Page 4 of Enchantment of a Highlander

She lifted her eyes and found him staring at her again. “What?”

He didn’t reek of stale sweat and sour cloth as some of the other warriors she’d tended had. She drew in a long, discreet breath through her nostrils. No, he smelled like sun-warmed grass and leather.

“Ye’re intriguing.” His eyes searched hers.

She looked away, focusing instead on carefully removing the pot from the flames.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“Alec MacLean.”

She knew that name. What resident on the Isle of Mull did not? Alec MacLean was the name of the laird who had recently died. Finally died. But not before destroying the land and breaking his people.

And this warrior bore his name.

“Our former laird had that very name, the one who just died.”

He made a noncommittal sound.

“He was not well liked.” Celia stated baldly.

“I’ve heard something of that.”

“He ran this land into ruin and let its people starve.”

The skin around his eyes tightened. “I’ve heard that too.”

“Are you…?”

“Aye.” A muscle flicked in his jaw. “I’m his son and I’ve returned home to claim my inheritance.”

Chapter Two

“Are ye regretting having saved me?” Alec had come home expecting a similar response from everyone, yet her reaction bothered him. The intended jest fell flat with the long look of consideration she cast in his direction.

She lifted the jug and pushed it toward him. “Drink this.”

No reply.

Again.

The woman was maddening.

Maddening and altogether too enticing.

The robust floral scent of elderflower liqueur wafted toward him. He tensed against the offer.

“I’m no like my father.” Alec’s breath hissed through his nose. “Once I’m settled, I will restore Duart Castle and the lands to what they were in my childhood. There is much to cleanse. The people need protection.”

She turned away to pour the boiled water into a bowl of green flaky leaves. He rested his elbows on his knees and leaned toward her.

“You’re making yourself bleed again.” Her voice came softer this time, barely audible over the wind knocking against her cottage. “This wash will clean your injury and keep infection away.”

The yellow-green water released a curl of moist heat and scented the air with a rich, spicy aroma.

She dipped a white cloth in the mixture and blew at the tendril of steam rising from it. “It shouldn’t be too hot.”

The warm cloth pressed not to his chest but to his lower stomach, just above the waist of his kilt. His muscles bunched instinctively and the breath hissed between his teeth. Her gaze trailed the heated path of the cloth, sliding up his torso to the tightness of his nipple.