She tore her eyes away from his hands and looked with confusion at the Highlander’s profile. His attention was still focused on the coin. “What did you say?”
He gave her a side glance over one shoulder. “If you have no sister by the name of Catherine, then I’ve been searching for the wrong--”
“I do!” she quickly interrupted, shaking her head. “But you called her Catherine Percy....Stewart.”
He nodded. “Aye. Catherine Percy Stewart, countess of Athol. Mistress of Balvenie Castle.”
“She is married? She...” Laura couldn’t continue. As his words registered, her eyes clouded with a jumble of emotions. Joy and happiness, curiosity, disbelief, even a pang of loss. She quickly dashed away an escaping tear, forcing herself to think on this as good news. As the best of news.
Looking away from his watchful eyes, she dropped her chin on her knees and looked ahead into the dimness beyond the fire. This news changed everything, though. Nothing would ever be the same. Married! A husband to protect her. To love her...Catherine Percy Stewart.
For the first time since fleeing England--for the first time since separating from everyone she held dear--Laura felt truly alone.
“John Stewart is a good man.” William’s voice was gentle as he stood up and shook out the drying clothing. “He has title and wealth. Good land. He is blood kin to the king himself. And he’s a generous man. She’ll have all the comforts money can buy.”
Laura bristled. “All three of us could have had whatever we wanted in England, but together we chose integrity over selling ourselves.”
“And what makes you think she’s sold herself? What self-respecting Highlander would buy such a wife?”
She hadn’t meant for her self pity to sound so accusing. “I didn’t...I’m sorry. That’s not what I meant.”
He stared at her for a long moment before talking. “I know nothing of your life. Or your family. But it has not been easy spending time with you.” A grim half-smile tugged at one corner of his mouth. “Nor safe, either. I can only imagine what a sister of yours would be like.”
“Catherine is a fine woman!”
“Aye, I’ve no doubt she is. Athol wouldn’t have her otherwise.” He paused. “His letter to Gilbert said more.”
She held her breath, waiting. But the rogue said nothing, letting the sound of the wind fill the dim light around them as he absentmindedly rolled the gold coin a few more times across his knuckles.
“Please tell me what the letter said.”
She could actually see a mischievous glint flicker in the depths of his blue eyes.
“I do not know all of it.” He furrowed his forehead as if digging deeply into his memory. “Aye, one thing. Gilbert remarked that Athol sounded almost foolish at times in the letter--considering how serious a man he is. The earl kept referring to the...to the blissfulness of married life.”
“Really?” Laura asked happily. “He said ‘blissfulness’?”
“Aye. Hard as that is for me to believe.” Laura’s eyes narrowed, and William fought back a grin. “Ah, and he said something of opening his wife’s school. And a curious mention about some half-brother that he never knew he had.”
His voice trailed off as he appeared to be considering the last bit of news.
“Anything else?”
“Aye, there was something else.” He held the coin up before his eyes, studying it carefully. “Something about the springtime. Aye. He had some important news of the spring.”
“What of the spring?”
“What was it...?” He eyed her.
“Please?”
“Ah, that’s it. A bairn. They’ve a bairn coming in the spring.”
“A bairn!” she whispered in shock. “My sister...with child?”
“Aye.”
One by one the tears welled over, rolling down her cheeks. She looked about her hurriedly in search of something to wipe her tears with, but there was nothing but her sleeve. She covered her eyes with her arm, but she could not quell the sobbing.
“If you act like this when you are happy, I do not have any great wish to see you when you’re sad.”
Laura jumped a little at hearing him next to her. When he put an arm around her, she dabbed her eyes with her sleeve. But then gradually she relaxed against him.
“But these are tears of happiness, lass. Are they not?”
It took great courage to lift her head and look into his eyes this close. The wrinkles at the corners of his eyes deepened a little, and she looked down at his full lips, curled into a warm smile.
She nodded, then shook her head, then nodded again--before surrendering to the jumbled mix of feelings racing through her. She laid her head against his chest and cried.
CHAPTER 8
There is an intense satisfaction in watching snow falling, Gilbert thought, as long as you are looking out at it. As the world disappears beneath the blanket of white, one sees the power, the plan, and the accomplishment of the Maker’s work. The dead world of autumn is covered, if only for a short time, and the whiteness of the snow produces in the mind a feeling of hope where disappointment had lingered.
Death, rest, and rebirth in the spring. A good plan.
Unwilling to tear his eyes away from the scene outside, Gilbert only heard the door of the work room close behind the last of the departing priests.
He was undeserving to ask a favor in prayer for himself. But it had been a long time that he’d known the truth. The confession he had heard from Mildred had been meant for the Lord, but yet had fallen to him to hear it. It was he who had carried the torment of it for so long.
Gilbert Ross had prayed. He’d sought guidance. He’d begged for direction. And here, after all this time, after he’d all but given up hope, the Maker was giving him his answer.
“Not only an answer, Willie,” he said quietly, petting his dog as the giant head nosed its way into Gilbert’s hand. “The Maker is taking charge. Rebirth lies just beyond that drift of snow.”
Gilbert turned and smiled at the simple drawing of the young girl smiling at him from above the fireplace.
“All will be well, Miriam!” he announced with certainty. “The Maker is indeed taking charge.”
*****
Snow floated in on a cold gust of the wind, swirled around them, and settled wetly on his neck as he tightened his hold around her shoulders.
William Ross’s reason kept telling him to push her away and put as much distance as possible between them. But his body was obstinately ignoring any message that smacked of reason. Looking down, he watched his hand gently combing through the thick silk of her long black hair. Her head rested lightly against his chest. His eyes followed the line of the shirt, lingering on the ivory skin peeking through unpatched holes, taking in the curves of her body and the shapely calf extending beneath the ragged hem of the garment.
He’d always liked that shirt...but never as much as right now.
For the hundredth time since returning with her, William felt heat stirring in his loins. He took a deep breath. By St. Andrew, he thought, she wasn’t helping matters any. As he stared at the dying fire, she turned her face and rubbed it against his chest. Her one hand was tucked around his waist in back and the other was placed, palm flat against his chest. Obviously, she was determined to torture him to death.
William took another slow breath and tried to regain some grip on his sanity.
“Do you know...?” Her soft voice scattered his thoughts in an instant. “Do you know how their marriage came about so quickly?”
His fingers brushed back the hair from her face. She was so beautiful...so trusting. Her body fit against his so perfectly.
“I have--”
She shifted slightly and her hand slipped downward onto his stomach. William had to clear his voice and tear his eyes from her face. Staring into the fire, he tried to think of the snow, of sharpening his sword, of any one of Gilbert’s tedious reprimands. He tried to think of anything but Laura Percy writhing i
n ecstasy beneath him on this dirt floor.
“You were saying? About my sister and John Stewart?”
Say something innocuous, he thought, searching around in his scrambled brain. He lowered his head and found her violet eyes looking up at him. They were like jewels in a field of ivory.
“I would say if your sister looks anything like you, Athol was a lost man before he even knew it.”
The prettiest of smiles broke across her lips as his face flushed with heat.
“That was the nicest thing you’ve said to me since we met.”
“Aye, well, it just slipped out. Lack of sleep, probably.”
“Will I see you at all? That is, if we make it safely back to St. Duthac’s?” A deep crimson began to creep up her neck and into her cheeks. “I mean, since you are brother of the provost...I hope...I don’t mean to sound forward. I just meant since you...”
Her broken words were a perfect match to his inner turmoil. He raised a hand to her cheek. His fingers were large, brown, and rough against her skin. Her eyes, large and bright, watched him questioningly.
“‘Tis a dangerous thing we’re starting, lass.” He brushed his thumb across her lips and felt the sharp intake of breath. “I’m telling you now, use whatever weapon you have in your possession. What I’m thinking of this moment...well, another blow to the head may be in order.”
She didn’t pull away or smile. Instead, he felt her press closer in his arms. Her eyes focused on his mouth.
“By his Shirt, Laura, you do not know what’s good for you.”
“Don’t I?”
The words were scarcely breathed when he drew her up and kissed her waiting lips. It was a chaste kiss, a brush of lips, a tasting of her nectar and a testing of her experience. He drew his face away slightly. He told himself he was a fool for doing it. But she was indeed sweeter and more tender than the most exotic of delicacies--and he wanted more.
William watched her as she brought shaky fingers to her lips and touched the surface where his mouth had been an instant earlier.
“I have never been kissed.”
“And you still have not,” he stated, letting his eyes hungrily roam her face and body. “Not properly, anyway.”
He bent his head again and plundered her willing mouth. There was no longer any gentleness, only desire. No restraints, only passion pure and unreasoned. He felt her open her mouth beneath his, but he was too far beyond care to notice if her groan was uttered in complaint or passion. His tongue swept in, and he knew that she was his.
Flashes of rational thought, instants of sanity, occasionally flickered through his heated brain, but he ignored them as he held her body tightly to his own. He pulled her onto his lap, and Laura, too caught up with the power of their kiss, came willingly.
She wrapped her hands around his neck, and he felt her responding to him. She was pressing herself to him. As his mouth continued its onslaught, his hands roamed her back, brushing the soft fabric of the wool against her softer skin. She pulled back a bit to catch her breath, but he was relentless, following her and recapturing her mouth. All he could think of now was the sight of her naked skin--the feel of her firm flesh where he’d touched her as he’d undressed her earlier. He ran one hand to the side of her breast, groaning at the feel of the hard nipple erect beneath the shirt.
She tore her mouth away from his abruptly and placed a hand against his lips. His heart was pounding, his body throbbing with need, and he looked down into her flushed face. The intimacy of her fingers on his lips was almost more than he could stand. As his heart pounded in his chest, he gazed at her, vulnerable and his alone.
Her lips were full and tender, her cheeks the color of the wild roses. She was by far the bonniest lass he’d ever held in his arms. Nay, she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. But just then her gaze lifted, and the sight of tears again pooling in her bright eyes carved a frown across his face.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, pushing his chest. Moving awkwardly, she fell off his lap and onto the floor. She struggled ineptly for a moment, crawling backward and pulling the shirt over her legs. “I am not...I should not have...I’ve never been so reckless in my life. I can’t.”
William didn’t need to hear any more. Rising abruptly to his feet, he ran a restless hand through his hair. He wanted her. And deep down, she wanted him, no matter what she said.
But damn him, he decided bitterly, if she was a mistake he would indulge in again.
Snatching up his sword, he stomped to the door, yanked the leather flap aside, and marched out into the storm. The bitter wind, laced with icy snow, cut his face, but he never even noticed it as he stormed down the beach.
*****
Almost in a daze, Laura watched the flap of the door fall back into place. Unexpected tears welled up and ran down her cheeks, their wetness startling her into alertness. She dashed them away, but the sharp knot of regret that she felt rise in her throat made her stare once again at the doorway.
The madness, the burning desire to melt against him, into him, to become one with this man--these were sensations totally unknown to her. And yet she’d acted as boldly and as brazenly as some...as some tavern wench. But then, how she could not feel what she did when he had his arms about her?
He was simply far too irresistible for someone of her sheltered background. It was no wonder, Laura realized, her sister Catherine had decided so soon to wed. If the earl of Athol was anything like William Ross, she now understood very clearly why her sister would have given up the fight so quickly.
Using the Highlander’s retreat to her advantage, Laura rose quickly to her feet and started pulling down her garments from the leather cord. Damp but dry enough, she thought. She needed to be fully dressed, and she wanted to have a logical explanation for her lapse of sanity ready before his return. And he would return, Laura assured herself, glancing at the watchful horse in the corner.
“You must think humans to be daft creatures.”
The horse’s snort brought a smile to Laura’s lips.
She turned her attention back to the clothing in her hand, but her mind was engulfed with images of herself in William Ross’s arms. The feel of his mouth, the intimacy of his tongue as it had caressed her own. She brought a shaky hand to her swollen lips and tried not to think of the pleasure she’d felt at having him touch her breast.
She’d become corrupt. She was so willing. So very willing. Nay, she had to stop. She could not continue this way. What of her soul! What of his!
As she dressed, she decided to leave the laird’s shirt on beneath her dress and pulled her clothes on quickly.
The small fire in the middle of hut had burned down to embers and a mere wisp of smoke, but Laura didn’t dare put another piece of wood on top of it. William had put them both in danger by lighting the fire so close to Rumster Castle. She knew it was done solely to save her life, but she was far from the point of perishing now.
Laura had just finished pulling her damp boots over her warm wool stockings when she heard the sound of voices. Standing stock still, she strained to hear the voices again over the wind. Running to the thin wall of the hut, she peered through a crack. The wind pushing through was frigid, but she immediately spotted three men huddled against the battered wall of the hovel across the small opening. Ice and snow covered their tartans and beard, and they were casting suspicious looks in the direction of hut where she was hiding. Laura looked over her shoulder in panic at the thin smoke rising through the small hole of the hut’s roof.
Worry of the whereabouts of William brought Laura’s head around with a snap. She couldn’t tell if these were Sinclair men or not, but seeing their drawn weapons sent a cold shaft of fear straight through her. What if they had already injured or even killed him? He might be out there even now, his blood staining the snow as his life ebbed away.
Her mind whirled, and anger boiled in her veins. The thought of these men hurting the unsuspecting laird was made even more terrible by the guilt of
knowing that he’d rushed from the hut because of her.
She had no time to think beyond the present. She would escape and save him--or she would avenge his death. One way or the other, she would have to fight her way past these men.
As the group started toward the hut, Laura quickly ran her eye around, searching for a weapon. She had few options. Picking up one of the larger pieces of driftwood, she clutched it tightly and moved into the shadows. The leather door of the hut lifted, and with a gust of cold air, one of the men stepped in.
“‘His horse is here,” he shouted over his shoulder. “Just as I thought, he didna go south.”
Laura watched as the man’s two companions followed him in. Stepping in behind them, she smashed the heavy stick over the last entering man’s head. The man fell forward a step into the Highlander before him, knocking him down. Swinging the rude cudgel again, she struck the surprised leader in the ear and then scrambled to pick up a sword that had fallen to the ground.
“This will teach you,” she shrieked, struggling to swing the heavy blade, “to kill unsuspecting and innocent men.”
Before she could deliver the blow, however, strong hands grabbed her from behind, yanking the sword from her hands and lifting her by the waist off the ground. As she thrashed, the wide-eyed group of men struggled to their feet. Kicking out with one foot at the closest one, she sent him sprawling and drove her--and her captor--crashing into the doorjamb.
“By the devil...” he cursed, stopping her cold.
“You!” she gasped, twisting around to look at him.
William Ross put her down abruptly and then grasped the shoulder that had hit the doorway. He was glaring at her with a murderous look in his eye.
“They did not kill you,” she cried.
“Nay, but you almost did.”
She turned abruptly toward the three men crowding the hut. One of them was still sitting on the ground, holding his head in his hands. The leader was standing and nursing an ear that was already beginning to look like a mutton chop. The third, a wiry older man, was grinning toothlessly at her and at the laird behind her.
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