William leaned close to his brother and whispered, “They’re married.”
Drake merely shrugged at his droll warning, still grinning wickedly at the sisters.
“And their husbands are large,” William added.
Drake raised sardonic brows. “Aye, you’d do well to remember that yourself.”
William grunted and left them, not wanting to think about MacPherson, though in truth he’d thought of little else since the man had arrived the night before. That and how he’d almost had Rose on the battlements. The memory was still fresh, the taste of her mouth, the scent of her skin, the soft, supple flesh of her thighs. The thought of MacPherson touching her in such a manner set his teethon edge and infused his step with fresh determination as he strode to the quay.
He rowed himself across the loch and wandered through the village until he found her stitching up a man’s forearm. He waited just outside the doorway until she finished. The sight of her, even in an old, stained kirtle and bodice, the long, white sleeves of the shift rolled to her elbows, inflamed him with lust. She talked to the man as she stitched, asking after his wife and children. The man was so pleased by this question, and obviously so in awe of this intelligent, skillful beauty caring for him, that he stammered his answer, face red. William could empathize with the poor man.
When Rose finished, she gave him instructions on how to care for the wound and made him repeat them back to her as she packed her implements into her wooden box. So competent, so very thorough.
William knew the moment she spotted him. The hesitation in her step as she turned for the door, the surprise—and pleasure?—in her eyes that she quickly masked with a frown.
“What do you want?” she said, walking past him briskly, basket over one arm, box tucked under the other. A sleek auburn braid hung down her back. Wisps had come lose to float around her face. She tried to smooth them back irritably, and the basket banged against her ribs.
He tried to take it from her. “You need an escort.”
She laughed sarcastically. “Here? In Glen Laire? Don’t be absurd.” She kept a firm hold on the basket handle.
“I also want to apologize.”
“That’s not necessary.”
“Come, Rose,” he cajoled, still exerting pull on the basket handle. “Let’s call a truce.”
That stopped her. She turned to him and gazed up at him warily. “A truce? Why?”
Because I cannot stomach the thought of you and MacPherson spending a second alone together.But of course he couldn’t say that. He’d made his position clear to her on the battlements. He couldn’t marry; he wouldn’t do that again. And yet he couldn’t seem to stay away from her, either.
“We were friends once, aye? Pretend I’m Dumhnull again, and I’ll promise not to touch you.”
“Dumhnull.” She murmured the name sadly, staring across the loch at the castle. She looked up at him again, suspicious but clearly fancying the idea. “A truce.” She looked down at her basket, then offered it to him. “Are you hungry? Morag gave me this for tending her bad toe.”
He took the basket and folded back the linens covering it. Bread and cheese. He walked to the banks of the loch and sat. She followed a few seconds later, sitting beside him. She dug into the basket, then passed the food to him. He scanned the battlements, looking for the tell-tale golden head.
“So…where is MacPherson this morning? I’m surprised he allowed you out of his sight, what with a monster prowling the castle.”
She gave him a narrow look. “Why do you say such things?”
“Because it’s true, and you are well aware of it now.”
She shrugged, popping a piece of cheese in her mouth and gazing back at him placidly, uncaring.
“It doesn’t repulse you?”
Her brows drew together. “Repulsed? By what? I’ve seen you take the sickness into yourself and suffer with it. There is nothing repulsive in that.”
“Aye, but I did not always do that.”
She shook her head, rolled her eyes. “What do I care for what you once did? Do you do it now?” When he shook his head, she nodded, satisfied. “I didn’t think so.”
He had to look away from her direct midnight stare.She did not care. She was a fool. A sweet, beautiful fool. She should be terrified of him. Of what he could make her into with but a little more instruction. She had no idea.His little fool.But she was not his. She was MacPherson’s. Sick anger stabbed at him, and he didn’t trust himself to speak.
They ate in silence for a few minutes. He watched her, and she avoided his gaze. He wondered how long he had, how long before MacPherson discovered the wizard was with his woman.
“What will you do about Lucas?” Rose asked, breaking into his dark thoughts.
