The Laird Page 9

  Accustomed to wearing only a tunic regardless of the cold, Glenlyon belatedly recalled the trews he’d begun wearing to conceal his injury. Shrugging, he stood, quickly untied the tapes that held them around his waist, and let them slide downward.

  The lady unpacked the basket and arranged items on the table: herbs, salves, a jug, and pots of mysterious potion. She stood still for a moment to assess her work, then nodded with satisfaction. Unfastening the simple brooch that held the brèid over her shoulder, she carefully removed the bulky garment and laid it aside. Clad now in only the long léine, she hitched the hem up to tuck into the belt at her waist, giving her freedom of movement and him a glimpse of bare leg beneath linen.

  “Your dirk, please,” she said, and held out her hand as she surveyed the table, “for ’tis better than using kitchen knives.”

  After only the briefest of hesitations, he unsheathed his dirk from his belt and put it in her hand. The hilt was of polished bone, carved with a thistle, a token of his new estate and rank.

  She knelt, slid the blade beneath the linen wrapped around his thigh, and expertly sliced the bandage in two. It did not fall away but clung to the wound, a prickling grip that made him grit his teeth. She glanced up at him.

  “Sit down, if you will, for I see that hot water will be needed in order to remove that bandage.” She glanced at the cold hearth. “It seems the inefficiency of your staff extends even to your own quarters.”

  “Shared quarters. There is hardly room for a private chamber.” He added grudgingly, “A fire is needed. Summon Fergal.”

  “Easier and more swift to fetch hot water from the kitchen. Sit down, I said, for your face has gone white. I do not need such a braw man stretched his length upon the floor, though it would probably be more comfortable for you.”

  A faint smile curved his mouth, and he sat stiffly on the stool. “Your command is obeyed, my lady.”

  “Would that you obeyed all my commands so swiftly and so willingly,” she said with a soft laugh. “Now stay until I return. Do not try to remove the bandage, or it may tear good flesh.”

  She needn’t have bothered with that last admonition, for he had no intention of pulling at the linen stuck to the wound. Already, the stench made his belly roll, he who was well used to the fetor of the battlefield.

  When she returned with a pail of hot water, she brought also a jug of wine and a cup.

  “It will ease your discomfort,” she said and filled the cup to the brim. “Drink it now, while I prepare.”

  “Do I seem so frail that I cannot bear the least pain?” Irritated, he set the full cup on the table, wine sloshing over the rim as he did. “I’m no wee bairnie, my lady.”

  “No,” she said with a thoughtful glance at him, her hands still shredding herbs into the hot water, “I see that you are not. Do as you wish, but you must be very still and not jerk away when I set to work.”

  It was a task easier imagined than achieved, he realized when she laid hot cloths atop the bandage on his leg. Heat seared into him, moist and encompassing, expected yet startling in intensity. To take his mind off the leg, he stared at the lady, studied her as she worked intently.

  A faint frown furrowed her brow, pale skin like English cream flawless and looking as soft as a summer breeze. There was the faintest hint of rose on her cheeks, a deeper rose on her lips, downcast lashes smudges of shadow beneath her eyes. She wore no cap upon her head as did most but kept her hair in neat plaits wound atop her crown and tied with a piece of string. He thought again of her adorned in jewels and silks. A woman such as this seemed out of place in crofter’s garb. There was an elegance in the way she held her head, in the long, slender fingers that moved with gentle expertise upon his aching leg.

  “This will hurt,” she murmured, and before he had time to react, pulled the old bandage away in a swift motion that sent a jolt of pain through him.

  He revised his opinion of her as gentle, regarded her with baleful eyes. “You said the bandage should not be torn away.”

  “No, it should not have been until it was ready. The wound needs to be opened again, it seems, to release the poisons. Drink your wine.”

  This time he did not argue.

  A brisk wind swept into the room through an open solar window; a wooden shutter banged loudly. Outside, the storm pressed closer, snarling thunder attended by sharp cracks of lightning. The air was damp, smelling of rain, cleansing as it penetrated to the far side of the chamber.

  It left him strangely restless. The touch of the lady’s hand on his bare thigh was unnerving, the throb of his wound a reminder of how close a careless lance had come to unmanning him. Every sense seemed heightened, the brush of her hand against his fevered skin, the sharp scent of herbs, even the faint fragrance of heather beneath it all, combined with the rolling sound of thunder and the view she presented of the vulnerable nape of her neck where her head was bent over her work . . . the taste of wine was heady on his tongue. He took another sip from the cup, breathed in the fumes, turned his thoughts in another direction from the lady.

  War . . . the Bruce’s determination to exterminate the last of English resistance to acknowledging him king . . .

  She was too close, too close . . . a temptation despite the circumstances, and he recalled the day in the north tower when she had untied her laces in a blatant invitation.

  What if he had accepted? Would she have continued? It had been a daring ploy—he’d recognized it even then—and it had angered him that such a lady would offer herself to him like a three-penny whore.

  But what if he had accepted?

  It teased him, the conjecture of what lay beneath her linen shift, the glimpse he’d had that day of snowy skin and quivering flesh, the wild pulse beating in the hollow of her throat, and the swift, aching erection that had come upon him so strongly he’d near staggered with it. He’d wanted her then, but not like that. Not like any common woman of the streets lying down for gain.

  Now he doubted his decision, for the need for her grew stronger with each day, each meeting. She should not be here like this with him, alone and closeted in an empty chamber, for he wasn’t at all certain he could trust himself with her alone.

  A gust of wind brought rain in through the open window. Light dimmed nearly to dark, though it was yet early in the day. A lamp on the far wall flickered, danced, sputtered as if dying.

  Looking up, her hands stilled on his thigh. “I need more light to finish. Do not move.”

  He watched, silent, as she rose and moved to the lamp in its holder on the wall, took it down, and brought it back to the table, where she lit a rack of candles carefully. A glow spread through the room, erratic beneath the press of wind.

  Light caught in her hair as she bent back to her task, picked out silvery strands among the fair, darker in places, a woven tapestry of beauty that beckoned him to touch the neat plaits she’d bound atop her head. One hand curled into a fist in his lap, his other gripped tight the cup of wine.

  Her hands moved against him, heedless of the tunic that was pushed higher on his thighs. He thought of those elegant hands on him, moving beneath the tunic to tend stronger needs with a prurient intent rather than medical.

  It was arousing.

  Heat scoured him that had nothing to do with the wine he drank or the rack of candles. The wind through the open window was chill, carrying rain, the shutter banging a loud, relentless theme against stone, and still the heat engulfed him in ruthless embrace.

  He wanted her, a fierce need that had nothing to do with who she was, or who he was, or their circumstance, but instead had everything to do with the sweet smell of her and her courage—that brave defiance of her own life and liberty for the sake of loyalty. It was as arousing as her face and form, yea, even more so.

  That first day, he’d seen it in her, though so trapped in his own misery an
d grief he hadn’t dwelled on it then. It was only later, when the initial sharp pain of loss had begun to fade a little that he’d remembered her generosity in offering compassion despite the gravity of her situation.

  It was an awkward realization, this wanting of her when she was hostage, when he’d opposed his father for her sake.

  When the easing would only bring more wanting . . .

  “Lift your leg, sir,” she said, and he raised his leg to allow her to slip a linen bandage beneath it, wrapping it around his thigh with efficient hands. She tied strips of linen to keep it in place, then sat back, wiping her hands on the tail of a cloth. “It should heal quickly enough now. It was corrupted. The dressings need be changed every day, with more herbs to speed the healing. If you prefer, I’ll instruct Fergal, and he can tend you.”

  He regarded her over the rim of his cup. “Fergal is ham-handed. And he’s the laird’s gillie, not mine.”

  Her brow lifted; candlelight sprayed over her face. “Is he? I thought him to be the steward here.”

  “He has been my father’s gillie and companion since they were both lads.”

  “A rare thing, such familiarity with servants.”

  “Things are done very differently in Scotland than in England.” He watched her face, the way the light gleamed gold and rose on her features, the quick lift of her lips in a faint smile. A tiny dimple flashed in one cheek, and he was fascinated. Why had he not noticed that before?

  “Your speech is more English than your father’s. Even your Scots is different.” She began to gather scattered herbs, carefully collecting the tiny stems and dried buds in her palm. “Why is that?”

  “I’ve spent more time in England, perhaps.”

  Collected herbs were carefully replaced in a leather pouch. When she concentrated, her mouth pursed and created two more dimples at each corner of her lips. It was most intriguing. Beguiling, as was the husky timbre of her voice.

  “Have you? I can only imagine how that time was spent.”

  “Not all of it was war.” He shifted and sipped his wine as he stretched out his injured leg to ease a cramp. He wore only his belted tunic, his discarded trews abandoned beneath the table. So little barrier to hide the rising proof of his need. There was no way to hide his reaction to her without her taking note. Tented linen in his lap would betray him for a certainty.

  A dull ache sharpened to acute need when she finished gathering the herbs and organizing the basket and looked up at him with an assessing gaze.

  “You still have blood upon your mouth, sir. Here . . . it will take just a moment to wipe it away.”

  Rising to her knees, she pressed a damp edge of cloth to his mouth, a gentle touch on his tender flesh. The act brought her closer to him, her body between his spread knees as she tended his mouth and jaw, dabbing gingerly at the hurts with the cloth and surveying him with a critical eye.

  Sharp and sweet, the scent of heather emanated from her body as if she lay in a field of it. He closed his eyes for an instant, heard her clucking compassion.

  “Tch, tch, you’ll be bruised for a few days, but the cuts are not deep.”

  His eyes opened to find her face inches away. He wanted to warn her but couldn’t find the words. It must be the wine. Blood surged through his veins in a rapid tide, pounded to his groin so fiercely that he had to curl his hands into tight fists to keep from crushing her to his chest. The cup of wine was gone, but he didn’t recall setting it aside. He couldn’t think, tried to follow the thread of her conversation, saw her lips move, and knew she’d asked a question. He blinked, then made sense of what she’d said and cleared his throat.

  “My time in England . . . I became familiar with the land and language.” Why tell her his time was spent mostly in an English prison? Or in raiding villages and laying waste to English fields?

  “No doubt, you spent much time in decent company and not in low,” she said.

  “Not so. The taverns in York are delightfully depraved. The Scots do not have complete jurisdiction over immorality, it seems.”

  “’Tis not what King Edward claims.” She laughed softly. “Yet I’m inclined to agree with you, being familiar with both countries as I am.”

  She slid the tip of her tongue over her bottom lip, an instant lure that brought him to full, aching erection. He wanted her with a ferocity that was startling and untimely.

  “And with depravity, milady?” He leaned forward when she drew back, fixing her with a steady gaze. “Are you well acquainted with the lustier natures of men?”

  Her smile faded. She looked flustered and wary. “I am a widow, sir. I’m not ignorant of a man’s more bestial side.”

  “There is a vast difference between brutality and seduction, Lady Lindsay.”

  Stiffly, she said, “I have little experience with that, sir.”

  “Perhaps it’s time you did.” He had the satisfaction of seeing hectic color rise to stain her cheeks. Why burn alone? Light caught in her eyes, twin flames mirrored as she stared at him. He leaned forward, cupped her chin in his palm, marveled at the velvety softness of her skin, like the furring of a rose petal.

  “Yea,” he murmured, “perhaps ’tis time I accepted your offer.”

  “My—offer?”

  His thumb rubbed gently along the curve of her lower lip. “You offered a trade, milady. Seduction for the promise of freedom.”

  “And you accept?”

  “The seduction is mine to accept, the freedom is not my choice. If it were . . .” He dragged his thumb over her lip in a slow, teasing glide, spreading moisture. “If it were, I would give you all you ask.”

  “So you offer nothing.” Her voice was strained, eyes wide and searching, a compelling gaze.

  He wanted to lie, to offer freedom, the sun, moon, and stars to her if she would only yield. Fiercely, he wanted to say anything that would gain the luxury of her sweet body, but the words would not form on his tongue.

  Bitter regret, that he could not lie—would not lie. Honesty required him to shake his head. “Nay, nothing.”

  “Yet you expect compliance!”

  “Nay, lady, I hope for it.”

  Chapter 10

  A STEADY THUD slowly penetrated Judith’s senses, and she recognized her own heartbeat, loud in her ears. Ruin lay in any response but a refusal, and yet . . . and yet there was a strange temptation to accede to his demand, to yield to the heat that coiled inside her at his touch, blossoming like a summer flower. Never had she known passion, only the duty of a wife to her husband.

  But she had heard of it, whispers from those who were fortunate enough to claim love, songs sung by the minstrels that told of soaring passion. A myth, she’d always thought, for if ’twas true, why had she never found a swain who inspired such emotion?

  Years ago, when she was not yet betrothed to Kenneth Lindsay, she had thought herself enamored of a young squire visiting Wakefield with his lord. There had been innocent flirtation, yearning glances, brief touches of hands during a dance, but not so much as an exchanged kiss between them. Her father had interfered, and the young squire was sent away before there could be fodder for the gossips.

  She had not wept, had felt only a vague sadness at the loss. And when Kenneth died, she had not felt even that. An arranged marriage left no doubts as to suitability, but it lent no reason for wooing. There was no tenderness in the wedding night, only business quickly done and relief for both when it was over. Her husband had made plain his resentment of an English wife, and she had missed England too much at first to attempt to change his mind. Later, it was too late, for they both felt trapped.

  But now . . . but now, there was this man, this bruised warrior of legendary ferocity, and his touch was gentle for all that he pursued his goal with determination.

  Lunacy, to even consider surrender, yet the storm tha
t raged outside paled in comparison to the turbulence she felt at that moment.

  His hand drifted downward, fingers dragging along the arch of her throat, a leisurely glide that made her shiver with reaction. He smiled, a darkly dangerous smile.

  “Yield, lady . . .”

  Powerful persuasion, his husky voice, the wanting so plain in his eyes, and she wavered, some primal force inside her answering the lure despite common sense, despite the remembered warnings of the priests about lust and hellfires.

  A crack of thunder rattled stone roof tiles, and lightning lent a sharp acrid smell to the air, made her gasp with sudden fright. A divine warning of retribution for wickedness?

  Glenlyon’s hand stilled, a heated weight against her breast. The air was thick, reeking of herbs and potions and possibilities, and she gathered strength in the waiting, in the hesitation.

  “I cannot. . . . It would not be right . . .”

  “No,” he agreed, the truth in his eyes, the devil in his clever hands as he caressed her breast, “it would not be right.”

  “No . . .” She drew in a soft breath when he scraped his thumb over the hill of her breast, thin linen of her léine the only barrier between them. Erotic shivers arced through her at the caress, sparked a flame that burned deep in her belly and lower. She shuddered, unable to move.

  Thunder rumbled, shook the tower, rain a howling beat against stone, spraying the chamber with fine mist through the open window, making candle flames dance wildly. Shadows cavorted over walls like gleeful demons, light played over Glenlyon’s face, and resistance faded beneath the temptation of his smile.

  Her breath was shallow, labored; a moan trembled on her lips as he tugged loose the single string that held closed the neck of her tunic. A loose garment, severe in its simplicity, easy to don and discard.

  Cool air washed over her breasts, summoning another shiver, and he leaned forward, a finger hooked beneath her chin to lift her face for his kiss.

  Almost desperately, she submersed herself in the kiss, as the restless heat inside climbed higher and higher. Hot inside, cold outside, the kiss was a reassurance as his lips moved over her mouth with remembered familiarity; he had kissed her before, an intrusion but not an invasion, the fine line uncrossed between yielding and force.