in herself.
Frowning, Malcolm released her hand, but her flesh continued to tingle where he had touched it. Once unleashed, it appeared the overwhelming sensations he had the power to evoke in her could not be contained.
The thought should have terrified her, and she puzzled over why the emotions were not that dire. Somehow, the fear she carried of losing her wits and all sense of control with him no longer held such strong power over her.
Was she finally learning to accept it?
“Keep close to Katherine if ye wish to learn anything of value about healing,” Malcolm said. “My mother enjoys concocting drams, tinctures, and salves, yet rarely finds anyone brave enough to use them. Even my father claims he is miraculously cured if she attempts to administer them.”
“I thank ye fer the warning.” Joan exhaled slowly. “If the weather holds, we might venture into the woods to replenish some of the medical herbs.”
“Katherine can be reckless at times. Dinnae go beyond the gates without an escort,” Malcolm cautioned. “I would never forgive myself if any harm befell ye.”
Joan nodded, her heart hammering. Malcolm’s voice was calm and controlled, but the glint in his eyes spoke volumes. He knew she was not unaffected by what had just occurred between them and that made her feel exposed.
She closed the door softly behind her and immediately felt a pang of loss and regret over what might have happened if she had accepted Malcolm’s invitation and joined him in his bath. Would she experience the passion he was so determined to give her? Or would she be disappointed in the reality of being a wife?
Sniffling loudly, Joan rubbed the tip of her nose with the back of her hand. She would think upon it later. Obviously, her emotions were too overwrought to make any sense of it now.
* * *
The moment the chamber door closed, Malcolm dunked down in the water, submerging his head. His cock throbbed with unfulfilled desire, while his brain shouted that he had been a fool to allow Joan to escape.
The situation had been ripe for seduction. He could not have created a more perfect scene if he had planned every detail of it. Yet her reluctance told him that she was not yet ready and he was concerned over the repercussions if he pushed her too far, too soon.
She had been flustered, though—and a tad intrigued. That boded well for him.
With a frustrated sigh, Malcolm pushed the wet hair off his forehead and vowed not to be defeated. Soon she would gaze at him with feelings unaffected by memory or fear. She would view him not as a man who wished to dominate or rule her, but a man who wanted to give and receive pleasure.
He would awaken the desire that dwelled deep within her and show her the wondrous emotions they could share. And together they would create the best memories of their lives.
Chapter Fifteen
“Sir Malcolm has taken the children down to the stables,” Mistress Innes told Joan. “He hinted at a surprise. ’Tis my guess he’s gotten new ponies fer each of them.”
Joan nearly stamped her foot in frustration. “Did ye tell him that Lileas was confined to the nursery for the remainder of the day?”
“Nay, I dinnae have to say a word. Lileas told him the moment he arrived. With a quivering lip and a few tears, she told him how sorry she was to have been a naughty lass. She promised to behave.”
“Naturally,” Joan answered, throwing her hands up in the air. “That’s all she ever needs to say and my husband wilts like a flower in a hailstorm.”
Mistress Innes’s face reflected sincere sympathy. “It’s always been thus, milady.”
“Well, that’s going to change.”
Joan turned on her heel and flounced away, hurrying toward the stables. For the past two days she had tried to establish parental control over Lileas, with limited success. The lass seemed to thrive on willful disobedience, and no matter what punishment Lileas was given, she somehow managed to wheedle her way out of it—thanks to her father.
Earlier this morning, Lileas had taken Lady Aileen’s embroidery scissors from her grandmother’s sewing basket in the women’s solar and cut Callum’s hair. The soft curls were gone, replaced by tufts of short, uneven, spiky strands that stood on end. The poor lad resembled a demented rooster.
After learning this was not the first time Lileas had helped herself to her grandmother’s scissors—and been expressly forbidden to do so again—Joan decreed that Lileas be confined to the nursery for the remainder of the day.
Yet once again Malcolm had rescinded the punishment, and even worse, rewarded his daughter with a new pony! Joan realized now that she had been a fool to think she could easily take control of her stepdaughter without a solemn promise from Malcolm that he would not interfere whenever she disciplined Lileas.
The stable was quiet when Joan entered. Malcolm, Lileas, and Callum were crowded around two sturdy-looking ponies, their tails swishing as they contentedly munched on a pile of hay. Joan cleared her throat loudly and they all turned.
“Mama! New pony!
”
Callum ran to Joan and eagerly grabbed her hand, tugging her toward the others. Malcolm smiled in greeting. Lileas looked up, her eyes bright with guilt.
“Ye should not be here, Lileas, as ye well know,” Joan said sternly. “And fer disobeying my orders, ye shall be confined to the nursery all day tomorrow.”
“Papa?” Lileas’s eyes swarmed with tears.
“I was the one who gave her permission to leave,” Malcolm replied. “Lileas told me that she was very sorry and promises to be a good and obedient lass.”
Joan raised an eyebrow. “Have ye seen Callum’s hair?”
Malcolm grinned, ruffling the spiky strands atop the lad’s head. “’Tis a bit short and uneven, but it will grow again.”
“That’s hardly the point.”
Malcolm glanced hastily down at the children, who were both staring wide eyed at the adults. “We should discuss this in private.”
“Aye. Away from the castle,” Joan agreed. “I’ll get my riding gloves.”
By the time she returned to the stables, Joan’s temper had cooled. Her mood lightened when they cleared the castle gates and she even managed a smile when Malcolm suggested a race. She pretended to consider it, then leaned low and kicked her horse’s flanks.
The mare bolted, eager to run. Malcolm’s shout of “unfair” made Joan snicker and she gave no quarter as she thundered through the valley. She could hear his stallion gaining ground and knew it would eventually overtake her, but for the moment she relished being in the lead.
The hills were covered in green and dotted with tight purple buds of heather. In a few weeks they would bloom, filling the air with a light, earthy scent.
Malcolm’s steed soared passed her just as they reached the tree line. He turned, raising his brow smugly, and she saluted his victory. He guided his stallion onto the path that led through the forest and Joan followed, her sure-footed mare easily negotiating the large rocks and tree roots.
They stopped as they neared the loch. After securing his horse to the base of an oak tree, Malcolm came to her side. He reached up to aid her dismount, wrapping his hands around her waist. His touch was familiar, possessing the power to send a shiver up her spine.
No Other Highlander Page 20
