Highland Temptation

by Jennifer Haymore

  Sir Colin came up behind her in the mirror, and they gazed at each other in the glass for a protracted moment. “You…” He cleared his throat. “Ah…here, let me help you with your cloak.”

  He reached around and deftly untied the bow at her throat. He was close now, touching her, and pleasant heat radiated off him. It was early spring, and the nights were still cool, but with Sir Colin so close, she was as warm as if it were midsummer.

  “Thank you, Sir Colin,” she murmured.

  “Nay.” The word was a low Scottish purr that seemed to rumble up her spine.

  She gave him a questioning look.

  “You mustn’t call me Sir Colin. You must call me John.”

  “John,” she tried. “Oh, but that name doesn’t fit you at all.”

  “Aye, well, it sounds a wee bit odd to my ear as well. But if I give you leave to call me Colin, will you remember John when we’re not alone?”

  She nodded.

  “Verra well, then. Call me Colin. The sir isna necessary.”

  “Thank you,” she said, “Colin.” She whispered his name. It felt so very intimate to call a man by his first name, alone in a bedchamber, with his hands on her shoulders as he removed her clothing…

  Not her clothing, she amended in her mind. Just her cloak. He pulled it off and hung it on a convenient hook beside the door.

  “You’re welcome,” he said. Goodness, the low rumble of his voice was doing all sorts of pleasant things to her insides.

  Warmth, safety, comfort. All those things that had seemed so distant to her only yesterday. She could thank him a thousand times and it would never be enough.

  The boy came up with their luggage, though it took him two trips to lug it all upstairs. Soon after, the innkeeper’s wife came bearing a tray with their dinner. It was simple fare—roasted mutton with vegetables—but when they sat down to eat, Emilia found her stomach rumbling with hunger, and it tasted delicious. A plate of cheese and apple slices made a pleasant dessert, and a pitcher of good ale—which Emilia had never drunk before—washed it all down.

  Finally, she sat back, her stomach comfortably full, her blood tingling through her veins—perhaps from the ale. She looked from her empty cup to Sir Colin, who gazed at her with his usual serious expression.

  “Did you enjoy the dinner?”

  “Oh yes,” she said. “Probably too much.”

  “Nay, I dinna think so. You’re but a wee thing. You could use a bit of meat on your bones.”

  Her cheeks heated for about the millionth time today.

  “You should go to bed, lass,” he said quietly. “We’ve a long day of travel ahead of us tomorrow.”

  She nodded and stood, stretching until she felt the pull on the wounds in her back. Sir Colin stood as well and began to rifle through their luggage. He found the satchel she’d brought—filled with Lady Claire’s clothes—and withdrew her nightgown.

  Another extreme intimacy. A single man touching her unmentionables. And so familiarly, too. Her heart beating hard, she licked her dry lips and snatched the nightgown from his hands when he offered it to her. “Ah…” she said breathlessly, a riot of heat on her cheeks, “thank you.”

  “Aye, of course. Do you need help with your dress?”

  “No, thank you. It is a round gown, see, so it wraps and ties in front.” She gestured at the large green ribbon at her waist, which concealed the ties. Claire had been thoughtful in the choices of garments she’d offered Emilia. Everything was simple but new and clean, easy to don without a maid’s help, and they fit her perfectly. She was so thankful for all of it, but Claire had acted as if it were nothing. As if they weren’t near strangers, but sisters who shared everything.

  “Verra well.” Sir Colin cleared his throat and gazed at her, his eyes sparkling amber in the lantern light. “I must see to your back, then. If you dinna mind removing the top of your gown and petticoat.”

  “Of course,” she breathed. She set the nightgown on the bed and went to work on the ties, then glanced up to see him staring at her. He turned quickly so that his back was to her. She turned also, so they were back to back, and quickly untied the front of the gown before slipping the sleeves off her arms. Finally, the bodice of the dress fell over the skirt, and she stepped out of it. She took off the petticoat; then, dressed only in one of Lady Claire’s nearly transparent shifts, she untied the neckline, pulled it over her shoulders and down, bunching it at the waist. Now her back was bare, so he could check the dressing, but her front was also naked, and cool air washed over her breasts and made her shiver.

  “All right.” Managing to keep the fabric of the shift bunched at her waist, she crossed her arms over her chest. She didn’t turn around, but sensed Sir Colin turning.

  He made a gruff, incomprehensible noise, then came close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from his body. Gently, he touched the wrappings, and sighed.

  “You’ve bled through them, lass.”

  “Oh,” she whispered. “Have I?”

  “Aye. I’ll have to take the bandage off and redo it.”

  “All right.”

  “Are you in verra much pain?”

  “No,” she said truthfully.

  He unwrapped the bindings, his hands bigger and stronger and also gentler than Lady Claire’s. Claire’s hands had been briskly competent, but Sir Colin took his time, almost painstakingly slow as he reached the last layer, where the gauze was, at places, stuck to the edges of her wounds.

  “Is this hurting you?” he kept asking her.

  “No,” she repeated, again and again. Compared to the feeling of her father flaying her skin with his cat-o’-nine-tails, this was nothing.

  When Sir Colin finished pulling the ends of the fabric from her skin, he was silent for a long moment, his gaze burning into her back so intensely she was compelled to ask, “How does it look?”

  He pushed out a short, harsh breath. “It looks better. It’s already beginning to heal.”

  He fetched the salve and more gauze as she stood there motionless, her arms still crossed over her breasts, trying not to think of how close she was to being naked. In a room alone with a man. Almost anyone who saw this scene would think her a brazen whore.

  But she didn’t feel like a whore, and Sir Colin certainly didn’t seem to think of her that way. No one was here to see her or to judge her, yet the strictures of society had been so deeply drilled into her, she couldn’t help but think of them constantly. Of how wrong this entire situation was.

  It isn’t wrong, she told herself. It’s right. Because it is the only way. The best way.

  She’d almost convinced herself of that by the time he’d finished gently slathering the salve over the wounds and begun to wrap her torso in fresh gauze. Finally, he tied off the ends and rested his big hands gently on her hips. The gesture was possessive and intimate, and instant warmth swept through her. He was so close to her that she could feel his breath at the top of her head.

  She froze, glorying in all the hot sensations pounding through her. His lips pressed on the top of her head, and she closed her eyes, feeling like she was melting.

  But then he released her and took a quick step backward. She looked over her shoulder at him, to find his face absolutely expressionless. She didn’t have any talent for hiding her feelings, and she knew her face was flushed, her eyes wide, her lips parted.

  He gestured at her. “Go ahead and put your nightgown on. I’ll…er…be back in a few minutes. I need to ensure the horses are well.”

  She nodded, and something told her that despite his flat expression, Sir Colin might be as discomfited by all this as she was. He’d already told her they’d trade the horses for fresh ones tomorrow, so he shouldn’t be too concerned about them.

  He swiveled and, before she could blink, he had grabbed their dinner tray and was gone. She stood still for another long moment, staring at the closed door. Then she dropped the shift and stepped out of it before pulling the nightgown over her head. She tidi
ed up—pushing the chairs in under the small table, carefully hanging the dress over one of the chair backs so she could wear it again tomorrow. She wondered when they’d have time to have their laundry done and decided it might not be until they arrived in the Highlands. So, after ensuring that no blood had seeped onto the petticoat or shift, she hung them on separate pegs on the wall to air out.

  Finally, with nothing left to do and having no idea when Sir Colin would return, she pulled back the bedcovers and climbed into the bed, happy that the sheets were clean and the straw mattress was comfortable. She lay on her side, facing the door.

  She should just try to sleep. Sir Colin could be gone for hours. But she wasn’t tired. She knew he would try to sleep on the floor, but how would he get a good night’s sleep on the cold wooden slats? She wouldn’t do that to him. He’d slept last night with his arms around her, and it had been completely wonderful. It had also been completely innocent.

  That was how they should sleep tonight—in comfort and warmth.

  She lay on her side and stared at the door, awaiting Sir Colin’s return.

  Chapter 7

  What the hell had he been thinking? Colin pushed a hand through his hair and grabbed a clump of it at his nape. How had he believed he’d be able to survive in close quarters for hours, days, weeks on end with a woman like Lady Emilia?

  She was everything he admired in a woman. Bonny. Intelligent. With quiet strength. But she was also so sweetly innocent, it roused something inside him. A wicked spirit that wanted to devour her innocence. To teach her everything he knew. To show her all the erotic things he wanted to do to her body.

  He wanted to teach her pleasure. He wanted to show her what he could do to her, how he could bring her that pleasure, and so much more. He had been standing behind her, trying to focus on her wounds and not her pale, perfect skin nor the dip and flare of her waist and hips. She was a feminine creature, from her wispy curls to her tiny wee feet. He had wanted to wrap his arms around her, bend down and kiss the column of her neck, feel the pulse of her jugular vein under his lips. He wanted to taste her and suck her and show her what it was to be made love to.

  He stared at the horse in front of him. The animal was just fine. He was the one who felt like he needed…what? He didn’t even know. He was losing his mind—that was all he knew for certain.

  He left the stable, going into the clearing between it and the inn. He gazed up into the night and saw no stars, no moon. There was no light at all, just a dim glow from two of the windows of the inn, one of them his and Emilia’s. He gazed at that window for a long while, seeing vague shadows of movement inside, then nothing. She hadn’t extinguished the lantern, but she’d probably gone to bed.

  He needed to wait until she was asleep. Perhaps he was a bastard for being gone so long, leaving her wondering what had happened to him, but he needed to be away from her for a while. On the other hand, there was nowhere for him to go. The town was quiet and dark, its occupants asleep or nearly there, and it was damn cold out here in the open.

  He’d go for a walk for as long as he could tolerate the chill in the air, he decided. He walked around to the front of the inn, then out onto the street, placing his footsteps carefully on the cobbles. He’d driven through Caxton at least a dozen times on his travels between London and Scotland. He’d been in this town, on this street, but now it felt foreign, changed somehow.

  He’d never traveled with such precious cargo before, he realized. He thought of Emilia, alone in bed in a strange inn. God. He’d been in such a hurry to leave, he hadn’t even locked the door when he’d left her.

  He’d left her vulnerable. Unguarded. In danger. Panic welled in his gut, and he turned, sprinting back to the Cross Keys Inn as quickly as he could without falling on his face in the dark.

  He was sweating by the time he mounted the stairs—not out of exertion but out of panic for Emilia’s safety. If she was safe, he vowed, he’d never leave her alone again. He’d likely go crazy from lust, but he was never, ever going to leave her vulnerable.

  He reached the landing and was at the door in two long strides. He stopped, battling back the urge to throw the door open, took a ragged breath, and slowly turned the handle and pushed the door inward.

  She lay on the bed, curled on her side, facing him. She was asleep. And safe, thank God. He closed his eyes in a long blink, then opened them again. Her face was soft in slumber, and she looked so damn young. She was so damn young, he amended, a decade younger than him.

  As quietly as he could, he stepped into the room and closed the door behind him, this time locking it. He went to the basin and washed, then took a pillow from the bed and tossed it to the floor at the foot of the bed. Pulling his sgian dubh from his stocking, he placed it by the pillow. He removed his shoes and stockings and unbuckled his kilt before laying one of the plaids on the floor and grabbing another to use as a blanket.

  After blowing out the lantern, he lay on his back on the hard floor at the foot of the bed and closed his eyes. It wasn’t unreasonable to think Pinfield could already be after them. Who knew to what lengths the man would go to find his daughter? Colin had been unforgivably stupid tonight. There was no excuse for it.

  It would not happen again.

  —

  A drawn-out noise woke Emilia from a fretful sleep. She shivered and opened her eyes. The room was dim and cold, the meager light and heat coming from the glowing coals in the brazier, and it took a moment for her eyes to adjust.

  She went stiff when she heard the sound again. A ragged moan, as if someone were in the throes of death. She reached for Colin, but he wasn’t beside her.

  The moan came again, this time on a drawn-out word. “Nooo.”

  The voice had come from somewhere beyond the foot of the bed.

  “Colin?” she whispered. No answer. Slowly, she rose to a seated position, the wounds on her back pulling uncomfortably.

  “Stop. No.”

  Finally she could recognize the man’s tortured voice. It belonged to Colin. Her heart pounding frantically, she slid off the side of the bed and hurried to its foot, slamming to a stop adjacent to the bedpost.

  Colin was on the floor, on his hands and knees, his white shirt hanging down, plaids in a tangle around him. He gripped a dagger in one hand and swung it blindly back and forth. “St-op!” he yelled brokenly.

  His eyes were open, but he clearly wasn’t in this room with her. He was somewhere else. Somewhere terrible. She gazed warily at the glint of the dagger in his hand. It was a small blade, but she was certain it’d be wickedly sharp.

  His body recoiled as if someone had just dealt him a crushing blow, he cried out, and Emilia flinched. She had to stop this. “Colin? Colin!”

  Too deep into the nightmare, he didn’t hear her. His arm swung, the dagger slicing an arc in the air.

  Emilia chewed on her lip. She had no idea what to do. How to get him out of this hell he was so clearly living in.

  “Stop!” he bellowed.

  “Colin!” she shouted in return. Lord, she hoped they didn’t wake the whole inn. She moved across the bed and slid onto the other side, farther from the slice of Colin’s wicked dagger.

  “Colin, it’s me,” she said loudly. “Emilia. I’m here. I’m just behind you.”

  He whipped his head around, looking over his shoulder, but his eyes were wild and unseeing. “Who’s there?”

  She dropped to her knees near his bare shins. “Me. Emilia. There is no one else here, Colin. Only me.”

  He shook his head in disbelief, raising his dagger in warning.

  She reached out and rested her hand on his back, exerting a gentle pressure. “It’s just me. I’m not here to hurt you, but that dagger is scaring me. Will you put it down, please?”

  He sat back on his haunches, bringing the dagger to his face and looking at it, his brows drawn together in a frown. Then, as slowly as if he were moving through syrup, he dropped his hand to his side and turned to face her.

  T
here was no recognition in his eyes. Moving as slowly as he had, and very aware of the weapon he still gripped, she reached up and cupped his cheek in her hand. “Colin, it’s me. Emilia.” She gazed straight into his clouded eyes.

  The bristles on his cheek scraped against her palm as he stared at her. He blinked, then blinked again, hard. Then his entire body shuddered, and she heard the clack of the blade as it hit the wood floor.

  “E-Emilia?”

  She nodded, and he fell backward, away from her as if she were poison, catching himself with his hands. He looked at the dagger beside him, now lying innocently on the floor, then back to her. “I…Jesus. Emilia?”

  “Yes, it’s me. Everything’s all right,” she said, amazed by the contrast in their voices. She sounded strong and calm, while he sounded bewildered and afraid. “I think you had a nightmare.”

  He scrambled up to a standing position, and she rose, too, facing him, watching him guardedly as his expression changed from confusion to anger.

  She reached toward him, but he stepped back, the muscles in his jaw working.

  “Everything’s all right,” she soothed. The look on his face made a prickle of unease run up her spine.

  “Nay,” he bit out.

  She tilted her head in confusion.

  “Nay, ’tis not all right.”

  “You’re all right. The nightmare is over.”

  His head swung from side to side. “Aye,” he said bitterly. “ ’Tis over. They’re gone.”

  “They were never here.”

  “They were. I was trying to kill them, if they didn’t kill me first.”

  She nodded. “You succeeded.”

  He turned away from her, grabbing the bedpost and leaning his forehead against it. “Do you not see, Emilia?”

  “See what?”