Highland Knight Of Dreams

by Jarecki, Amy

  “Two days.”

  “Two days? My kin will be sick with worry.”

  “I was sick with worry—and Gran still hasn’t returned from Rothesay.”

  Draping his arm over his head, it all came back. Who the devil had shot him and why? And the old woman had insisted the scoundrels were after me.

  “How is your shoulder?”

  The damned thing seared with pain. “Hardly ken I’ve been shot.”

  “Truly? I’ve never seen a man recover so quickly.”

  He gave her a sheepish cringe. “Mayhap it’ll be awhile afore I’m wrestling a colt.”

  “I would think so.” She gestured to the table. “Are you hungry? Yesterday I made some bread and put a pot of mutton stew on to simmer.”

  Quinn’s stomach growled at the mention of food. “I’m famished.”

  “Can you rise? I could bring a bowl and feed you here.”

  “I’ll not be mollycoddled,” he growled, trying to sound tougher than he felt. Honestly, having the lass spoon feed him while he reclined on the soft pillows was a far more enticing idea, but he’d never admit to it.

  The pallet grew suddenly cold when Alice rose. “I’ll dish up a couple of bowls.”

  “My thanks.” He winced as he sat up, the blankets falling to his hips. Och, he wore not a stich of clothing. Blast, his shirt and kilt were draped across a rocking chair on the other side of the chamber.

  As he stood, he pulled the blanket with him and tucked it around his waist. The room spun. Worse, his legs barely withstood his weight. “Abed for two miserable days and I’m as weak as a bairn.”

  The lass glanced over her shoulder and blessed him with another smile. If a grin might give a man strength, Alice ought to keep at it. “I’m amazed to see you on your feet. After you spent the night moaning, I feared you’d never wake.”

  Quinn scratched the itchy stubble on his face. “’Tis not like me to moan.”

  “Everyone moans in the midst of a fever.”

  “I was fevered?”

  “Aye, and sweating something awful. I couldn’t replace the cloths on your forehead fast enough.”

  Deciding to forgo his shirt, he staggered to the bench and plopped on his arse, completely spent. “You mean to say you sat up with me all night, wiping my brow?”

  When the young lady turned, her gaze dropped to his bare chest. Her teeth grazed her bottom lip. “And ladling willow bark tea between your lips. I’ll say the reason you’re faring so well this morn is on account of the tea.” Dipping her head, her lips curved in a sheepish grin. “And a tot or two of watered whisky.”

  “Watered?” He grinned back, bless it he liked her. He especially liked it when she raked her eyes down his body. And by her expression, she liked him as well.

  She placed two bowls on the table. “I didn’t want to choke you.”

  “Not me. I was born swilling whisky.”

  “Is that what your ma told you?”

  “Regrettably, I didn’t really know my mother. She passed away when Eachan was born.”

  “I’m sorry.” Sadness filled her eyes as she passed him a spoon—made of silver and embossed with a coat of arms. The piece didn’t fit with the shabbiness of the cottage but before he mentioned it, Alice continued, “My ma passed the day I was born. I blamed myself for years.”

  “It wasn’t your fault, lass. Childbearing has a way of taking too many young mothers from their bairns.” He reached for the spoon and took a bite. “Mm. This is good.”

  “Thank you. ’Tis Gran’s—”

  “Recipe?” he asked. “I take it the woman has taught you a great deal.”

  “From herbs to facts to reading. She’s a wise woman.”

  And odd.

  A rose in full bloom sat in a crystal vase in the center of the table. “Is that the same bud you gave me?”

  “It is.” Alice cupped her hands around it and inhaled. “The fragrance is more potent than any rose I’ve ever smelled.”

  “’Tis not like any I’ve ever seen either. What sort of rose blooms violet?”

  “A damask rose. Gran says they’re…special.”

  Quinn’s gaze traveled to the brooch he’d seen Alice wearing with the four emeralds. “How do you mean?” he asked, noticing the motto encircling a hand Ne Parcas nec Spernas. In his thoughts he translated the Latin, “Neither Spare nor Despise”.

  Alice ran her finger down the crystal vase. “I’m sure it is only myth.”

  “I’ve nowhere to go.” He looked her in the eye. “Tell me.”

  “Och, if you must know, Gran says it makes enemies become—”

  “What?”

  She rolled her hand through the air. “Ye ken.”

  “Lovers?” he asked, praying it were true.

  A glowing blush blossomed in Alice’s silky cheeks. “That’s what Gran says. She’s not right about everything, though.”

  Chuckling, Quinn tapped the brooch. “But you just boasted about her wisdom.”

  Those lovely blues shifted toward the pin, but she uttered not a word.

  “Tell me, bonny Alice, why were you at the high table wearing this?”

  She stirred her pottage as if hesitant. “I’m the last of my clan.”

  “Which is?”

  Though her blush deepened as red as hot coals, she squared her shoulders, tipped up her chin, and looked him straight in the eye. “Lamont.”

  Chapter Eight

  As Alice clearly and proudly declared her clan name, the pain in Quinn’s shoulder burned. Disbelief stifled his breath, as he gaped at the woman. Why in God’s name had she taken him in? She’d stood over him with a razor-sharp knife. Why had she not run it across his throat?

  “Lamont?” he asked, his voice hard as he raked his fingers through his hair. “Good Lord, woman, you held my life in the palm of your hands.”

  As she set down her spoon, the woman’s gaze filled with a concoction of wild emotion. Anger. Defiance. And, most of all, pride. “Do not think that fact escaped me—not for one minute.”

  Quinn’s mind raced. Damnation, why had she risked her life to help him? Why hadn’t she let her kin finish him off in Rothesay?

  The glint of the long sword by the door caught his eye. The lass could have finished him more than once. “And yet you tended me as if I were kin.”

  “Same as I would any living soul.”

  “But—”

  Shaking her head, Alice held up a palm. “The day you rode onto my lands—”

  “Your lands?”

  “Aye, my lands!” She pounded a fist onto the table. “That day I raced back to Gran ready to poison the burn—to kill Argyll’s grandson and heir.”

  His gut squeezed as he gulped. “But instead you brought me the rose.”

  “Gran’s idea, mind you. But she…” Alice pushed back the bench and stood.

  Quinn tried to follow, but when his knees buckled, he remained where he sat. “Go on…”

  Alice busied herself with tending the fire. “Obviously she had different ideas. Which…which, were completely misguided.”

  “Hmm.” Quinn again scratched his stubble as he studied the damned rose. The old woman might have had good intentions, but most likely for the wrong reasons. No matter if he wanted to court the lass, the odds were not in their favor. But the old woman needed to atone for her actions. Was the rose supposed to be a trick—some sort of medieval spell? Was the old seer indeed a witch?

  He needed to think. He needed to breathe. And with the air in the wee cottage growing tenser by the moment, the only thing that made sense was to hasten outside. “Where might I find the well? I’m in need of a shave.”

  And a healthy dousing in cold water.

  * * *

  “Merciful fairies, I’m daft.” Alice had collected a razor, soap and drying cloth for Quinn, but now that he’d gone outside with the blanket wrapped around his waist, he’d left his clothes still draped across the back of Gran’s rocking chair. Surely he’d want to don his shi
rt and kilt after his he washed and shaved. Tiptoeing to the garments, she smoothed her fingers down the wool of her skirts. No, it hadn’t escaped her notice that the Highlander appeared quite comfortable marching outdoors with her plaid hugging his hips.

  Although, it wasn’t as if Alice hadn’t already seen his chest. She’d spent the past few days trying to cover him up, only to have the man shove the bedclothes back down in his fitful sleep.

  Making up her mind, she collected the clothing and marched outside. At the corner of the cottage, the memory of the look in his eye when she’d told him her clan name made her stop. “Lord Quinn?” she called, clutching the clothing tighter. Was he angry?

  When he didn’t respond, visions, not of his fury, but of the man weakened by loss of blood, possibly collapsed in a heap and unconscious emboldened her. I knew he was up and about too soon.

  But as she darted around the corner, the last thing she expected to see was…

  Oh my.

  Alice froze. She forgot to breathe.

  Beautiful, pure, braw, and a very naked Highlander stood bent over a basin, ladling water atop his head. With a grand shake, Quinn straightened while he pushed his hair away from his face. Streams of water trickled down his body, making gooseflesh stand proud…his every muscle flex.

  Too stunned to avert her gaze, Alice took it all in. Chestnut locks dripping onto shoulders powerful enough to pull a horse cart. From there rivulets of water streamed to a lean waist—lean but sturdy. She squeezed the bundle of clothing tighter as her gaze continued down Quinn’s sculpted form. Aye, his buttocks were smoothly chiseled like marble—but clearly not hewn of stone—hewn of dimpled, muscular, irresistible flesh.

  Without noticing her presence, Quinn splashed under his arms, the sunlight making the water glisten as it trickled downward.

  Alice’s mouth went dry. If only she could touch him—trace her fingers over every defined muscle flexing beneath his skin. She took a step forward, a twig snapping beneath her toes.

  Snatching the razor, he faced her in a crouch, eyes blazing.

  Within a heartbeat, she took a step back. But she didn’t avert her gaze, unflinching she couldn’t help herself. He was long and sleek—potent and oh, so very male. Something deep inside filled with longing. Her breasts grew heavy, making the need to touch him grow tenfold. “Um…” Was he as delicious as he looked? Was the hair on his chest soft or coarse?

  She managed to shift her stare to his face. “Oh my.”

  “Alice?” In the blink of an eye, his mien softened as he set the razor on the table and covered himself with the blanket. “You brought my things,” he said, his voice soft and incredibly deep.

  The tone alone made her tremble, excruciatingly aware of what she’d just seen—of every inch of his formidable body. Alice gulped and stared at Quinn’s chest, heaving with his every breath. One of the roosters from the chicken yard crowed, serving as the slap she needed to remind her that this man was not someone with whom she could ever fall in love.

  Clearing her throat, she held out the bundle. “Here you are.”

  After taking it, he set the clothes on the board and stepped nearer. “You’ve a fire coursing through your blood right now, haven’t you, lass?”

  Tough she trembled from head to toe, she couldn’t force herself to turn and run. A fire coursing through her blood? It felt more like the sizzling coals made hotter by the smithy’s bellows. “H-how did you know?”

  “The same frenzied desire is thrumming through my veins as well.” He slid his palm to her waist, long black eyelashes lowering while his gaze dipped to her mouth. “Tell me you don’t want me to kiss you and I’ll return to my bath.”

  Alice commanded herself to turn around and flee, but her legs refused to budge. Tingles raced across her skin. She couldn’t breathe. The cock crowed again, and she barely heard it. Quinn’s lips neared—beautifully full lips, slightly parted and looking like sin. As if it had a mind of its own, her hand grasped his waist—cool flesh, slightly damp. But his wee gasp made her melt like molten gold. “I—”

  “Say it.”

  “Please.” As she raised her chin, his mouth covered hers, gentle at first, but as she yielded, his lips turned hot, wet, insistent, rendering her powerless.

  Something exploded inside her. This man personified the most forbidden fruit in all of Christendom, and Alice was coming undone in his arms. His kiss consumed her, uplifted her, made her ravenous. His soul poured into her like aged whisky until she was intoxicated with pleasure.

  Digging her fingers into the bands of flesh she’d craved to touch only moments ago, she could not fight him.

  Even if he is the enemy.

  As if he’d heard her thoughts, he cupped her cheek and slowly drew away. “I ought not to have acted so brazenly. Forgive me.”

  Drawing her fists beneath her chin, Alice skittered backward What had they done? “This can never be.”

  “Unless…”

  “Nay. As soon as you are well enough, you must go.” She glanced out toward the sea, another worry twisting her heart. “Gran should have returned by now. She might arrive at any moment.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “Aye.”

  “Do ye ken what may have detained her?”

  Alice shook her head. “I aim to return to Rothesay as soon as you’re on your way.”

  “With the food and brisk bath, I’ve grown stronger already. I’m sure the fighting has been quelled. I’ll escort you across the Clyde on the morrow. Besides, I must fetch my horse.”

  Chapter Nine

  For the love of God, why hadn’t he exercised some bloody control? What was it about Alice that turned him into a lovesick fool? She was a Lamont! Worse, whenever the woman came near, his mind blanked, his heart raced like hummingbird wings, and his bedamned cock turned into an iron rod.

  She was the granddaughter of the man his grandfather had mercilessly put to death.. In her eyes, he had to be a complete and utter beast.

  He must regain his strength and his senses and take control posthaste. Moreover, if he spent one more minute in the cottage surrounded by the scent of enticing, tempting, alluring Alice, he might make good on his reputation of scoundrel. And all because of her. She drove him mad with lust—the longing to put his hands on her body, to explore every inch of her flesh with his mouth. The hunger to be the first take her places she couldn’t possibly imagine.

  Damnation, the woman drove him mad, insane, and completely ravenous.

  Heading for the Toward Castle ruins, Quinn spent the remainder of the day forcing himself to rebuild his strength. He never should have kissed her. Heaven forbid, if she’d been naked he would have lost all control. Such an irresponsible act would have rekindled a clan feud, doubtless bringing Lamont allies from all corners of the Lowlands to put Campbell lands to fire and sword.

  He considered strapping on his weapons and leaving, but he’d promised to help the lass find her grandmother. Bittersweet as his plan was, the idea of traveling with Alice and keeping her close tempted him beyond reason. On one hand, it might be nice to come to know her better—find out more about her—her likes, her loves, her plans for her future. But such musings were akin to the betrayal of his clan and kin. There could be no plausible future for them. A wee tryst would not be acceptable, either. Alice was too precious. She deserved better than to be ravished and cast aside. Worse, every time Quinn looked into her blaeberry eyes he yearned to kiss the lass. Hell, he wanted to do a great deal more than kiss.

  If only she were a simple maid, a tryst might assuage his inexplicable lust. But no, the woman had to be a clan leader in her own right—the only living heir of the Lamont line. Of all the clans who feuded with the Campbells, Lamont was the most hated. Before the massacre, Alice’s grandfather had led his kin on raids putting Campbell women and children under the knife. They’d reived Campbell cattle, burned out their crofts and attacked their castles, yet Quinn’s grandfather had repaid their deeds tenfold.

&
nbsp; By the time Quinn returned to the cottage, he was bone-weary, but a good fatigue, the kind that made a man feel as if he is on the mend after a bout of sickness. The sun shone like an immense yellow ball on the horizon of the western sky and, after a polite knock, he strode inside—a home far more meager than the lass deserved.

  Alice set her mending aside and stood from the rocking chair, blushing scarlet. “I-I wasn’t certain you’d return.”

  Was she embarrassed about catching him bathing? He hadn’t given his nakedness a second thought, other than wishing they’d been naked together, other than wanting her more than he’d ever wanted a woman in his life.

  He rubbed the back of his neck and let the door swing closed behind him. “I needed to regain my strength.” And clear my addled head.

  She’d brushed out her hair and the waves shimmered in the candlelight as she gestured with an upturned palm. “I made roast chicken.”

  “Is that what smells delicious?”

  “Mm hmm.” Feminine hips swayed while she moved to the hearth and tugged on the hob’s cast iron handle. “If you’ll open the bottle of wine, I’ll set to serving.”

  Quinn found the squat flagon on the table and used his dirk to cut away the wax sealing the cork. “You look bonny this eve.”

  “Oh?” Placing the chicken on the table, she didn’t seem to appreciate the compliment. “Not any different than usual, I suppose.”

  “Och, you’d look bonny dressed in sackcloth. The first time I laid eyes on you I thought ye were the loveliest creature I’d seen in all my days.” He raked his fingers through his hair. What am I about? Why must I become a lovelorn fool whenever I’m in her presence?

  A wee smile turned up the corners of her mouth. “A selkie.”

  “Nay, that’s what my brother said. But I thought…”

  She smoothed her hands down her apron. “Yes?”

  “I thought you were as beautiful as a goddess.”

  His words produced not a smile or blush, but a coy expression with wide, teasing eyes. “You’ve seen many goddesses, have you?”