A Rose in the Highlands (Highland Roses School)

by Heather McCollum

  As if God, too, felt the need to comment, the clouds above them opened, and rain poured down. High pitched gasps filled the night as the ladies and men began to dash toward the forest line to retreat to their cottages or shelters for the night. Grey turned in the direction where Evelyn had stalked away. He could see her in the glow of the hissing flames. Head thrown back and arms out, she stared up at the sky as if ranting at the heavens. Grey broke into a run and caught her arm. “Come along,” he yelled. He kept her upright as they ran across the field toward a barn he knew stood on the edge of the forest.

  “Scarlet?” she asked.

  “I saw Kerrick taking her and Izzy toward Finlarig.”

  Thunder rumbled over the rain, but the lightning seemed far off. “Into the barn,” he said, and they dashed under the overhang that covered the doorway. The eave ran the length of the barn, providing a dry space if one leaned tightly against the wall. Grey reached for the door.

  “That’s it, lass, ye are so ready.” A man’s voice from within rose over the rush of rain. “Hold on now.”

  A woman groaned. “Geoff, oh bloody hell, aye,” the woman answered.

  Grey dropped his hand and looked down at Evelyn. Her eyes were wide, her lush lips open. Aye, she’d heard the couple.

  Inside, a rhythmic sound began, a squeaking like the old door of a stall might be holding the woman up while Geoff pounded into her. Evelyn turned her face straight ahead, putting her back to the barn as the rain fell before them. The sounds inside stirred his blood, and he felt himself grow hard beneath his kilt. Blast. He didn’t need Evelyn to see that. She looked shocked enough to be hearing the groans and slapping of skin.

  “Harder, harder, Geoff.”

  “Aye, lass,” he ground out, and the woman’s wails blended in with the screaming wind that whipped at the tops of the trees.

  Grey lowered his mouth toward Evelyn’s ear. “Are ye well?”

  She turned her face to his, her eyes dropping to his mouth before raising again to his eyes. She gave a brief nod and wet her lips with her tongue, just the tip coming out. Och, did the woman know how that small movement could tip a man into full-out, rutting arousal?

  She leaned in to him, and he held his breath. “The woman in the barn… She took her flower crown off,” she whispered. Her wide eyes narrowed to normal, and she smiled.

  Grey’s tight mouth relaxed, and he nodded. He turned to face the barn, his hand gliding forward to adjust his cock. Stuck there next to the lushest woman he’d ever met, listening to the lustful words and moaning of the couple, and trapped by the storm, Grey ached. He slid a glance to Evelyn. How was the lass faring?

  Evelyn had turned toward the barn also, perhaps to keep the heavy rain from spitting on her face. She pressed against the boards, her breasts high in her gown, her forehead leaning forward against the wood.

  “Bloody hell, Miranda, I’m about to fill ye full.”

  “Aye, aye,” Miranda’s voice pealed higher until she shook the rafters. No wonder Geoff had taken the loud lass far out into the woods.

  Evelyn’s lips were parted, and she breathed faster. Her hand came up to rest a fist on the boards. Grey couldn’t tell if she were flushed in the darkness, but he guessed that she must be just as affected as he. If she’d drop her flower crown…

  He sucked in through his nose and watched her as she turned her face to his. “We need to leave before they come out,” she whispered. “Or they’ll think we were spying on them.”

  “We are.”

  “No, we aren’t,” she hissed. “We are trapped here.”

  He looked out at the pouring rain. It hadn’t let up at all. In fact, it seemed to come down in solid sheets. He needed a cold swim to lower his rock-hard cock anyway. He grabbed her hand. It was cool and small, and he imagined it wrapped around him. Blast. He groaned low in his chest.

  Grey gave a small tug. “Let us get ye clean then.”

  “Clean?” she asked, her breath shallow. She looked down where their hands joined together.

  “Aye.” He placed his palm up under the rain. “Get your gown free of fish.”

  She groaned, her eyes shutting momentarily. The action caught his breath, but she was lamenting only the incident with Kirstin.

  “Come,” he said and pulled her out under the curtain of rain. They ran away from the barn. Within minutes they were soaked through.

  “Where are we going?” she called.

  “Soap,” he said, leading her toward a trough near where he worked with horses.

  “Soap?”

  The thick copse of trees near the fence sheltered them from the harder rain. Dropping her hand, Grey reached under a wooden bench to a box, pulling it up and opening it. In the darkness, he felt inside and found the bar of lemon balm soap.

  “I’m drenched through,” Evelyn said, her breath coming out in pants from their run. “At least the exercise warmed me.”

  “Turn around, and I’ll soap ye up.”

  “What?” It was completely dark, but his eyes had adjusted so that he could see the outline of her face.

  “The soap,” he said. “We may as well get ye clean in the rain.”

  A loud chuckle escaped her, and she threw her hands up to land gently on her hips. “This night couldn’t get any more bizarre.” She spun around, and Grey ran the lemon-scented soap down her back and the skirt to the hemline where the fish water tainted it.

  “I can wash the front,” she said, turning around. He handed the bar to her and, although she was hidden in shadows, he could see her rub it over her clothed breasts and down her bodice. He sucked in a shallow breath, the rush of rain a background noise to the pounding of his blood. His mouth pressed together as water dripped from his head. He wiped his eyes quickly so as not to miss any of her movements. She looked up, meeting his gaze, and handed back the bar. Her lathered hands rubbed across her naked chest above the wet, white linen of her smock. Even with the cold rain, his cock remained rigid.

  Grey cleared his throat. “Your hair,” he said. “Ye’ll want the fish scent out of your hair.” He caught the movement of her nod, and she turned around. Rubbing the bar between his palms, he dropped it to the grass at his feet and reached for her heavy tresses. He worked his fingers through the mass, the curls weighed down by rainwater. Over and over he stroked, working down to skim the curve of her spine.

  Building more lather from the soap and dropping it again, he paused as he spied the battered flower crown still anchored to the top of her head. He leaned in to her ear. “I’ll have to take off your crown, lass.”

  She turned her face, twisting at the waist to regard him in the darkness over her shoulder. “Of…of course.” Her voice was a whisper, drowned within the rush of rain hitting the leaves of the trees overhead.

  Grey untangled the flowers from her weighted hair, letting it fall with the soap. He ran his palms over the top of Evelyn’s head, curling his fingers in to rake along her scalp, such an intimate part of her. He half expected her to jerk away, but she didn’t. Och, thank the Lord or the devil, or whoever was keeping her still.

  He kneaded her head gently, the lemon scent rising with the lather. She tipped her face to the sky, letting the rain pelt her cheeks. Her eyes were closed. He wished he could see clearly, her beautiful pale skin, damp and clean, the long lashes he knew must be spiked with rainwater. Grey tasted the rain on his lips. Bloody hell. He wanted to taste Evelyn.

  His fingers combed down through her hair. He leaned closer to her, smelling the fresh lemon. She trembled. “Ye’ve grown cold,” he said against her ear. “Let us get ye rinsed and to the castle to dry.” He worked the falling water down through her hair, raking the tresses apart to release the soap and dirt. He ran his hands down her back and even down over her skirt-covered arse to make sure the soap was washed free.

  “I can finish,” she said, and he heard the chatte
r in her words.

  Taking the soap, he ran the lather quickly through his own hair, on his face, and up under his kilt where his cock stood proud despite the chill. He scrubbed his arse and legs down to the tops of his boots, too. Lifting the kilt, he let the rain wash him clean. When he turned back to Evelyn, she stared at him, and he dropped his kilt. How much could she see in the darkness?

  “All done,” he said, and rushed over to return the soap to the box, stowing it under the seat. “Now to run home.” He grabbed her cold hand.

  “I’m…I’m frozen,” she said.

  The need to warm her overwhelmed any of his worry over her reaction. Grey pulled her in to his chest, his arms coming around to her back, giving her his heat. He expected her to be stiff at the contact, but she burrowed into his offer. His chin rested lightly on the top of her head as his hands stroked her back, pressing heat into her.

  Her trembling ebbed to a small quake, and he lowered his mouth to the delicate curve of her ear. He yearned to kiss it, slide his lips along it. “We should get ye inside.”

  Evelyn nodded against him, tipping her face up to his, but didn’t pull out of his embrace. “Yes,” she said on a soft breath. “We should both get warm.”

  Their gazes held onto each other. Bloody hell, could she feel the swell of him between their pressed bodies? His blood churned with need and a building wish to taste the courageous, clever, beautiful woman before him. The fact that she didn’t pull away must mean something. Could she wish to moan and thrash like the lass in the barn? Strip herself bare and give him something she must be saving for her husband? The thought bored through his raging mind. He would never ask her to give him something he didn’t deserve.

  But she felt so natural in his arms, her warmth against him, her lips tipped to his. Somehow, they grew closer. Had she moved in to him, or had he given in to the draw he felt? His lips hovered near Evelyn’s, mere inches apart. Their heat mingled together, the night and rain masking them from all, maybe even from themselves. Surely from their rational minds.

  Water dripped off his face, but he didn’t turn away. Lips so close that he could feel the warmth of her breath on his mouth. He waited, staring down, and focused on the outline of her eyes.

  Evelyn’s tongue came out to capture rain from her lip. “We…we should go.”

  Aye, they should go, before they threw all logic to the night and acted purely on human need and fire. Grey lowered his arms from around her, yet she still stood directly against him. A tremble came back quickly to her frame. “Aye. Hold on, lass.”

  Bending, he scooped under her skirt-encased legs to lift her up, settling her cold body against his chest. Her arms wrapped around his neck, and she pulled in to him, once again burrowing into his heat as if it were completely natural, as if they had never been two opponents with prejudice, war, and a castle between them.

  Tucking her head against him, his palm covering her cheek, he ran. His boots pounded the packed earth of the village center, splashing through puddles and crunching pebbles. He cradled Evelyn, sheltering her as best he could from the rain and his jarring effort. Except for the firmness of her entwined hands behind his neck, she relaxed in to him. They both smelled of lemon and rain. Her weight was easy, natural, as if she were a part of him.

  “Almost to the gate,” he said, his breath coming in controlled exhales over her head.

  The gate was still open. “Ho, Hamish,” Grey called as he ran through. Hamish yelled to the man at the chain. As Grey climbed the steps to the keep, he heard the cranking sound of the lowering portcullis. He strode through the torch-lit entryway into the keep, heading toward the fire-filled hearth.

  “Good God,” Scarlet yelled as she leaped up from a chair. “What happened? Where have you been? What did you do to Evelyn?” Alana stood up, too, next to Kerrick. They all looked wet through.

  Damp puppies ran about the room, giving a musty smell to the air, and Kerrick rushed forward as if to help. “She is well,” Grey said. “Just wet and cold.”

  “Evie,” Scarlet said, hands coming to Evelyn’s face.

  “I am well,” Evelyn said, lifting her head. She wiggled in his arms, and Grey lowered her boots to the stone floor but didn’t move away. Heat flooded the space before the hearth. Her hands came up first to the flames and then to the hair that was plastered to her head.

  “Ye smell like lemon,” Alana said, coming close.

  Evelyn smiled, wiping hands over her face. Her hair dripped. She still hadn’t looked at him. “Grey gave me some soap to wash in the rain.” She shrugged as if she bathed daily in rain showers. “We took advantage of the storm to wash the fish stench from me.”

  Scarlet made a disgusted sound in the back of her throat and frowned. “I heard about Kirstin’s trick.”

  “She’s always been one to play jokes, but her heart is kind,” Alana said. “Usually. She’s been contrary lately.”

  “Contrary?” Scarlet said. “She nearly pushed Evelyn into a fire and then poured fish juice all over her.”

  Alana tipped her head side to side and pinched her mouth together. “Aye, very contrary. I think she is sweet on Grey.”

  Grey watched Evelyn as she turned her back to the flames, her gaze finally rising to meet his. “There is nothing between Kirstin MacGregor and me,” he said, letting her see the truth in his face.

  Evelyn exhaled, sniffing softly as if the cold rain was making her nose run. “Heaven forbid if there was. She’d have thrown me under the cattle or poisoned my flask.”

  “She must think ye have a liking for Evelyn,” Alana said, and when Grey finally looked at his sister, her eyes were round in question.

  Evelyn chuckled and turned back to face the fire. “Like a Scotsman could entertain anything with a woman who has stolen his castle and speaks with the devil’s accent.”

  Grey’s chest contracted, and he cleared his throat. “Or a proper Englishwoman could turn her eyes on a Highlander who stole her bedroom door and held her at sword point in the rain. ’Tis a jest to think of it,” he murmured.

  Kerrick laughed and scratched his neck. “Ye two do seem to get soaked alone in the rain often.”

  Evelyn propped her hands on her hips and looked over her shoulder at Kerrick. “It rains a lot in Scotland. It’s not like we seek it out,” she said, shaking her head. “Or desire being caught alone in a storm, or purposely stray into the wild without a care of our responsibilities or…” She broke off and met everyone’s stare before dropping her gaze back to the fire. “Rain happens.” She shrugged and tugged her long hair over one shoulder to let the heat reach it.

  Scarlet’s chin pulled back as she stared at Grey, her eyes full of questions, questions for which he had no answers. “Aye.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “Rain happens.”

  Molly ran down the steps from above. “I’ve started fires in the ladies’ hearths. The flames will be dancing like heathens around a Beltane fire.” Like a wild and freely laughing Evelyn. Damn his traitorous thoughts.

  “Thank you,” Evelyn said, turning from the fire. “I will change and warm up under my quilts. Until the morrow, everyone.” Her gaze drifted to each, meeting Grey’s last. “Happy Beltane.”

  “Yes, we should all find our beds,” Scarlet said and looped her arm through Evelyn’s. “Izzy’s already gone up to get dry.” The two of them strode toward the stairs, Evelyn trailing her sopping gown behind her. Alana followed, tapping her skirt to get Ceò and the pups to follow.

  “Och.” Kerrick said, shaking his head. “No late Beltane night around the fire, giving the lasses a dram of whisky and seeing if I can steal a kiss.”

  Grey didn’t react, knowing Kerrick, despite his casual comment, was watching him closely. “Perhaps next year,” Grey said and strode toward the stairs. Kerrick would find his way out. Grey climbed the shadowed steps to the fourth floor, his gaze following the water spots on the s
tone where Evelyn’s gown had dripped.

  Rain happens. His mind grew numb as he rolled the two words within it. Rain happens. “As does fire,” he murmured, conjuring a picture of the flames that had spread when Burdock read the orders from Cross for the timbers to be lit. To smoke out the Scottish vermin. Yet the evilness of the English captain and his men didn’t extend to Evelyn at all. She was indeed refreshing water to their brutal fire, a balm to his hatred.

  He walked past her door with silent steps, slowing to listen, but there wasn’t a sound. In his room, he lit his own fire and stripped out of his wet clothes, throwing on a dry sleeping tunic and fresh kilt, for he wasn’t ready to sleep yet. Turning his chair before the hearth, Grey stared at the door that connected his and Evelyn’s rooms. Was she already under warming quilts? Was she still cold, splaying her hands before her small fire? Did she wear only her white smock, her nipples peaked against the thin linen?

  “Bloody hell,” he whispered and pushed out of the padded chair to traipse across the distance. He braced his arms on either side of her door, his forehead near the wooden planks. What did Evelyn mean? Rain happens? Maybe it meant nothing. He should ask her if it meant nothing, or…

  His jaw slid to the side, and he raised his fist to the door, holding it close. He would tap to see if she was already asleep. He drew back his knuckles and…stopped. Exhaling long, he leaned his forehead on the cool wood of the door and lowered his hand.

  Mo chreach. She was English and the woman who was threatening his clan by taking Finlarig. Leave the woman alone. The order fell flat inside him, because he already knew that he wasn’t going to follow it.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Evelyn rested her hand on the door that separated her room and Grey’s. Wrapped in her robe over a dry smock, her mind raced. Had he already gone to bed? She’d heard the light tread of his boots in the hall moments earlier. Evelyn sniffed, touching the handkerchief in her other hand to her nose.