Lachlan angelic? A hero? No wonder Ursula had looked at her as if she’d joined the ranks of the jesters. Where had her sensibilities gone? Was it that disarming smile?
Just then, the wagon jolted forward and began to move, rocking her onto his chest again. As much as it flustered her, this time he did not grab her. Instead, he lay still, her body rising and falling rhythmically with his breathing. This time she was able to move away at will.
The poison. No doubt it was giving him some lucid moments between bouts of delirium. As she gazed down at the peaceful, sleeping aristocrat, she was reminded of her dislike of everything English. Could she make an exception for Lachlan? Was she going all soft on him because of his one kind gesture? But she sobered when she considered the consequences of her actions without his intervention.
For now, she would try to like him until he did something to change her mind. At least until she saved him.
Rocking back on her heels, Rosalyn touched his forehead to check for fever. She was grateful to find him cool now, but she was still concerned. Ursula had said she’d made the poison strong enough to make him sick, not kill him. Could she trust her?
Rising, Rosalyn headed to the low altar and busied herself preparing the herbs, thankful that she was able to do this alone and not under the eagle-eyed scrutiny of Ursula.
Besides the herbs, it didn’t take her long to find the other items she needed stored neatly under the altar’s skirting: a pestle and mortar, and a flask of water. She unwrapped the bishop’s herbs from the fuchsia silk and laid them out.
Taking pinches of valerian, horehound, and sage, she placed them in the mortar, then added a few drops of water. Using the pestle, she formed a sticky paste. Once satisfied with the concoction, she headed back to Lachlan’s side, on a mission to save him.
“Lachlan,” she whispered, “wake up.”
He groaned and flipped over on his side facing her.
“Lockie?” She tried the nickname he’d asked her to use, hoping it might illicit a better response.
“Ursula?”
Ursula! What?
“Yes,” she lied. “It’s Ursula. I want you to eat something.”
“Eat? No!” He almost shouted the response.
Hmm. What to do if he refused the antidote?
Time was her enemy now, and she couldn’t wait until his constitution changed. She glanced about the tidy wagon trying to figure out how to feed him the herbs. Nothing. No bread or fruit to use as a serving tool. Stumped for a moment, she relaxed her breathing and began to sort through what might make Lachlan open his mouth.
Finally, deciding saving his life was more important that her squeamishness, Rosalyn scooped up some of the paste on to her middle finger, then she lay down on the floor facing him.
Because his arm was draped under his head, she was able to scoot right next to his chest and get close enough to suit her needs. Once situated, she said a little prayer, asking God to let the herb and his power save Lachlan.
Following a reluctant sigh, she whispered, “Here, suck on this.” With her palm up and middle finger cocked back filled with the antidote, she gently placed her free index finger to his mouth. Tracing over his top and bottom lips yielded the desired results, allowing her to slide her index finger into his warm mouth.
“Mmm,” he groaned in a pleasant way.
Immediately, something in her core fluttered and pulsing heat surged through her groin. She almost withdrew her finger, but Lachlan had a strong hold. Groaning even more, he took his free arm and draped it over her waist. Rosalyn’s eyes widened and her heart began beating wildly. He wasn’t holding her down, but she felt trapped. Images of Lachlan, naked, in Ursula’s bed filled her head, his erect cock rising before he did.
With flushed cheeks, she couldn’t help but glance down at his crotch. Oh, no, it’s happening again.
Before she had a chance to figure out another way to feed him the paste, his hand slid up the side of the linen dress she wore. The covering was more like a sleeping garment than a traveling frock. She was surprised for a moment when his hand tickled her and she giggled out loud, diffusing her panic for a moment, until his hand was on her breast and he groaned with pleasure.
That moment, between panic and clear thinking, was then she made the decision to sacrifice her dignity and save him. So she returned the groan. That fueled him further, and he slid his hand underneath the neckline of her dress and began to rub her nipple. There was nothing to slow him. No ties to undo. The sensation was like nothing she’d ever felt before. She froze, wanting to hate what was happening, warring with herself not to fight the wonderful sensations that surged through her.
But like a warrior of healing, Rosalyn had to set aside her feelings and continue her mission. Knowing she’d had his full attention now, she quickly pulled out the index finger and replacing it with her paste-filled one.
At first, she worried that he’d refuse the paste. It had to be bitter and downright nasty. She held her breath as he kneaded her breast, hoping he’d swallow the remedy while she swallowed her pride.
“Um, you taste divine,” he mumbled between sucks on her middle finger and rubbing his thumb over her hardened nipple.
She let out the breath she was holding, thrilled that he was taking the antidote, but also exhilarated by the sensations surging through her. A tiny ribbon of sweat began to trickle down between her breasts. Moist heat and a primal throbbing was growing in her groin. What was happening to her?
With eyes still closed, as if his strength returned, Lachlan released her finger and caressed her cheek. Ever so gently, he put his hands about her waist, and with little effort, he rolled on to his back taking her with him.
Rosalyn came to rest on his dark chest curls. They tickled her nipples through the linen. She giggled. But her next inhale was cut off when Lachlan’s hands moved to grasp the back of her neck and he collapsed the gap between them, crushing her against his chest while his lips claimed hers. A kiss even more possessive than the one he’d stolen in the dungeon.
As her heart sped up, beating hard against his chest, she wondered if he could feel its frantic rhythm, wanting to return the passion he incited. Rosalyn had never been with a man like this before. Well, she’d never been with a man.
She was a virgin, for God sakes.
What was she willing to do to heal him? How far would she go? She was in a provocative position and he still was thinking she was Ursula.
At least the herb concoction appeared to be working. Perhaps too well. As Lachlan’s kisses fueled her desire, she found herself hating him less. His hands roamed over her back, her arse, exploring her curves while she lay on top of him.
But just as she was ready for more, his kisses slowed and his movements did too. When his lips released hers, he rolled her off his chest onto her side next to him.
Did she want this to stop?
Now that the passionate connection was broken, she opened her eyelids a crack, peeking at his face from under her lashes. His eyes were still closed and his breathing slowed. Color had flushed his cheeks and he no longer looked sickly.
Was it her willingness to join him in a romp or the herbs that were working to bring him back? She’d like to think a little bit of both as Lachlan reached out a lazy hand to find her lips and traced them as she’d done his. She nipped at his middle finger, inciting another groan from him. Rosalyn was surprised how right it felt to be with him, when it shouldn’t. She, an unmarried virgin, and he, well, no saint.
Just then, she made the mistake of letting her gaze drift to his crotch. Oh, my! The bulge was still there. She’d have to stop looking. But she was a curious girl. Interested more in practice, than theory. She’d been told it was painful for a man not to release his seed when erect, as Lachlan was right now.
Her curiosity trumped cauti
on, though, as she began to stroke his chest, twisting her fingers around his dark curls. Slowly, she moved down to his waist and loosened his belt. He moaned slightly, but didn’t move. His breathing grew steady. Now that her heart had slowed to a normal beat, she noticed how the gentle rocking of the wagon made her feel as if she were in a safe cradle. Lachlan must have sensed it too for he wore a serene expression.
After letting the belt fall away, she tugged at the heavy linen fabric until she could slide her hand down inside his breeches. Yes, she did. As if on a treasure hunt for a prize, she walked her fingers down his midsection until the top of her hand found her reward.
Grasping his shaft firmly, she began analyzing the human reaction with her scientific mind. Amazed by the male anatomy, she stroked the shaft up and down with a firm grasp. Every so often, she rolled the palm of her hand over the top, following the instructions she’d been given by those with experience on how to please a man. Although she’d listened, she wasn’t sure she’d remember until it was time to act. But this felt right. Natural.
Lachlan groaned with pleasure as she stroked him. She had control. This man was under her spell. She held the power to make him beg.
Just then, his shaft began to quiver and he shouted, “Now, faster,” and she responded. In a matter of seconds, he had his release. But when his eyes flew open, his handsome face twisted into a puzzled expression.
“You’re not Ursula!”
Chapter 12
“Rosalyn?” What just happened? Lachlan’s head was spinning. Last he’d remembered, he was talking with the bishop about his riding academy, and now? There was Rosalyn, flushed cheeks, her red hair spilling about her shoulders, and her hand on his, well . . . Was he dreaming?
“My lord. This—I . . . you see—”
“I clearly see your hand is in my breeches.”
“‘Tis not.” The lass’s face turned a bright red shade and she yanked her hand out.
“What where you about?”
She stared at him, her lips parted as if to speak, but nothing came forth. She looked so beautiful. Her breasts made taut peaks under her dark blue dress. “Why did you stop?”
“There’s more to be done?” she asked in a whisper, her eyes full of concern. “I do not want you to be in pain.” She leaned forward, looking at him quizzically, as if he had a big wart on his nose.
He chuckled deeply. “Pain, no. But men don’t want to be taken to the precipice of pleasure and then pushed off the cliff. I’d rather have someone to hold on to me and keep me safe.” He raised his arms in her direction.
She shook her head. “As long as you are not in pain, I will keep my distance,” she said as she stood and turned her back to him. “I am here to heal you, not love you.”
Even though she said the words so softly, he’d heard them, but he refused to let her keep her distance. “Did you say you are here to love me?”
Rosalyn coughed. “I gave you some herbs to help you feel better.”
“I can assure you, it was not the herbs that made me feel better. Were you rubbing them on my cock? Is that what you were doing?”
She kept her back turned, but her shoulders tensed and her hands fisted at her sides. “Healers do what they must. Even if it means sacrificing their dignity,” she said with clenched teeth as she turned to face him.
“Well then, I’m grateful for your sacrifice. When do you suppose you’ll need to do that again?”
Her eyes shot daggers at him. “Sir, my intentions were pure. Stop asking me questions.” She crossed her arms over her chest, exasperation in her expression.
He patted the pillow. “Come, sit by me and make sure your good deed is working.” When she recoiled at his words, he coaxed her with a promise. “I shall not touch you and you can ask me all the questions you’d like.”
A smile crept up one side of her face.
“Come, I promise,” he said, patting the pillow again. “I won’t bite either.”
She bowed her head shyly and shuffled to his side. In a tomboyish way, she plopped down on the pillow beside him.
“All right then,” she said, settling into a comfortable pose with her legs crossed beneath her soft blue dress. “Why do you want Fyvie?”
He let out a long sigh, his smile and enthusiasm for her questions deflating.
“Why do I want Fyvie?” he asked, staring off to the rosaries hanging along the wall, reminding himself that he was in the place where the bishop was making his home and lying would be more difficult with a makeshift altar in view.
Even God’s presence seemed to linger about the place making what had transpired, although briefly in his opinion, blasphemous. He chuckled thinking about it.
“Why do I want Fyvie?” he repeated, as if digging deep into his soul for the real answers, not the ones he’d learned to accept. “Well, for one, my father wants me to have it.” There, that was honest.
“Go on,” she said with a softened gaze.
“For you to know why my father wants me to have it means you’ll need to know more about my father.” He turned his head and gazed up at her from his position on the floor. “I certainly don’t want to bore you with family drama.”
Rosalyn nodded patiently before saying, “We are tethered here together, not physically as in the prison, but bound here until we make our final destination. I have nothing else to do but humor you while you are awake.”
“And when I’m asleep, will—”
“No, I’m asking the questions now,” she reminded him.
“Where was I then?”
“Your father.”
“Ah, yes,” he said, stalling, knowing he had to omit his father’s name or the ruse would be over, but he’d tell the truth. “My father, third cousin to King Henry VII, Earl of Dunster. My notorious father.”
“Notorious?” Her eyes grew wide and childlike, as if she was listening to a bedtime story. He grinned wickedly. My bedtime story.
“I come from a line of notorious men, Rosalyn, many treasonous.”
Rosalyn’s eyes grew even wider. Her pretty, pouty mouth pursed, as if ready to ask another question, but he beat her to it.
“And why you may ask? For land. For castles like Fyvie. To conquer other lords.” He lowered his voice. “To steal from the Scots.”
She covered her mouth, but a disgruntled grunt escaped anyway.
“Highlanders and Lowlanders,” he continued, “but Fyvie has always been special. I was told after your da’s death, the castle was given to a woman named Victoria. She was married to my father until he found out that she was a Scot.”
Rosalyn gasped.
Lachlan ignored her outburst. “She lied to him, to get to his wealth.” When Rosalyn looked to object, he amended his response. “Or so he said.”
But then she jumped to her feet anyway. “That Victoria is a Macpherson, one of my kin!” she shouted.
“Lass, will you seek out a weapon and slay me now?” Lachlan asked, chuckling at her ignited anger. He’d never known a woman who was set off so easily. Short-tempered, but beautiful in every way. Her hair, her eyes, and her skin, were shades of burnt red, charred amber, and warm gold. The colors of a glorious bonfire.
“I’ve yet to decide on your fate, but if what you say is true, Victoria came into the castle after my da was killed, because I was not of age yet to keep it. But then Nicholas Luttrell stole it from us all.” Rosalyn stared past him to the altar, but as if gaining strength from God, she fisted her hands and shook them at him.
“Fyvie Castle belongs to the Macphersons. I want it back,” she said defiantly, her legs spread in a wide stance, her arms crossing her chest.
Lachlan studied her. So far he’d managed to keep his family name from the conversation. Rosalyn must not have known Victoria and Nicholas had wed or she’d h
ave called him out by now. As much as he knew, Victoria had remarried shortly after their annulment, then disappeared. Truth be told, Lachlan could swear Rosalyn’s Victoria had been killed by his father, but perhaps not.
At least he now understood the only way to win Rosalyn over was to accept her family’s plight.
“Yes, my love, I understand your wish for the castle to stay with the clan. But you know as well as I, your family was no longer in control of the land and you would have lost it to a rival clan. Now which is worse?”
She let out a loud unladylike harrumph. “You didnae know anything about my da, nor my clan,” Rosalyn insisted in a childlike voice.
That was true. He knew only a little about the chieftain who’d been Rosalyn’s father, and Lachlan had expected a challenge from a Macpherson family member, just not from his daughter. But if she’d looked then, like she did now, he never would have forgotten her.
“Would you tell me about your da?”
She shook a finger at him. “Now, donna be asking the questions again,” she warned, her face puckering with anger.
Then Lachlan remembered she’d reminded him of a cat, making note of the length on her fingernails. “No, no, you ask the questions. Sit,” he coaxed.
Returning to the pillow beside him, she considered him with a wary stare. “Who is this Victoria Macpherson to you?” She tilted her head as if trying get clarity. “Your mother?”
Lachlan shuddered when he thought of the last words his father had said about Victoria. “That witch will pay for her deceitfulness.” He’d spoken many times of a score to be settled between himself and her son, a Knight of the Garter.
But Lachlan wanted to reassure her there was no animosity between himself and her family. “Victoria? My mother? Nay. My father had the marriage annulled after only a few months. The castle must have stayed with Victoria, but my father wants it now.”
The Golden Rose of Scotland (The Ladies of Lore Book 2) Page 8
