He kept his eyes on her all the way to his horse, looking back over his shoulder until he reached the hill. He could not bear to let her out of his sight, but eventually, he had to. After all, he had an attacker to find.
Beathan swiftly returned Kirsteen’s horse to the stables before riding back out into the woods, intent on getting the arrow that would hopefully lead him to the person who had tried to kill Kirsteen. His thighs were sore from his earlier sparring with Andrew, and Beathan couldn’t help wondering if his fatigued muscles might not have contributed to his slow reaction to the attack. Not only had he missed any signs it was about to occur, but he had also left the arrow on the tree, an error he wouldn’t have made if he was in his right mind.
I should have refused Andrew the rematch. I would’ve been sharper, and maybe I could have prevented all this. Saved the lass, found the attacker, gotten the arrow. I wouldn’t have been so useless, he thought, cursing himself and his cousin as he rode.
From this worry came a far more serious one, a worry that chilled him even more than the arrow being lost in the woods, and therefore any evidence of the attack gone: what if, instead of Kirsteen, the attack had been aimed at him?
What if he was the target? What if it was him that someone wanted dead? He rode even faster then, for it was on him that the future of the lairdship depended. He could not die. His father, their family legacy, the village, the people – they all needed him.
Though Kirsteen knew Fred had meant well in confronting Beathan earlier that day, she was, as ever, embarrassed by the man’s temper. Fred was the very gentlest of men, until he got angry, and then his normally pale face turned a putrid shade of red, the vein in his forehead stood out, and suddenly he went from a soft-spoken actor to a fierce warrior.
He only ever grew angry when one of his own had been hurt or insulted in some way, and though Kirsteen knew that this meant he loved her dearly, she cringed remembering the words he had said to Beathan. He had treated Beathan like he was a man to be lectured, talked down to, rather than the son of a laird.
Kirsteen was honestly surprised that Beathan had not thrown them out on the spot, with how insolent Fred was being. How dare Fred accuse Beathan’s clan of plotting to kill her! It was not Beathan or his clan’s fault that she had been nearly hit with an arrow. Kirsteen highly doubted the incident was anything near so nefarious.
It was far more likely that someone nearby was practicing their shooting, perhaps one of the village children who took lessons from Beathan. They had taken their shot, missed, and most likely thought the arrow disappeared into the forest, not realizing there was anyone within who might get hurt.
All those dramas we keep performing are obviously going to Fred’s head, Kirsteen thought.
Still, as she lay down to bed that night, she could not help feeling that perhaps this was a sign that she should limit the time she spent with Beathan. After all, hadn’t Frederick agreed with her when he said that she and Beathan weren’t suited?
Beathan might seem like the perfect man, but Fred was right: their difference in station made a relationship between them impossible. As long as Beathan was heir to a lairdship and Kirsteen remained a dancer, they could not be together. And she would not fall in love for anything less than forever. No matter how much she might want the man, she couldn’t have him.
And, as she closed her eyes and tucked her hands under her cheek, Kirsteen decided that for the rest of the week, she would avoid spending time alone with him. She would be polite and friendly, as performers must be, but she would not accept any more invitations for long horse rides or walks or anything of the sort. To do so would only be putting her heart at risk, and that was a risk that Kirsteen could not afford to take.
8
“We cannae find any sign of it,” Beathan’s friend, Graham Campbell told him. “We looked all over the forest, ye ken, but there was nothin’. Whoever shot that arrow must have collected it right after you left with the lass. All we could find was a few bits of wood from the arrow stuck in the tree where it hit. But even that is of no help. It’s just like any other arrow, Beathan. Nothin’ special about it, from the looks of the wood, at least.”
Beathan gave a frustrated sigh. He had sent Graham and five of the guards from the castle to look for the arrow that had so narrowly missed Kirsteen’s head. This was after he had combed the forest himself and found nothing. They had looked all afternoon and well into the night for signs of the arrow or its shooter, but apparently, nothing had turned up.
And this, more than anything, was what made his blood run cold. The killer was still out there, and that meant Beathan was vulnerable. The attacker could strike at any moment; he could only hope his instincts would be enough to avoid giving the attacker the outcome he so heartily craved.
“Mayhaps ye should speak to yer father about it,” Graham suggested. “Ye ken he’s far more experienced in these things than either of us. Time is of the utmost importance with these things, Beathan, an’ ye ken that me an’ the other men don’t ken enough about these matters to be of much use. If ye’re to protect yerself, my friend, ye need to speak to yer faither.”
Beathan knew his friend was right, but he had hoped he would not have to involve his father in this matter. His father did not need the stress that a vigilante shooter out to kill his son would cause him. The physicians had ordered his father not to partake in any strenuous activities, which included fast rides on the horse and hunts.
But Beathan knew his father. If his son was in danger, he would stop at nothing to find the killer, and that included combing the forest and the surrounding areas every minute of the day until the killer was found. It would kill him, Beathan knew, and he couldn’t take that risk. Risking his own life was bad enough; he would not risk the laird’s.
“No. I willnae tell him just yet. I will go back into the woods meself, today and every day after. I will catch whoever did this. And I will do it on me own.”
Graham threw Beathan a judgemental look that told him just how foolish that plan sounded, but Beathan waved his friend off.
“I will. When my father is gone, matters like these will be my duty. I best start now, and save the old man the trouble in the bargain.”
“Whatever you wish, Beathan. I’ll give ye any help ye need, but ye ken how I feel,” Graham said, shrugging and turning to stare at the hills in the distance.
Beathan knew Graham disagreed with him, but he was glad his friend was at least kind enough not to openly dissuade him. Stubbornness ran in the Dunn clan. Graham knew well enough that if Beathan decided on something, he would not go back on his word.
“Thank ye, Graham. Ye’re a good friend, ye are” Beathan said, before also turning his head to look out at the scenery before them.
They had taken a ride out around the grounds to discuss Graham’s findings, or lack thereof. Beathan needed the soothing sensation of the wind on his cheeks, and he also needed the privacy that only the outdoors could give them.
He had asked the acting troupe not to relay the previous day’s events to anyone else in the castle. He did not want to cause a panic among the many guests and servants in the castle; to that end, he was keeping all conversations of the attack to the outdoors, where the likelihood of being overheard was low.
Looking out over the hills, Beathan could just make out the acting troupe’s camp. He wondered if Kirsteen was there even now. He knew rehearsals were finished for the day; the troupe would be biding their time until the evening’s performance.
Beathan longed to see the lass’s face. He had not seen her since his altercation with Fred the day before. She had still performed, which he heartily disagreed with; he had half a mind to tell Fred off for making the lass work when she was so obviously affected, but he knew it was not his place. He did not want to anger the man further, nor did he want to embarrass the lass.
He had tried looking for her after the performance, to check on her, but he’d found the acting troupe’s room in the castle lock
ed.
“They have retired early,” Logan had told him in that frustratingly even tone he had. Beathan had staved off anxious thoughts about the lass having a change of heart, telling himself she had simply gone back to the tents early to change for him. The last two nights after the performance, they had adjourned to Beathan’s sitting room, nursing wine by the fire and chatting.
He had waited up until far later than was necessary hoping the lass would knock on his door, but when no knock came, Beathan had worried that not only was the lass avoiding him, but perhaps their assignation was over. Perhaps she wanted nothing to do with him, now.
Beathan had no sleep all night, instead tossing and turning, worrying that despite Fred’s assurances to the contrary, they would be gone the next morning, and he would never get to gaze on her bonny face again.
I need to go to her. To reassure both her and myself, Beathan realized as he looked at the top of the troupe’s tents.
“I think I’ll head inside, Graham. I’ve things to attend to,” he told Graham as he turned his horse around.
He did not wait for his friend’s response, instead thundering back toward the castle, his mind focused on finding the lass and showing her exactly how much he wanted her to stay.
Kirsteen idly touched the scratch on her neck as she walked along the wall. She had gone exploring the castle again this morning, though her usual partner in such activities was absent. She was determined to keep her promise to herself and avoid Beathan, and thus far she had succeeded.
It was nearing the afternoon and she had not yet laid eyes on him; she hoped she could continue the streak into the evening, avoiding him everywhere except at the performance. Even then, she planned to affix her eyes to one of the tapestries on the wall and speak and dance only to it, rather than to the man who she knew she had performed for the last few nights.
When Beathan watched her, Kirsteen felt like she was dancing and acting for him and him alone. It was a heady feeling, and one she knew she needed to avoid. She knew if she locked eyes with Beathan, all those feelings would come rushing back, and she would be powerless against them.
I cannot let myself be powerless.
And so Kirsteen was spending her day alone, looking at the paintings of generations of Dunn ancestors that decorated a wall in one of the castle’s many sitting rooms. Kirsteen could see Beathan’s strong jaw, long nose, thick eyebrows and dark, wavy hair reflected in many of the men that had come before him, though none were quite as handsome as he.
The women of the family were beautiful, soft where the men were hard, their cheeks plump, their lips full, and a teasing glint in their eyes as they stared at whoever painted them. It was clear the Dunn family was an attractive lineage indeed, and Kirsteen found herself wondering how such features would mix with those of her own family.
She began to contemplate what a child born of her and Beathan’s love might look like. Would their daughter have her red hair, his blue eyes? Would their son be possessed of his father’s waves, her freckles? Kirsteen knew these were dangerous thoughts, but she could not help them. She might be doing her utmost to avoid Beathan himself, but she could not help it if he invaded her thoughts from time to time. Or minute to minute, if she was being honest with herself.
Focus on the portraits, Kirsteen told herself, moving on to another wall full of Dunn ancestors from the 13th century. She lost herself in the paintings, focusing on minute details like brushwork and color palette in an attempt to distract herself. This worked so well that she did not hear the creak of the door opening, or the sound of footsteps behind her. Not until it was too late.
“Kirsteen,” Beathan breathed into her ear. Kirsteen screeched, jumping in the air with surprise. She whipped her head around to find Beathan standing far closer than was proper. She could almost touch his nose with hers, and could feel his hot breath on her cheeks, an oddly erotic sensation that sent heat barrelling straight to her core.
“I have been lookin’ for ye all throughout the castle, lass,” he told her, taking a step closer. Kirsteen responded with a step back that sent her right into the painting she had moments ago been admiring.
The painting wobbled where it hung on the wall, and Kirsteen gasped, quickly moving to the side lest it fall on her. Beathan reached out and steadied the canvas with his hand. The painting immediately stilled, as though it knew better than to disobey the future master of the house.
“Ye seem a might skittish, Kirsteen,” Beathan said, moving to stand in front of her.
Kirsteen loved the way he said her name, the way the ‘r’ rolled in his mouth. It sounded far more beautiful in his brogue than her common English accent.
“I just wasn’t expecting you. I thought I was alone in here,” she said as an excuse for her jumpiness.
Beathan raised an eyebrow, letting her know he did not believe her lies.
“I have been admiring the portraits of your ancestors,” she said, changing the subject.
“Aye? And what dae ye think of them?” Beathan asked, scanning his eyes across the paintings next to Kirsteen’s right side.
“They’re very beautiful. You have exceptional ancestry, really. I am sure my own family is not half so attractive.”
“I wouldnae be so sure of that, lass,” Beathan quipped, making Kirsteen blush a deep rose.
Kirsteen did not quite know how to respond to that, so she didn’t, choosing silence instead. It seemed a far better option, considering how nervous Beathan was making her. He was still close enough to touch, and Kirsteen found her traitorous fingers aching to reach out and grasp him, to feel the steel muscles beneath his soft skin, to place her hand over his heart and know if it was beating quite as fast as hers.
“Lass,” Beathan breathed, and Kirsteen saw his fingers twitch at his sides, his hands clenching and unclenching in a fist. “How are ye? I dinnae see ye after the performance last night. How is your scratch? Is it healin’?”
“It is fine. I am fine. You do not need to worry about me, Mr. Dunn,” she whispered.
“Och, but I dae, lass. I worry about ye all the time. There is not a moment that ye’re not in me thoughts,” he rasped in reply, closing the distance between them.
“I hate myself for lettin’ ye get hurt. I’m meant to protect ye. To keep ye from harm,” he said, reaching out and tracing a finger down the small scratch on Kirsteen’s neck.
The touch sent another lick of fire down Kirsteen’s body. She was powerless to stop the sharp intake of breath her body gave as Beathan repeated the motion, tracing back up the scratch and to her jaw. He tickled the space beneath, letting his finger gradually graze onto her chip, and then her lower lip.
“Ye cannae ken how I have wanted ye, lass. How I have held myself back from doin’ what I wish,” he told her, pulling her lower lip down just enough to bare her teeth.
“And what is it you wish, Mr. Dunn?” she asked, feeling disappointment crush through her when Beathan dropped his hand from her mouth.
The disappointment was replaced a moment later with pleasure, however, as Beathan moved his hand to cup her jaw, leaning in and whispering “this, lass” before capturing her mouth in a scorching kiss.
Kirsteen had been kissed by a few men in her travels; there was a French singer in Paris who had gifted her with her first kiss, and a Spaniard who had surprised her at the end of a performance with a peck on her cheek. But that was as far as she had gone. She knew that kissing led to acts that would cause her to lose her virtue. She might like the way a kiss made her feel, but she was not willing to risk deepening it, and the risk that the actions it led to might cause her.
But none of those compared to what she was doing with Beathan now, for he was not merely kissing her. He was claiming her with his lips, owning her with his touch, telling her with each and every caress that she was his, his, his and no one else’s.
And Kirsteen, for all that she had tried so desperately to avoid just such a situation, found that Beathan’s kiss was worth breaking all h
er rules. His touch was worth a thousand years of heartbreak and suffering, for with his fingers tracing a line down her neck and onto her bosom, into the delicious cleft of her cleavage that her dress exposed, Kirsteen felt her whole body erupt with pleasure.
She was powerless to stop him as he fastened his hands to her waist, lifting her up and onto him, her legs instinctively curling around his waist. Kirsteen her own seat of need press though the fabric of her dress against the hardness of Beathan hidden beneath his kilt, and this drove her truly mad, causing her to pull the Scot closer by his collar, until she could feel the whole shape of him crushed against her front.
“Lass,” Beathan rasped, breaking away from her lips and panting furiously. “Ye have to ken how I feel about ye. I ken we’ve only known each other but a few days, but I…I…” he stuttered, shaking his head.
“I want ye. I need ye. Please say ye’ll be mine, even if it’s just for these few days. Please say it, lass. Else I dinnae ken what I’ll dae.”
“I am yours,” Kirsteen said, sealing her words with a kiss.
For now, for always, she added in her head.
As she fell deeper into Beathan’s embrace, she knew she was going against everything she believed in. But she could not find it in herself to care. All she wanted, all she knew, all she craved, was in her arms. Nothing else but him mattered.
9
Beathan could barely concentrate during the evening’s performance. He couldn’t look at Kirsteen without remembering the moans she had made when he kissed her neck, the rose-hued blush that spread across her chest the more they kissed. He wondered if she was similarly affected on stage, imagining their kiss in between the dancing and singing. Was her body still on fire like his? Could she still feel his lips on hers, his hands exploring the delicious curves of her body?
Highlander's Untamed Bride Page 5