The only way was by sea. If he took her home in his galley, it was unlikely he’d leave Skye alive. Darroch MacKeegan wouldn’t take kindly to losing his birlinn, not to mention the fact Broderick had nigh on drowned his daughter.
If he sent her off with his men, he’d probably never see the gunboat again and he needed the vessel for patrolling the Solway.
He saw to his ablutions, dressed quickly and started out for the mews. Talking things over with Aiglon often helped resolve problems. He simply had to be patient.
*
Lily slid off the bed and tugged Kyla’s sleeve. “I want to go now to ask Broderick.”
Kyla got up and held her arms wide. “I canna traipse about in a nightgown. Besides, yer brother is holding me against my will. He might object if I leave this chamber. Does he even ken ye’re here?”
Lily’s face reddened.
A suspicion grew in Kyla’s mind. “Does Doreen ken where ye are?”
“Er…nay,” the lass admitted with a mischievous grin. “She’s probably hunting for me.”
Kyla bristled. She didn’t need a cantankerous servant as an enemy. But something about Lily’s grin brought her naughty brothers to mind. Perhaps, the Maxwell lass was a tomboy after all. A co-conspirator. “Do ye think ye can sneak down to the laundry and try to find my clothes?” she whispered. “I’d especially appreciate getting my plaid back.”
Lily frowned. “Why?”
Obviously things were different here in the Lowlands. “Where I come from,” she explained, “every clan has its own plaid. ’Tis a symbol of where we belong.”
“And ye dinna belong here,” Lily replied.
The sadness in the bairn’s eyes gave her pause, but homesickness tightened her throat. “Nay.”
“I understand. I’ll find it for ye. Then can we look for Broderick?”
“Aye, though we’d best stay out of Doreen’s way.”
“Oh, she ne’er ventures to the mews.”
“The mews?”
Lily opened the door and peered out. “Broderick will be there, talking to Aiglon.”
Kyla was beginning to feel like a parrot. “Aiglon?”
“His eagle.”
Kyla’s breath hitched in her throat as the bairn closed the door behind her. She remembered the eagle vividly—harbinger of the disaster that had befallen her galley.
Prey
“I canna deny she has unsettled me,” Broderick confided to Aiglon.
The bird ignored him, her attention on the water as Lark brought them closer to the Firth.
“Ye’re obviously more interested in salmon than in what I have to say,” he lamented, loosening the jesses, then gently stroking her head.
She nudged her beak against his cheek in the familiar ritual they shared before she spread her wings. With a whoosh of feathers, she flew off, soaring high, then circling, searching out her prey.
Well fed in the mews, her instinct to hunt had nothing to do with hunger.
She spotted her victim and dove to glide perilously close to the surface, talons outstretched. The delight and exhilaration of watching her never left him. She was a force of nature and he humbly recognized he was fooling himself if he thought he’d tamed her.
“Typical redhead,” he muttered.
The remark sent a tingle racing up his spine at the very moment Aiglon dipped her talons in the water and effortlessly extracted a wriggling fish.
Could Kyla MacKeegan be tamed?
He shook his head. Then she wouldn’t be the lass she was, and he was drawn to her feisty nature.
“That’s an understatement, my lad,” he chided.
However, a little friendly coaxing might convince her to draw in her talons. She’d make a formidable enemy, especially with such powerful clan connections. Better to have her as an ally. Working out a plan to return her to the Hebrides might stand a better chance of success if they conceived it together.
It was a good idea, yet he could muster no enthusiasm for the prospect of her leaving Caerlochnaven.
As expected, Aiglon brought her catch to shore, pecked out the eyes, then flew back to curl her talons around his outstretched arm. “Did ye enjoy that tasty morsel, my pet?” he crooned.
She nudged his cheek again.
“Speaking of tasty morsels…”
He hardened at the thought of tasting Kyla. It was disturbing. He had sworn never to allow emotion to control him. It had been his father’s undoing. Nor did he have a reputation for lusting after women, unlike the late, unlamented Lochwood laird. The lass from Skye had him bewitched. “Good grief, what is wrong with me?” he spluttered, winding the jesses around the leather gauntlet.
Aiglon eyed him, but offered no solution before lifting her sharp gaze to the sky. She was on the lookout for threats, but he wouldn’t blame her for rolling her eyes.
*
In Lily’s absence, Kyla set about exploring. Intrigued by a narrow set of steps leading off the bedchamber, she followed them down to a strange grotto-like room. Candles flickered in lanterns affixed to the walls. Dark water filled a square pool that occupied most of the space. The air was warm and humid. A pattern of small tiles covered the floor. It was as if she’d stepped into the ancient villa Isabel’s Uncle Boyd told of from his long-ago voyage to Rome.
Startled from her rapt enjoyment of the faerie-like cave by a commotion in the chamber, she scurried back up the stone steps.
A red-faced Lily watched her emerge.
A serving girl laden with clothing eyed her suspiciously.
“I found yer trews,” Lily exclaimed before Kyla could ask about the pool, “but the laundress was told to give away yer ruined shirt to poor folk.”
“Aye,” the servant confirmed sheepishly, dumping the clothing on the bed before hurrying away.
Kyla forgot about the grotto in her rush to examine the pile, elated to find the precious plaid—and something else. “But ye found another shirt I see.”
Lily’s eyes widened with glee. “I borrowed one of my brother’s from the armoire in his dressing room.”
Kyla’s heart did a peculiar flutter in her chest as she took hold of the garment and held it up. “’Tis too big,” she said, though that wasn’t her main concern. It belonged to Broderick Maxwell, the man who’d destroyed her life. Yet she had an urge to press the soft linen to her cheek, to inhale any trace of him that might linger. It was lunacy.
“’Twill have to do,” Lily replied with a maturity beyond her years. “Until we can find another.”
“But he’ll be angry when he sees I am wearing his clothing.”
It struck her immediately that there was naught amiss with raising Maxwell’s ire. In fact, why not take perverse pleasure in enjoying all his castle had to offer? “Is the warm pool down below for bathing?”
Lily grinned and took her hand. “The Roman bath, ye mean? Broderick willna mind if we use it.”
*
Having made the decision to initiate peace negotiations with Kyla, Broderick stopped by the dressing room adjoining his bedchamber to change his attire. He loved falconry, but the mews wasn’t a pleasant-smelling place and he didn’t want to launch his diplomatic efforts with the inevitable bird down clinging to his clothing.
He paused on the threshold and inhaled. Lily’s little-girl scent lingered.
Not that he minded if she’d been in his dressing room. It was simply curious. Unless she’d been looking for him. That seemed a reasonable explanation.
He took off his tunic and undid the ties of his shirt, then pulled it off over his head.
He threw the soiled garment to the floor for Teak to pick up later and opened the armoire, looking for his favorite shirt.
To no avail.
Yet he was certain it had been there earlier. A peculiar premonition stole into his senses.
Lily…a missing shirt…Kyla.
Heat surged through his veins, sending blood rushing to his groin at the notion of Kyla MacKeegan’s shapely form clad in his
clothing. What other explanation was there?
He chuckled. It was possible his baby sister had already formed a bond with his captive.
Sweat beaded on his brow. He shouldn’t have conjured the word captive. Now he’d have to bathe before he met with Kyla, lest she get the mistaken impression she was dealing with a lustful man.
He undressed, wrapped a drying cloth around his waist and thrust open the door that led from his dressing room down to the Roman bath.
Sins of the Flesh
Corbin squirmed on a hard wooden bench in the abbey chapel, his backside numb, unable to fathom why Abbot Septimus invariably chose to preach about the sins of the flesh. The cleric must have had an unfortunate experience with a woman at some time. He condemned the fairer sex to damnation at every opportunity, and apparently hadn’t learned what Corbin knew instinctively—women had to be kept in their proper place. He had no respect for men who let females rule their lives.
He deemed it amusing that the diatribes about sexual congress were probably the last thing the captive audience of monks needed to hear. Most of them looked past the age of caring about such matters, but if they didn’t have intercourse on their minds when they entered the chapel…
The topic even came up in the Refectory as part of the blessing of the meals.
When Septimus insinuated he should study to take vows, Corbin stuck to his claim of amnesia and insisted he couldn’t commit to the religious life until he remembered who he was.
Self-denial wasn’t the lifestyle for him. After each prolonged tirade about the sin of sex and the wiles of women, he rushed back to the necessarium to relieve his needs, all the while imagining it was Kyla’s hand gripping his flesh.
There was no option but to be present for the abbot’s talks, since he was required to attend all the services of Divine Office in return for food and shelter. He readily agreed at first, unaware the monks were expected to be in the chapel by three o’clock in the morning for Lauds. No sooner had he gotten back to sleep than he was on his knees for Prime at six, then Terce, then Sext, then None, then…on and on until he thought he might go mad if he heard plainchant again.
He was also required to work in the abbey’s fields for part of the afternoon—a laird doing the work of a menial laborer. It was tempting to tell Abbot Septimus exactly what he could do with his pick and shovel. However, Fate had brought him to a place of safety within striking distance of two things he coveted—the castle and the redhead. He had to be patient.
The demands of Divine Office left little time or energy for thinking. He was no closer to a plan than when he first arrived, and he could barely stand the stench of his own body after working in the fields. Ahead loomed a night of interrupted sleep amid equally sweaty, snoring men. His patience was running low and he’d been at the abbey less than thirty-six hours.
Roman Bath
“Over the years, my stepmother has made many improvements to Dun Scaith Castle, among them a boudoir for every big bedchamber,” Kyla explained to Lily as they relaxed in the warm water.
“Same thing here.” Lily’s voice echoed off the low ceiling as she swam to the far side of the pool, her endearingly white bottom bobbing above the water. “But this is the only Roman bath.”
Kyla smiled at the bairn’s flushed face when she turned to lean against the wall. “We have naught like this. Isabel’s Uncle Boyd told me of fine mosaic floors he saw in Rome years ago. I wonder if whoever designed this was inspired by some ancient Roman villa.”
Lily shrugged. “I dinna ken. The bath’s been here for a long time. Broderick tends to talk a lot about the cisterns in the cellars that heat the water, but I dinna understand how it works.”
“Weel, I’ve heard Queen Elizabeth’s godson invented a necessary for her use that flushed waste into a cesspit.”
Lily wrinkled her nose. “Ewww.”
Kyla laughed, surprisingly content to bathe naked with a wee lass she’d met only a few hours before. Indeed, sharing a bath with anyone was a new experience. She didn’t even swim with her young brothers.
Luxuriating in the warm water, she studied the intricately tiled designs on the walls. Trust a man to be more interested in cisterns. The Maxwell laird probably didn’t even notice the beauty of his surroundings.
“Broderick,” Lily suddenly exclaimed, ducking her shoulders beneath the water.
Kyla’s throat constricted when she glanced up.
Her nemesis dwarfed a small doorway she hadn’t noticed before, his broad chest naked, a long drying cloth fastened around his waist, his feet bare. She might never have bathed with her brothers, but she’d spent time aboard ship with men and instantly recognized the signs of male arousal—the flared nostrils, the narrowed eyes, the tented drying linen.
Her father would have plenty to say about the barbaric lowland custom of men, women and bairns bathing together in a warm pool. It might have suited the Romans, but Scots?
She had no option but to stay crouched in the water. Let him make the first move.
*
Broderick couldn’t move. His feet seemed to be nailed to the tiled floor he loved, and his tongue was stuck to the roof of his mouth. He wished he could stand tall, but the ceiling was too low. Preoccupied with how to open the discussion with Kyla, he’d never considered she might discover the bath.
Lily was probably responsible.
But that didn’t solve his problem.
The way Kyla raked her gaze over him from head to toe left little doubt that she was aware of her effect on his body. A woman who captained ships must know an erection when she saw one.
No, that wasn’t right. Thank goodness he hadn’t blurted that thought out loud.
Hopefully, she didn’t think he’d appeared there intentionally.
“Broderick,” his sister shrieked again, jolting him out of his stupor.
Gripping the towel at his waist, he executed a quick bow, cracking his head on the doorframe when he straightened. “Forgive me, ladies. My mistake. I mean, my error. I didna ken…I’ll leave.”
Except I canna tear my gaze away from the tendrils of damp red hair and the tantalizing prospect of what lies just below the surface.
“I’ll go…now,” he babbled.
“Ye already said that,” Lily accused.
For one wildly lunatic moment he was tempted to let the towel fall and strut over to join them in the bath.
Then Kyla would have reason to stare! God hadn’t been stingy with his male endowments.
He sobered quickly. Usually light on his feet, he’d likely trip over the linen and fall on his arse. What was it about this Highland woman that robbed him of his senses?
As he hurried out of the grotto, female giggles confirmed he’d turned into an imbecile.
*
Kyla enjoyed sharing the humor of Broderick’s discomfort with Lily, but couldn’t rid herself of the image of him standing half-naked in the tiny doorway. He was obviously embarrassed and shocked to find them there, yet his vulnerability rendered him all the more attractive.
She would never admit, even to herself, that she’d secretly hoped the drying cloth would slip from his hips when he reached up to rub his head.
She followed Lily’s lead and climbed out of the pool. The lass didn’t seem to know what to say about her brother’s unexpected advent and she doubted the bairn understood the reason for his discomfort. That must mean his behavior was out of character. He hadn’t come to take advantage of her.
Kyla dried off and wrapped the linen she’d brought around her body, but Lily scooted back to the chamber stark naked. There, she set about getting dressed, huffing and puffing as she tried to put on hose. “I’m too hot,” she complained.
Kyla easily pulled on the trews tailored for her by the seamstress at Dun Scaith. “I dinna bother with such frills.”
Lily yanked off the wrinkled hose. “Ye’re right. Tomboys dinna wear hose.”
Kyla reminded herself to tread warily. If the lass agreed with everythin
g she said, there could be trouble ahead. Lily was obviously in need of a mentor, and wouldn’t necessarily benefit from thoughtless remarks on Kyla’s part.
Her brothers never paid any mind to any advice she might offer, but Lily was apparently ready to gobble up every word.
Preoccupied with these thoughts, she realized she’d donned the borrowed shirt. It was much too big, but felt soft against her skin.
She was rolling up the sleeves when Lily put her arms around her hips and pressed her head against her stomach. “I like ye,” she whispered. “I’m glad my brother brought ye home. Dinna be afraid of him.”
“I’m nay afraid,” Kyla lied.
She was attracted to Broderick Maxwell when she should hate him. That was terrifying.
Think before Ye Speak
Broderick threw off the drying linen as he paced the narrow confines of his dressing room. He touched a finger to the sore spot on his head. There was no blood and it didn’t seem to be swollen, which was more than could be said for the flesh between his legs.
The only way to calm his body was to rid himself of the memory of wide green eyes, damp red hair, pink shoulders, breasts bobbing…
It was hopeless.
He pressed an ear to the door adjoining his chamber, relieved to hear his sister’s voice. That meant they’d left the bath. There might yet be a chance to relax in the warm water and gather his thoughts.
He retrieved the towel, tucked it around his waist and tiptoed down the steps to the grotto. He opened the small door an inch, listened, then breathed again. He strode to the edge of the pool, dropping the towel before plunging into the warm water.
Hoping the bath would work its magic, he stretched out his arms against the stone wall, leaned back and studied the mosaics on the ceiling. His family was fortunate that an ancestor had built their castle atop the ruins of a Roman villa. Remarkably, he’d preserved the spring-fed bath and repaired its cisterns instead of destroying them. A wise man, indeed.
Kilty Pleasures (Clash of the Tartans Book 3) Page 6
