by Gwyn Brodie
Sweet words dripped from the man's tongue like honey, something Ceana should keep in mind. "Aye, but I cannae walk."
"No matter, lass. I'll carry you."
He would what? She was wearing naught but a nightgown, and though it covered her from neck to toe, it was quite thin. But she was so tired of the bed and would dearly love to sit beside the window and peer outside for a short while. "Very well, if you dinnae mind?"
"Nay, not at all." Moving to the bed, he gently slipped one arm beneath her legs, and the other around her back, lifting her as if she weighed naught. Every shift of the hard muscles of his arms and chest were most evident through the thin material she wore, and it made her breathless. She slipped her arms around his neck, shivering, as his long silky hair brushed against her skin.
Alex groaned inwardly, as he noted with absolute clarity, every lush curve of Ceana's body pressing against his. The heat of her burned hot through his clothing, igniting his desire. Guilt stabbed at him, chastising him, for his body's betrayal. How could he want another woman so, with Rowena lying cold in her grave?
The gossamer fabric separating his hands and Ceana's pale skin conjured an image of him slowly undressing her, gliding his hands over her silky skin. His heart drummed against his ribs, as he fought to still his need. He glanced down at her and found her rich brown eyes gazing up at him, her full pink lips mere inches from his own. She had been sent to tantalize and torment him, he was certain of it. And she was doing a damn good job.
"Much thanks," she said, as he gently, though reluctantly, placed her on the window seat.
"You're most welcome," he said, hearing the hoarseness of his own voice. He shoved back the heavy drapes and opened the shutters, allowing the sun to fill the room with its bright light. Along with it came the cold, and its effect on Ceana's full breasts, straining against the thin fabric, was most evident.
Alex forced his gaze away and grabbed a thick wool blanket from the bed. He covered her from chin to toe, protecting her against a chill, and preserving his sanity. "Are you warm enough, lass?"
With the sunlight draping her head and shoulders, she nodded and smiled up at him.
A vision of pure innocence she was, without even an inkling as to how she had wreaked havoc on his long-starved body.
Flora entered the bedchamber with an armful of clothing. Her mouth fell open when she saw Ceana sitting on the window seat, but said naught. "M'laird," she said, curtsying, before emptying her arms in a chair. "The healer said to keep ye feet up, m'lady."
"Very well," she said, allowing the maid to reposition her long legs until they were stretched out along the cushioned seat.
He clenched his teeth, as the memory of how desirable she had felt in his arms struck him like a stone. He raked his fingers through his hair. What had come over him? Had he suddenly gone daft?
"You're so kind to carry me over here." She looked out the window, and the glistening snow reflected in her deep brown eyes captivated him even further. A fae, she was, spellbinding and entrancing.
"My pleasure." And it was—more than she would ever know. He shook his head to clear it and remembered the real reason he had come. He sat down on the opposite window seat. "Ceana?"
"Aye?" She looked over and smiled.
His chest tightened. "Do you ken a man called Art Grant?"
She thought for a moment. "I recently spent a night at the camp of a man called Art, but he never gave me his sir name. He was most kind." Her eyes widened. "Tell me naught has happened to him?"
"Nay. He is well and waiting to see you."
She looked much relieved. "I'm so glad he's not out in this weather. But why is he here?"
"My men discovered him tracking you the night you were found? Do you ken why?"
She shook her head. "Nay, but he certainly was worried about me and warned me of the impending storm. I should have listened," she said, dropping her gaze to her lap.
Ceana tugged at his heart in a way no other woman ever had—save Rowena. "No reason to worry, lass. You're safe now."
"Aye, and most grateful."
"Would you like to see Grant? He appears to be quite worried about you."
"Of course. I'd very much like to see him again."
"Very well. I'll return with him after the midday meal." He rose to his feet." Is there anything you need?"
"Might I see the dogs?"
"I'll have Willie bring them back to you."
"Much thanks."
He nodded, then left the bedchamber, wondering how the hell he would endure being in her presence and not touch her while she remained at Blackstone. Then realized the thought of her leaving gouged a gaping hole in his soul.
CEANA WATCHED ALEX go, confused by the strange yearnings he stirred within her. She wanted to trust him—trust him enough to tell him the truth about being a MacGregor, but fear of what he might say kept her from it. Perhaps if she knew more about the handsome laird, she would know whether or not he was as trustworthy as he appeared to be. "Flora?"
The maid finished straightening the bedcovers and hurried across the room. "Aye, m'lady?"
"Does the laird have a wife?" She held her breath as she waited for the answer.
Flora chuckled. "Nay, 'tis his long-departed mother's bedchamber he's given ye. Brought ye here when he found ye nigh frozen in the snow, he did."
"Has he ever had a wife?" Ceana was not certain why she needed to know.
"Nay, but many a lass has coveted the station. None seemed to strike his fancy." She frowned. "But there was one lass who did capture his heart. The laird had seen twenty-five summers, when he fell in love with Lady Rowena, the daughter of the laird of a neighboring clan, and desired to wed the lass."
Ceana leaned forward, hanging on Flora's every word.
"'Twas two years past, and the Yule season. The laird had thrown a grand ceilidh to celebrate. The two of them looked so happy together that night, as they danced around the great hall, while the piper played one reel after another. Their laughter filled the air above all others. But the following day, disaster struck. For while returning home with her family, Lady Rowena's horse was startled by a herd of roe deer, and she was tossed to the ground. She died right then and there."
Flora's face blurred before Ceana. She could well imagine the profound sadness in Alex's dark eyes and the unbearable pain that had ripped through his heart upon learning of Rowena's death, for she had felt such pain herself at the deaths of her parents. "How terrible!"
"Lady Rowena's death grievously affected the laird, and if not for his sister and her husband, he might well have stayed inside his bedchamber, drowning his sorrow in whisky day after day, until he was taken to an early grave himself."
Ceana gazed into the fire. As the Laird of Blackstone, Alex would most certainly be in need of an heir. Did he still grieve for Rowena? For the love of the woman and the life, he had ripped away from him so suddenly? Could anyone else ever take her place in his heart? "You mentioned a sister?"
"Aye." The maid smiled. "Lady Sorcha she is and wed to Galen MacKinnon, heir apparent to Moorloch Castle on the Isle of Mull. They've two bairns, twins they are, a wee lad and lass. Hair the color of autumn leaves, the wee lass has, like her mother's. 'Tis Lady Sorcha's nightdress yer wearing, as well as the green gown I just brung ye."
Ceana gently brushed her hand across the wool gown, noting with admiration the flawless stitching, and detailed needlework along its hem and bodice. A fine piece of clothing it was. "She'll not mind my wearing this?"
"Nay. She has as kind a heart as ye'll ever see."
"Is Lady Sorcha the laird's younger sister?"
"Aye. She's a few summers younger than his twenty-seven."
Which meant Alex was eight years older than herself. Ceana had at first believed him to have seen around thirty summers, but then he had smiled, and years melted away. She had thoroughly enjoyed learning about him and his family. "I hope you dinnae mind my asking you so many questions?"
Flora sm
iled and shook her head. "Ask whatever ye like, m'lady, and I'll tell ye what I ken."
"Much thanks. Perhaps I should get dressed before the laird returns with Art Grant, which isnae going to be easy with me not being able to stand on my feet."
"We'll manage," Flora declared, before helping her out of her nightclothes. And with the maid doing most of the work, she was soon dressed, though her legs and feet remained bare, as she was unable to endure anything—even stockings—touching them.
Flora had just finished brushing out Ceana's hair when a knock sounded at the door. She smoothed her skirts down over her legs and feet. "Come."
Alex entered the room, looked at her and smiled.
Ceana's heart pitched.
"Lady Ceana, this is a good friend of mine, Drostan MacKintosh, heir apparent to Willowbrae Castle."
She smiled. "I'm most pleased to meet you, sir."
Drostan grinned. "I assure you, my lady, the pleasure is all mine."
Alex cleared his throat. "Grant is waiting out in the corridor. Would you like to see him?"
"Of course." Ceana was glad for the opportunity to thank Art for his kindness.
Alex went back to the door. "Come in."
Art entered the room, grinning, and hurried past Alex and Drostan to where Ceana sat on the window seat. "Lass, I'm pleased to see ye're getting well." He frowned. "I was most worried."
She patted his hand. "I ken you were. I'm sorry. You tried to warn me, and I should have listened. Please, sit down." She pointed to the opposite window seat.
He turned and looked at Alex.
"Whatever the lady wishes."
Art sat down. "I saw where ye fell in the loch, which give me even more cause to worry. I feared ye'd freeze to death afore I reached ye."
Ceana deeply regretted causing Art so much anguish. She looked over at Alex and smiled. "And I would have indeed perished, if not for Laird MacPherson, and the rest of the good people of Blackstone Castle." She turned back to Art. "I wish to tell you just how grateful I am for the food and shelter you provided me in my time of need."
"Ye were more than welcome to it, lass." Art slowly got to his feet. "I'll leave ye fer now. I dinnae wish to overtire ye, m'lady." He bowed close to her ear and whispered, "I need to speak with ye alone, lass. 'Tis of the utmost importance."
Ceana nodded, glancing across the room, to where Alex and Drostan appeared to be deep in conversation. Could they be talking about her?
The older man smiled, then walked over to the others.
Alex grinned, sending a shiver down her spine. "I'll return a bit later to check on you, lass."
"I'm glad you allowed Art to visit me."
Alex nodded.
Drostan winked. "If you need a bit of company later, just send for me."
Alex glared at his friend.
"I appreciate your kind offer." She was certain, with his devilish good looks and honeyed tongue, that Drostan MacKintosh had no lack of women competing for his undivided attention.
Alex left the bedchamber with the others close on his heels.
Ceana watched them go, wondering what in the world Art wished to speak to her about. She could not for life of her imagine what it might be. Then the unthinkable occurred to her. Had he somehow figured out she was a MacGregor? Her breath froze in her chest, and she trembled. And had he come there to blackmail her to keep him from telling Alex?
Chapter Six
"Find anything?" Lyall asked Gil, as his warlord and two of his other men rode into the bailey at Teineaer Castle and dismounted. He had sent them out at first light, and they were returning at the end of gloaming.
Gil shook his shaggy head of red hair, reminding Lyall of a mangy dog in the rain. "Nay. The snow has covered whatever tracks the horse left."
His warlord was one of few men whose height paralleled his own, and unlike many of the others, was not afraid to look him in the eye, though his eternal questioning of Lyall's orders was likened to a stone stuck in the chief's craw—sometimes hard to swallow. "I was certain you'd find the MacGregor lass trampled to death."
Gil frowned, as he looked up at the dark grey sky. "If she was, then we'll have to wait until the snow melts to find her."
A strong wind swept through the bailey and howled around the castle. Lyall drew his cloak tightly about his shoulders. "I dinnae intend on staying at this Godforsaken place that long. Tell the men we'll be leaving first thing on the morrow, whether it be snowing or not." Many of his clansmen had left the day after they had attacked the castle, including his incompetent nephew, Dougal, but he had wanted to make certain that blasted stallion was not roaming about, or he and the rest would have gone along with them.
He had never before given a damn what happened to a horse, but this particular one was worth a great deal, as well as being the best warhorse he had ever owned. The stallion belonged to him, and no one—especially a MacGregor—was going to take what was his. "Have them ready the finest stallion in the stables for the ride back to Kilchurn Castle." For the time being, he would have to make do with whatever horse was available.
"Aye," Gil said, "I'll be more than glad to get home. My belly has been growling for an hour. The men and I are going to find a bite to eat."
Lyall snorted. "Good luck to you. I had to settle for stale bread one of the men found stuffed in his pack. I'm sick of this wretched castle." But all the planning and loss of men had been worth it, for destroying James MacGregor and his clan would gain him much favor with the king. He frowned. And once he found MacGregor's daughter, he would destroy her as well.
ALEX LAY IN BED, STARING into the darkness. What was it that had awakened him? The wind? Perhaps he had been dreaming. He shuddered. The fire was almost out, and the room had grown cold. He tossed back the covers and added peat to the still glowing embers, bringing the flames back to life. As he returned to bed, he heard weeping coming from Ceana's bedchamber, and it tore at his heart. He pulled on his shirt, which reached well below his knees, wrapped his cloak around him, and lightly tapped on the door between their rooms. The weeping instantly ceased. "Ceana, may I come in?"
"Aye," she said, after a moment's hesitation.
He opened the door and entered her bedchamber. "I heard you weeping, lass. I'm here if you need to talk." He took a seat in the chair near the bed. The tears on her lovely cheeks glistened in the firelight, and Alex gripped the chair arms to keep from reaching out and wiping them away.
Ceana dried her eyes on the sleeve of her nightgown, noticing how unbelievably attractive Alex was with his long dark hair wild and loose about his broad shoulders. He had been so kind to her. She wanted naught more than to trust him—to tell him what had happened to her family and her home—but fear kept her from it. Perhaps she could tell him some, if not all, of what had transpired.
She took a deep breath to steady herself before speaking. "My father and mother were viciously murdered." Somehow, saying it aloud made it all the more real, and she once again burst into tears.
He moved to the bed and wrapped his arms around her, comforting her, while she wept against his chest until she had no more tears to shed. Long after she had stopped crying, he still held her, the steady beat of his heart beneath her cheek a reminder that she was safe and protected in his strong arms. A few minutes later, she reluctantly raised her head from his chest and looked up at him. "I'm sorry to have awakened you."
Alex gently brushed away a tear with his thumb, and her breath caught. "No matter, lass." He slowly leaned toward her, his gaze dropping to her mouth, just before he gently brushed his lips across hers. He growled softly as he grasped her shoulders and deepened the kiss.
Ceana trembled. She had been kissed before but never had she felt the way Alex was making her feel. She slid her arms around his neck, drawing him closer, kissing him back.
He suddenly let go of her and jumped up from the bed. "I'm sorry, Ceana," he said, his gaze fastened on the ceiling above the bed.
"Sorry? For what?"
&nb
sp; "I took advantage of you in your time of sorrow, and I should not have." He raked his fingers through his long hair, and she ached to do the same.
She shook her head. "I believe I should be the judge of that, and I dinnae feel that way at all. "I quite enjoyed what you did."
Alex grinned. "I enjoyed it as well, lass."
Her face heated.
"In fact, I enjoyed it so much, I'd best leave before I'm tempted to kiss you again," he teased—though she truly wanted him to. "I bid you goodnight."
"Goodnight—Alex."
"Ceana?"
"Aye?"
"Before I return to my bed, there's something I'd like to ken. Who murdered your parents and for what reason?"
Ceana's heart pounded. Though she wanted to tell him, her fear kept her from it. She turned her gaze to the fire, biting her bottom lip to keep from saying more.
He nodded toward Duff and Ross, their massive frames stretched out asleep before the fire. "Then tell me, do the wolfhounds belong to you?"
She held her tongue. Though she had no idea how Alex had acquired the dogs, if she admitted they did indeed belong to her he might somehow be able to trace them back to Teineaer Castle—and the MacGregors.
He blew out a long breath. "Goodnight, lass, and sleep well." He started back to his bedchamber, then stopped. "I have something that belongs to you," he said, then exited the room, and quickly returned.
Ceana wondered what it could be, then he handed her the pouch.
"'Twas fastened to the horse you were riding."
"I thank you for giving it to me."
"I promise you, naught has been taken, but I did look at the contents. The portraits, are they of your parents?"
She nodded, trying her best not to burst into tears, as she took out the locket and opened it. "'Tis all I have left of them," she said, staring at her loving parent's likenesses. A sob escaped her, and Alex sat down on the bed beside Ceana and pulled her against him.
"Ceana, I wish I could somehow take away your pain, for I ken it well."