Long sword, Lady Moira had said. Now she understood. Apparently, it hadn’t been her glasses.
Margaret gave an unrepentant shrug. “Ladies talk. It’s hardly a secret, although I admit it isn’t one for polite conversation. But after a long feast and a few goblets of wine, some of the ladies can be every bit as ribald as the men.”
Mary had been more sheltered than she realized. It seemed there was an entire world she was missing.
“He’s the perfect man, you know, for a night of sin. Were you ever to contemplate it.”
For once Mary did not ask herself what her sister would do. She feared the answer. “But that’s the problem, isn’t it? A night isn’t an option for women like us. And I could never marry such a man. He only sought me out because he doesn’t know who I am. Seducing a widowed attendant is quite different from a countess the king wishes him to marry.” She smiled. “I admit, I’m looking forward to his surprise when he finds out his mistake.”
Margaret returned her smile. “I am, too. Sir Kenneth is a charming scoundrel, but his behavior has been outrageous. Perhaps it will teach him a lesson.” She paused. “But you could always tell him after. Why shouldn’t you not have a night, if you wish it, Mary? If anyone deserves a bit of sin, you do, after all you have been through. You’re a widow, not beholden to any man. Surely you know it is not uncommon?”
Hardly. Atholl had taught her that. “It doesn’t make it any less wrong,” she said softly.
Margaret smiled and patted her hand. “Of course, you are right. Now who is the wicked one?” She laughed and gave her a mischievous wink. “But don’t forget, if you change your mind, you can always repent for your sins later. I should think he would be worth at least a few dozen Hail Marys.”
More like a few hundred. Mary fought back the smile, but in the end laughed along with her former sister-in-law. Who knew it could be so much fun to be a little wicked?
The torches had already been lit for the coming night when Kenneth finally dragged himself from the soothing hot waters of the bath his sister had arranged for him. Helen didn’t think any of his ribs were broken, but you wouldn’t know it from the ghastly-looking mass of purple, black, and red that covered a large portion of his left side. And you sure as hell wouldn’t know it from the pain. It hurt like the bloody devil.
He’d made a mistake. Become too aggressive. Assured of his victory, he’d tried to end it too soon and in the process had given MacKinnon an opening. The other warrior had taken full advantage of it with a blow that could have put a swift end to all Kenneth’s plans. He knew better, damn it. He sure as hell wasn’t going to let it happen again.
There was nothing his sister could do for it beyond providing a tight binding tomorrow, having him soak in a hot bath tonight, and giving him a draught of nasty-tasting brew for the pain. It relaxed him. Perhaps a little too much. He could have fallen asleep in the warm water and been happy to skip the feast entirely.
He’d avoided most of the long meals and celebrations during the week, preferring a Spartan routine while he competed. But the king had specifically requested his presence tonight to meet Atholl’s widow, who was leaving soon, and MacKay had told him in no uncertain terms, when he’d come to collect Helen earlier, that he’d better be there. With the result tomorrow all but assured—as Kenneth had anticipated, Robbie Boyd had not entered—he could afford to relax his guard for a few hours.
Besides, he had other plans he didn’t want to miss.
He was surprised just how eager he was to see Lady Mary again. He didn’t let her prior refusal deter him. He was confident in his persuasive abilities. She’d been shocked and outraged, but she’d also been tempted. He’d seen it in those brilliant eyes of hers before they’d started flashing at him.
He didn’t know what it was about the lass that provoked him to such wickedness. But there was something about the way she looked at him that made him feel as if she were still wearing those glasses of hers—as if she were seeing him too clearly and judging him too harshly—and he couldn’t resist.
He frowned. There was more to her than the laced-too-tightly repressed wanton in a nun’s habit than he’d anticipated. He’d expected a shy, passive lass who would be flattered by his attention.
She wasn’t either.
His frown deepened. He didn’t know why he was bothering with the lass at all. She wasn’t like his usual bed-mates. She was older, plainer, and far from the “throng of worshipers” his sister teased him about.
He wasn’t usually forced to make such an effort. Women came to him. Hell, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had to go to this much trouble for a lass.
He supposed it was the novelty that was drawing him. But he was surprisingly eager for the second part of his night to begin. He couldn’t wait to see whether the glimpse of raw sensuality was as hot as it appeared.
He’d blocked out the simpering and giggling of the maidservant who’d been given the task of bathing him, but heard it now as she began to help him into his braies. He didn’t encourage her obvious interest, however, and quickly donned his breeches, tunic, and plaid, wincing when he had to lift his hands over his shoulders. He allowed her to help him pull on his boots to avoid bending over, but buckled the dirk that he was never without around his waist himself.
His hair was still damp as he made his way across the courtyard from the makeshift bathhouse in a small corner of the kitchens, where the fire had not only kept him warm but had proved efficient at heating the water as well.
There weren’t many people milling about as the feast had already gotten underway, but he greeted a few of the guardsmen who were posted around the barmkin. Even before he climbed the stairs and entered the East Range of the castle, he could hear the raucous sounds of celebrating coming from the open windows of the Great Hall. He was glad to see that he wasn’t the last to arrive, as the corridor to his left was still filled with people making their way into the celebration. Before he could follow them, MacKay blocked his path.
“You’re late,” he snapped.
Kenneth’s jaw locked in what had become almost a reflex when it came to his interactions with his future brother-in-law. “You have the fine makings of a nursemaid if you ever get tired of warfare. I didn’t realize my comings and goings were so important to you.”
MacKay returned his glare. “They aren’t. The king sent me to see what was taking you so long.”
“I had something to attend to.”
MacKay smiled. “Helen told me you were injured. I hope it isn’t serious.” He shook his head in mock disappointment. “It would be a shame if you lost tomorrow.”
“Helen exaggerates. I’ll be fine to fight tomorrow, and just like all the other events, I’ll win. I hope you are ready for a new partner.”
MacKay’s eyes flared. “If you win tomorrow, you’ll deserve to be my partner. But I wouldn’t count my victories too soon; it’s not over yet.”
Kenneth wasn’t listening; he barely registered MacKay’s half-smile before turning away. Out of the corner of his eye, something had caught his attention. Or should he say someone had caught his attention?
“You’re fortunate Lady Mary hasn’t arrived yet,” MacKay said.
Another Mary. Kenneth had forgotten Atholl’s widow’s given name was Mary. His mind was on the Mary at the other end of the corridor, near the donjon. At least he thought it was her. He couldn’t see her face, but the clothes were dark and plain enough to stand out.
Except this woman seemed to be laughing. She was looking up at the man opposite her—
Kenneth stopped. Bloody hell.
Without realizing it, his fists clenched at his sides and his mouth fell in a hard line.
Why was she talking to Gregor MacGregor?
He started toward them.
“Where in Hades are you going?” MacKay called after him. “The king is waiting for you.”
But Kenneth was too angry to heed him. “I’ll just be a few minutes.”
He heard MacKay mumble something along the lines of “it better be important” behind him, but he was already striding—stalking was probably more accurate—down the corridor.
As he drew nearer, his instincts were confirmed. It was his nun. She’d changed for the feast into a gown of deep emerald silk and a matching veil, albeit without the ghastly wimple. He could actually see her neck. It was a pretty one, long and slender, with creamy-smooth, milky-white skin. His eyes narrowed. What else was she hiding? The cut of the gown was still shapeless and the embellishments still plain, but he supposed green was a marginal improvement over black. The color, however, was too dark and harsh against her fair skin—
He stopped himself. Bloody hell, he sounded like a lady’s maid. He couldn’t recall ever noticing a lady’s attire before—except perhaps to figure out how to get it off.
His steps fell a little harder and his mouth grew a little flatter as he drew closer. He didn’t know why he was so irritated. But when she put her hand on MacGregor’s arm, looked up at him, and smiled, Kenneth felt a spike of something hotter and edgier than mere irritation.
MacGregor saw him first and nodded. “Sutherland.”
Kenneth could tell by the tone in his voice that he’d sensed something was wrong, though damned if he knew what it was any better than MacGregor did.
Lady Mary turned on hearing his name. The smile immediately slipped from her face. Why that reaction bothered him, he didn’t know, but it damn well did.
His jaw clenched. “The feast has started,” he bit out.
The lady ignored him. “Thank you, my lord,” she said to MacGregor. “I fear I would have been looking for hours without your help.”
MacGregor explained. “Lady Elizabeth lost her kitten.”
“Lady Margaret’s youngest daughter,” Mary clarified when it was clear he didn’t know to whom they were referring. “I was able to recruit Sir Gregor in our search.” The smile on her lips and flush on her cheeks when she looked up at the other man made Kenneth’s fists and jaw clench even harder. She didn’t look dull and colorless at all.
“Fortunate, indeed,” he said, unable to completely mask the dryness of his tone. Sir Gregor wasn’t a “Sir” at all; MacGregor wasn’t a knight.
He and MacGregor exchanged glances over her head. Back off, he told McGregor wordlessly. “I will escort Lady Mary to the Hall.”
MacGregor looked more puzzled than put out, but he conceded without argument. Kenneth was too angry to wonder about that.
“My lady,” MacGregor said with a bow, and then to him, “Sutherland.”
Kenneth hadn’t realized how tense he’d been, until his muscles started to relax as the man reputed to be the most handsome in Scotland walked away.
Lady Mary was watching him with furrowed brows. “What was that about?”
He didn’t know himself, damn it, and suddenly he felt as if he’d revealed something he shouldn’t have. He buried his anger behind a mask of feigned concern. It was his duty as a knight to warn her off, he told himself. “You should watch yourself with him. MacGregor has made more than one woman forget herself.”
She had the gall to burst out laughing. “This, from you? Isn’t your warning a bit ironic considering our first meeting?” Their eyes held, and he felt the strange urge to shift his feet. If he believed it possible, he would have thought he was embarrassed. “Nor did he invite me to his bed the first time we spoke.” She allowed her gaze to follow the other man’s disappearing form. “Pity,” she said under her breath.
But he heard it. His blood spiked hot. That edgy irritation returned full force. His muscles flared and his mouth fell in a hard, uncompromising line. He took her arm and forced her gaze back to him. “Stay away from him.”
She should be terrified. He never spoke to women like this. He was in full, fierce warrior mode. But her eyes only narrowed at his tone, and then on his hand when it became apparent that she wasn’t going to be able to shrug him off so easily this time. “What right do you have to speak to me like this? You have no claim on me.”
He told himself to cool down, but there was something in her gaze that snapped the precarious hold he had on his temper like a dry twig. She might not have meant it as a challenge, but he’d taken it as one. Young, uncomplicated, eager to please, and lusty. She might be the last, but he was already regretting not sticking to his typical sort of bedmate.
Seeing a door behind her, he opened it and pulled her inside. It probably had been a storage room at some time, though judging from the shelves of books and folios, the thickly cushioned bench and chairs, and the brazier, it had been turned into a library. But he was only vaguely aware of his surroundings. He closed the door behind him, spun her around, and pinned her against it with the hard slam of his body.
She gasped—in surprise at the suddenness of his movements or at the sensation of contact, he didn’t know.
Damn. He’d forgotten about his ribs. Yet pressed against her, it wasn’t pain he was feeling but awareness. She was more slight than he’d realized, slim and delicate. He had to be careful not to crush her. He could feel the bones of her hips, but also, he noticed, the small, soft curves of her breasts. For unremarkably sized breasts they seemed to be eliciting quite a reaction. His body crackled with a frantic, unfamiliar energy. It was lust, but lust unlike any he’d ever felt before.
It didn’t make any sense, but he was too angry to wonder how a too-skinny widow past her prime, doing her best to look unattractive, was making him feel like a squire about to tup his first maid.
He intended to show her exactly what kind of claim he had. He’d seen her first, damn it. If anyone was going to cut those too-tight laces of hers and watch her explode, it was going to be him.
Planting his hands on either side of her face, he leaned in closer. She smelled good. Not with the overwhelming, cloying scent of strong perfumes, but a faint whiff of flowers, as if she’d bathed in rose petals.
Her breath did an enticing little hitch as his face lowered. In the dim light of the fire he saw her lips part in innocent invitation, but it was the flutter of her pulse below her jaw that sent a pool of heat rushing straight to his groin.
Aye, she wanted him. He could almost taste the desire on her lips, and it shot through him with a surprisingly powerful surge.
“I’m making one,” he said, staring in her eyes and daring her to deny him.
He could see her eyes widen as she took in his meaning. “I don’t—”
He cut off her protest with a kiss. He’d only meant to make his point, to stake his claim with a possessive, irrefutable press of his mouth. But the first touch of his lips on hers changed his mind.
He suddenly understood the poetical allusions of bards. The ground did indeed feel like it had shifted as he was hit with an overwhelming blast of sensation. Passion exploded between them on contact. The kind of raw, primal passion that reached down, grabbed him by the bollocks, and wouldn’t let go. Aye, his bollocks could feel it—as did his cock.
His bodily reaction to her was fierce. Primal. The strange attraction vibrating between them tightened, and the connection once made could not be undone. It had happened to him before—an unexpectedly powerful reaction to a woman on an elemental level—but never to this extent.
Hell, he wouldn’t need the recipe for black powder if he could bottle this.
He hadn’t expected this at all. It was a surprise. A pleasant one, but a surprise nonetheless. Who would have thought he’d be so turned on by a colorless little wren? The fierce attraction didn’t make sense, but it was undeniable.
Christ, her lips were so soft they didn’t feel real. He groaned, sinking a little deeper in the kiss. And so sweet. He couldn’t believe how sweet. He’d had honeysuckle once, and that was what he thought of now. Blooming in the warm sun.
He moved his lips over hers. Slowly at first, urging her response. She wasn’t fighting him, seeming to be in almost a stunned daze, but it was equally clear she didn’t know what to do.
She mimicked his movements tentatively at first, and then with growing confidence as the kiss intensified.
A shudder of sensation rippled through him. His chest buckled. It felt incredible. He had to fight the urge to sink in deeper, to bend her to him and take everything he wanted from her all at once.
He felt strange—drugged with desire. It was coming over him too fast and hard. He was hot and hard—and getting harder by the minute. And she was practically melting against him. The press of his hips against hers had become a sweet grind, as the gentle friction of their kiss intensified.
Christ.
He groaned, needing to taste her deeper. His hand was on her cheek, caressing the velvety-soft skin, his fingers urging her to open her mouth. When she did, he wanted to let out a roar of pure masculine pleasure. He wanted to plunder her mouth with his tongue, claim every inch of her surrender.
But instead he forced himself to slow. Swallowing her gasp of surprise, he swept his tongue inside, letting her get used to the sensation.
But slow wasn’t working. Not when she responded. At the first slide of her tongue against his, he felt his control slip. With every stroke, every taste, he was descending deeper and deeper into a mindless haze. The smooth seduction was becoming a conflagration of urgent groans and frantic movements.
His body was responding to her with an urgency he couldn’t recall. He couldn’t seem to get enough.
The roar of lust in his ears grew louder, drowning out everything else. It was pounding through his veins in a rush of hot molten lava. All he could think about was the tiny woman against him. The feel of her slight body pressing against his. The feel of her mouth sliding under his. How much he wanted to hitch her up against the door, wrap her legs around him, and sink inside her.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d gotten this hot from a kiss. The awakening of her desire was egging him on.
He dug his fingers through the hair concealed by the veil, groaning at its silky softness. Cradling the back of her head, he brought her mouth closer to his. The kiss grew harder, hotter, more carnal. She was dissolving against him like warm sugar and he couldn’t seem to devour her fast enough.
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