Page 50 of A Touch So Wicked

“Of course,” Damian said. “You’ll find what you need in the chest at the foot of the bed. Good night.”

Elissa found the bedding and laid it out before the hearth. Then she lay down fully clothed and pulled the blanket up to her neck. She didn’t allow herself to relax until she heard the even cadence of Damian’s breathing. But when she tried to sleep, the memory of making love with Damian intruded.

Never would Elissa have believed she could crave a man’s touch like she did Damian’s. She was cursed. Wanting her enemy was the worst kind of betrayal. The thought of wedding Tavis and being intimate with him, however, was repulsive. Uniting the Gordon and Fraser clans had been her father’s wish, and she had assumed she would go to her bridegroom a virgin.

Elissa’s respect for Tavis had plummeted when he’d suggested that she seduce Damian in order to kill him. But truth to tell, she had made love with Damian because it was what she wanted, not because Tavis had demanded it of her. But she was well aware that she couldn’t have Damian. He was her sworn enemy, and what they had done together made her a traitor to her clan. Besides, Damian was promised a wealthy bride and Elissa had no idea what the future held for her, except that it didn’t include an Englishman.

Throughout the endless days of Elissa’s imprisonment, Damian steadfastly returned each night to his bedchamber, which didn’t make Elissa’s life any easier. By now she knew when to expect him and made sure she was curled before the hearth with her face turned away from him when he arrived. Though he rarely spoke to her while he prepared for bed, she sensed his gaze on her and wondered how long would it be before lust destroyed his good intentions?

Damian felt as if he were balancing on the edge of an abyss. One wrong step would send him to perdition, and the way he felt now, he’d welcome it. Anything was better than this wanting, this perverse, aching need that kept him sleeping in the same chamber with Elissa when he knew he couldn’t have her. What was wrong with him? He didn’t believe in spells or witchcraft, but there was no other explanation for his obsessive longing for the Scottish vixen.

One day Damian was in the courtyard watching his men at swordplay when a messenger bearing the king’s pennant rode through the gate. As Damian waited for the messenger to dismount, he grew tense with apprehension.

“Greetings. I am Sir Lowell. I bear a message to Lord Damian from the king.”

“Welcome, Sir Lowell. I am Lord Damian. You must be exhausted after your long journey. Ale and food await you within.”

“Thank you, Lord Damian, I must admit my mouth is parched.”

Damian led the way into the keep, wondering what the king wanted of him this time. He sat down at the table and invited Sir Lowell to do the same. A maidservant approached with two foaming mugs of ale. Sir Lowell drank deeply, then sat back with a satisfied sigh.

“The message is verbal, my lord,” Sir Lowell began. “I left London two days before your intended bride and her entourage. They should arrive within a few days.”

“My bride?” Damian repeated, choking on the words.

“Lady Kimbra Lancaster, an heiress of outstanding beauty and social standing among the ton. King George sends his greetings and wishes you to know he hadn’t forgotten you. He hopes you approve of his choice of bride.”

When Damian remained silent, Sir Lowell said, “Would that I were in your shoes, my lord. Lady Kimbra is a favorite of the court. I envy you.”

Damian finally found his voice. “The king does me great honor. Everything will be in readiness for Lady Kimbra’s arrival. If you’ll excuse me, I must confer with my steward. Chambers must be prepared for our guests. Will you abide with us long?”

“Just this night,” Sir Lowell said. “I’m to return forthwith and give a report on conditions at Misterly. The Council instructed me to stress the importance of keeping Misterly in English hands.”

“Everything is as it should be,” Damian maintained.

Damian left Sir Lowell to his ale and went in search of Sir Richard. He found his friend in the courtyard, matching swords with a man-at-arms.

“A word with you, Dickon,” Damian said, interrupting the play.

Dickon lowered his sword. “What is it, Damian? I saw the messenger. Is it bad news?”

“Nay, the news is good,” Damian said with forced joviality. “King George is sending me an heiress. She’s on her way as we speak.”

“Congratulations!” Dickon crowed, slapping Damian on the back. “I hope for your sake she’s a great beauty.”

“I must prepare for her arrival,” Damian said. “You’re the first to know.”

“Damian, wait! What about Lady Elissa?”

Damian frowned. “What about her?”

“Your bride is bound to hear the talk. Keeping Elissa confined to your bedchamber wasn’t the wisest move. Everyone knows of your sleeping arrangements. ’Tis a forgone conclusion that you’ve already had her. What do you suppose your bride will say? You should send her away, Damian. I’m telling you this for your own good.”

Damian stiffened. He was well aware of his shortcomings without Dickon spelling them out. He’d heard the gossip concerning his relationship with Elissa and had ignored it without considering the consequences. Until the messenger had arrived, he’d relegated all thought of his bride to the remote future…long after he’d had his fill of Elissa.

But now his bride had become a reality, and he was no closer to deciding Elissa’s fate than he’d ever been. Suddenly his ache for Elissa turned sharp, cutting, born of frustration and unrequited need. It was that need that turned his steps toward the tower.

Elissa watched the new arrival from the tower window and wondered what it meant. Nothing good for the Frasers, she supposed. She placed her hands behind her back and stretched; the gnawing ache reminded her of the uncomfortable nights she’d spent tossing and turning on the floor before the hearth. How long would Damian keep her confined? What was to become of her?