“I suppose I wasn’t too far out of my head then, was I?” he muttered dryly. He still could think of little but how damned appealing she was and how he wanted to tumble her on the bed behind him.
She lifted a shoulder with elaborately feigned disinterest. “I wouldn’t know, my lord, as you’ve been naught but dishonest with me.”
“Shaming me into it now, are we?”
She just gazed back at him, unblinking.
He rubbed his forehead, then sighed again. “Very well. I will go to your Lochlaire and try to heal your father.”
She let out a gasping breath and clasped her hands together in stunned disbelief, then jumped at him,grabbing his hands in hers. “Oh, thank you, Dumhnull—I mean, my lord! You will not be sorry, I vow it! I will take care of you afterward, just as I did today. And you will be paid, of course. And anything else you wish that we can provide is yours. You only have to name it.”
“A kiss,” he said, surprising himself, but once the words were out, he did not take them back; in fact, everything in him was suddenly focused on her mouth, the soft, plump swell of her bottom lip that he wanted to taste. Since he’d met her he’d wanted to kiss her, touch her, bed her, with a single-minded intensity that startled and troubled him.
She stopped her excited rambling and stared up at him, her throat working, but no words issued forth. Her hands stiffened in his and she tried to pull away, but he held firm.
He leaned toward her, using his hold on her hands to pull her closer. He could feel the whisper of her skirts along his lower body, the prelude to something soft and yielding igniting sharp lust in his blood.
“That’s hardly adequate payment,” she said, her gaze dropping to his mouth, then darting back to his eyes.
“Nevertheless,” he said softly, “it’s the payment I demand.”
She parted her lips to make another protest, but he silenced her with his mouth.
She was stiff, her fingers digging into his. He coaxed her mouth to softness, tasting the salty sweetness of her, running his tongue lightly along the generous curve of her lower lip. Her breath exhaled on a sigh, her lips opening to him, kissing him back. He released her handsto put his arms around her, to press her closer. Her hands came up to his shoulders, as if to push him away, but she didn’t. She was warm and soft in his arms, and tasted like heaven. He didn’t know what demon had prodded him into demanding a kiss, but he was glad for it.
“My lord,” she breathed, exerting the slightest pressure against his chest. “I—”
He took advantage of her open mouth to kiss her deeper, sliding his tongue between her lips. Her tongue met his with no hesitation, and need closed around him like a fist, hot and urgent. He wanted more. He wanted her in his bed.
Her hands slid up to his shoulders, where they clutched the fabric of his shirt near his collar. Her breath came fast and fluttery, her skin gloriously warm and flushed to his palms. He was quickly descending into the realm of mindless lust, and she offered him no resistance.
What was he planning? To bed her, obviously, but then? She was no village whore, or even a widow in need of companionship. This was a gentlewoman betrothed to someone else. He was asking for trouble. These thoughts were like a trickle of freezing water down his spine, returning him to sanity. He set her away while he still could. She blinked up at him with wide-eyed confusion. He made himself cross the room to put some distance between them, then he grabbed his trews off the bench beside the bed. All his clothes from the day before were folded and neat.
“We’ll leave tonight, after dark. I suggest you get some sleep.” His voice was gruff, making him sound bad-tempered—which in fact he was. He was damneduncomfortable now. He threw off the plaid he’d wrapped around himself and pulled on his trews, grimacing in discomfort as he laced them. When he turned back to her, she looked away quickly, staring into the fire with intense interest.
“Come, let’s find you somewhere to sleep.”
Rose’s heart still thundered against her ribs as she stood alone in the cold room William had deposited her in. She gazed around her. The room was sparsely furnished, but the bed was sturdy and soft, and the woolen blankets and furs would keep her warm. She had a large fireplace, cold now, and a tall clothespress. A brass chamber pot peeked out from under the bed.
She propelled herself to the chest at the end of the bed and sank down onto it, folding her body over her legs so her forehead pressed into her knees. With great clarity she could recall the last time she’d been so shaken. It had been an unrest of a very different sort, but it had still left her both numb and strangely sensitive. She put that from her mind. She was closer than ever to resolving what had happened all those years ago—at least as best as it ever could be. Time to focus on the present.
The wizard of Strathwick had agreed to heal her father. And then he had kissed her senseless. And then shown her to a bedchamber as if nothing had happened. It was all very strange. Had it been Dumhnull who’d kissed her, she would have felt differently, she realized—which was absurd. Dumhnull and Strathwick were the same person. But it was a matter of birth. What couldStrathwick have meant by kissing her in such a manner?—for it had not been chaste at all. It had been slow and hot, his hands, his body…She covered her flushed cheeks with her palms. It had been a very long time since a man had roused such a passion in her.
But she was older now, smarter. She could handle Strathwick and his advances. She was no silly outraged female. It was just a kiss. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t been kissed before. The important thing was that he’d finally said yes, he would come to Lochlaire and heal her father.
Someone knocked at the door. Rose gripped the sides of the chest, wondering if it was Strathwick, come back to finish what they’d started in his chambers. Her heart resumed its frenzied pace.
“Aye?” she called cautiously.
The door opened and, to Rose’s embarrassment, the woman she’d held hostage in the courtyard entered, shoulders hunched, as if she expected to be bludgeoned. A young man bearing an armful of peat blocks followed, staring threateningly at her, as if daring her to attack the woman now. As Rose sat in mortified silence, her fingers digging into the wooden chest, the lad arranged the peat in the fireplace and the woman set a pitcher and ewer on the hearth.
“Miss?” Rose said, when the woman would not look at her.
She glanced suspiciously at Rose and moved closer to the lad. She was a very pretty lass, with big blue eyes and bright blond hair pulled back into a thick braid.
“What is your name?” Rose asked, smiling politely.
“Betty.”
