Love Conquers All: Historical Romance Boxed Set

by Laurel O'Donnell

  “Only that I am no’ a monk,” he blurted, instantly regretting his words.

  “Oh!” Her eyes flew wide. “I see.”

  “Nae, you dinnae.” He hid his own embarrassment by slicing the brown bread. “Pardon my crudeness,” he added, his gaze on his task. “I am not known for a silvered tongue.”

  He looked up, offered her a thick slice of the crusty, still-warm bread. “You should eat.” He waited for her to accept the bread. “See? I dinnae bite.”

  “I wasn’t worried.” She set down her cup. “I have seen your gallantry,” she added, her gaze on a far corner near the hearth. “But whether you are chivalrous or otherwise, it is not seemly for us to share a room.”

  “Then we shall make it as much so as we can,” Iain said, and imagined his conscience nodding approval. “I will no’ even peek when you bathe. No’ once,” he promised, and washed down the regrettable vow with a great gulp of heather ale.

  “You won’t?”

  “Nae.” He almost choked. Had her voice held regret?

  Draining his cup, he dragged the back of his hand across his mouth, and narrowed his gaze on her, trying to decide. But she was still staring across the room.

  “You have my word,” he offered, hoping to assure her of her modesty, and bind himself to his pride.

  Keeping his word was about all he had left of it.

  “I will do nothing in the chamber save tend your abraded wrists and ankles, and keep you from harm.” He watched her closely, at a loss to ease whatever troubled her. “I do no’ break my promises.”

  A quick shake of her head was her only response. That, and to wash down a healthy bite of roasted capon with a formidable gulp of ale.

  “I do not doubt your word,” she said, low-voiced, the trembling fingers wrapped around her ale cup disproving her.

  Iain pried her fingers from around the wooden cup and clasped her cold hand. Tension rolled off her, and while her hand shook, there was a stiffness about the rest of her. And seeing her so troubled tore at his heart.

  She did fear him.

  There could be no other explanation.

  No way to banish her concerns than to humiliate himself.

  Taking a long breath, he again caressed her palm with his thumb. Slowly and gently. To soothe her, and to let the smooth silk of her skin settle him.

  “I told you I was doing penance,” he pushed out the words, each one heavy sludge dredged from the darkest regions of his soul. “My sin is my temper. Quick-tindered bursts of anger I sometimes cannae control.”

  “I understand, and am sorry.” She slid another glance at the far corner, this time keeping her gaze there.

  She looked more worried than before.

  Iain released her hand, sliced another choice portion of roasted chicken for her. He placed it on her trencher, and watched her dig into it, a different but equally fierce ache twisting his gut.

  She clearly hadn’t enjoyed a good meal in ages. She’d devoured most of what they’d been served well before he’d taken a few bites.

  Not that he minded, however hungry he was.

  He did care to see her so needy. That knowledge fueled a black fury inside him.

  Gripping the table’s edge, he leaned forward. “I have ne’er harmed a woman. Nor would I ever do so.” His head started aching when she still didn’t meet his gaze. “Nor have I e’er pressed attentions on a lass who wasn’t willing.”

  “It isn’t you.” Her words came as a hush, barely heard above the howling wind, the rattling of the window shutters.

  She turned back to him. “It’s me.”

  “My temper caused me to topple a standing candelabrum in my family’s chapel. I set a holy place ablaze. The chapel was my clan’s pride. Its loss is the reason for my penance, my journey to Duncairn. I must make amends, and heal my temper-” He broke off when he realized what she’d said.

  “You?” He blinked.

  “Aye.” She drew Amicia’s arisaid closer about her head and shoulders, so that he could hardly see her face for the shadows cast by the shawl’s generous folds. “My worries have nothing to do with you. They are my own.”

  “I see.” He didn’t, not at all. But he didn’t want to distress her, so he just looked at her, waiting.

  But his mind raced, so he poured himself another cup of heather ale and tossed it down in one gulp.

  “So, lass…” He sought good, sympathetic words, then decided to speak his mind. “As I am no’ a true pilgrim,” he began, plunging onto dangerous ground, “so, too, are you no’ a seeker of the veil.”

  He leaned toward her. “Is that no’ the way of it?”

  She didn’t answer, but her silence and downcast eyes said enough.

  “Do you wish to speak of it?” He sat back, softened his voice. “I am good at listening.” Leastways, for you, his MacLean heart added in silence.

  “Nae.” She shook her head.

  “How do I know?” He took her hand again, turned it palm upward. “Are you no’ curious?”

  “I believe I know.” She tried to yank back her hand, but he held fast.

  “I will tell you.” He traced the tip of his forefinger across the underside of her fingers, then down the cup of her palm.

  “You have smooth and tender flesh, wholly unmarred,” he said, not surprised to see her flinch at the observation. “Hands that have ne’er seen greater toil than the plying of an embroidering needle. Or the lifting of a wee votive offering. And that, dear heart, we can discuss abovestairs.”

  “There is nothing to say.” She turned away. “Not here, not anywhere.”

  “I disagree.” Iain was sure he caught the shimmer of tears in her eyes. “We must speak of many things, however difficult.”

  Gods, he hated pressing her.

  But he had to know who she was, what she was about. And what had brought her to such a dire pass.

  Only so could he help her.

  He sighed, began massaging the whole of her hand, the base of her wrist. “There are two kinds of true postulants,” he told her, “and, aye, your hands give you away.”

  “Think you?”

  “Nae, I know it.” Iain let a bit of arrogance into his voice, just enough to keep the edge on her irritation.

  And so hold her tears at bay.

  As he’d hoped, her eyes narrowed slightly. “What two sorts are there, then?” She met his gaze, heather ale and roasted capon forgotten. “Please tell me.”

  “As you wish.” He waited as a serving lass picked up a wooden bowl she’d dropped near their table. “The first,” he continued, “is the gentlebred maid, matron, or widow seeking a sequestered existence for whatever reason spurs the need. The second is the less advantaged young woman who seeks a life – any life – away from the hardships of her own.”

  “Why can I not be either?”

  “Because you, precious lass, are the third,” Iain said, and hoped his voice held no trace of triumph.

  “The third?”

  He nodded. “Were you the first, a maid of noble birth sent to retire behind the safety of a convent’s walls, you would have been under heavy escort. Nae family of worth allows a daughter to roam the land unprotected, regardless of her destination.”

  She refilled her ale cup, her face expressionless. “And the second?”

  “The second could ne’er be you,” Iain asserted. “A common-born lass hoping for a better life would have roughened, work-toiled hands. Yours have broken nails and scratches, but those are only evidence of the hardships you’ve encountered on the road.”

  She took a slow sip of ale. “Meaning?”

  “You have the hands of a lady. Your skin is too soft and unmarred for a peasant’s.”

  “So what is this third type of postulant?”

  “A wellborn lady fleeing difficulties,” Iain said, certain of it.

  “And if I am?” She watched him over the rim of her wooden cup. “What then?”

  “I would know why.”

  “Then I mu
st disappoint you.” Madeline sat rigid, did her best not to squirm. She almost wished she could tell him. But she’d already revealed more than she should. “I cannot give you an answer.”

  She couldn’t say more.

  Not when two of Silver Leg’s men sat in a dark corner, speculating about her identity, their whispered slurs and suspicions louder in her ears than the clapping of the loosely-latched shutters behind her.

  “At least tell me your name.” Iain looked at her with such concern that her eyes almost misted again.

  Except, Drummonds didn’t cry.

  “Come you…” He took her hand again, squeezing her fingers. “Your name is all I ask.”

  “I am…” She trailed off, the crudeness rolling at her in waves from the far corner shredding her nerves, and making it hard to speak her name even in a whisper.

  Iain stood, coming around the table to join her on the bench. He drew her to him before she could catch breath to object.

  “Your name, lass.” He touched one of her curls, encouraging her. “Tell me so I can help you.”

  He tucked her hair behind her ear. “Can you no’ trust me? Did I no’ already save you once?”

  “Aye.” She nodded.

  “Then speak.”

  “I am Madeline Drummond of Abercairn.” The truth came out in a rush, even as Silver Leg’s men speculated the same. She knew because their excitement squeezed her chest, filling her with dread.

  “Abercairn near Duncairn Cathedral?” Iain was asking her, but she didn’t glance at him. Silver Leg’s men were looking their way, one of them even pushing to his feet.

  Iain ran a knuckle down her cheek. “Well?”

  “Aye, that is my home.” Madeline heard the hitch in her voice. “But Abercairn is no more,” she said, too panicked to mind her secrets. “It’s been taken, my father killed, and I- I … I want you to kiss me.”

  “Kiss you?”

  Rather than oblige her, he pulled away. He stared at her, looking so stunned, she would have laughed had she not been so miserable, were not Silver Leg’s ruffians so near.

  “Aye, kiss me. Now!” She threw her arms around his neck and pressed into him, crushing her mouth to his in her first ever kiss.

  A clumsy collision of lips, tongues, breath, and desperation.

  Fear of the evil rushing at her from the corner table, and fear of the Master of the Highlands, for he’d abandoned his startled resistance and was obliging her with a skill that melted her. Something inside her broke free, soaring. She clung to him, forgetting time and space. She only ached for more, craving the astounding pleasure he gave her. Sensations powerful enough for her to not care where they were. Indeed, the room and its crowded tables blurred, the patrons’ chatter disappearing.

  She was only aware of her quickening pulse and the delicious tingles spilling through her. His kiss filled her with a sweetness so intense she nearly, but not quite, forgot her troubles.

  And the other matter that plagued her – a problem that had just taken on direst urgency…

  The damning knowledge that Iain MacLean belonged to another.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Madeline’s foolishness struck her the moment the triumph of Silver Leg’s men swung into something else. Carnal heat, she knew. Powerful lust, blessedly not aimed at her, but still unsettling. A glance their way showed the reason - a lightly-clad, salacious-looking woman just stepping from the shadows of the sleeping hall.

  Not that she cared what fired the men’s blood. As long as they forgot her, she was safe.

  If only she could guard her heart as easily.

  But she couldn’t and as if Iain felt the same, he was already pulling back from her, breaking their kiss.

  “That wasnae wise, sweeting.” He caught her gaze, his eyes dark, his brows drawn low. “You dinnae know what follows kisses. I told you, I am no’ monk.”

  “And I know…” She shivered, aware that one of Silver Leg’s men was troubled, questioned the folly of risking a tumble with a tavern lightskirt against losing their prey.

  Already, his gaze strayed, darting between the woman and her. The second man wasn’t a threat, his lust consuming him.

  Madeline wanted to run, but doing so would ruin everything.

  They would chase her. Especially if they saw her face clearly, knew for certain she was who they thought. They still weren’t decided, only suspicious.

  So she had no choice.

  Grasping Iain’s face, she locked her gaze with his. “You are no pilgrim, nor a holy man,” she said, stunned by her daring. “Nor am I yet veiled. You are a bonnie man. I am still a woman unbound. Is it wrong to want the memory of a few kisses before I surrender to a life without passion?”

  To her dismay, he frowned and gripped her wrists, lowering her hands from his face.

  “I am no despoiler of innocents.” He shook his head. “I’ll no’ lie. I will own that I thought of kissing you when we stopped here.” He paused, his frown deepening. “Now I know you have ne’er been kissed. I will no’ slake my lust on a virgin and then leave her at a convent door.”

  “You would doom me to not have such a special memory?”

  “I think you are playing me for a fool.” He took a quick drink of ale, slapped down the cup. “I just dinnae know why.”

  “I surprise myself,” Madeline admitted, more honest than he knew. “I enjoyed our kiss.” She closed her eyes, drew a breath. “I think I will perish if you do not kiss me again.”

  It was true, for more reasons than one.

  “You ask too much.”

  She leaned in, her blood rushing in her ears. “Please, I beg you. Kiss me again. Long and deeply.”

  “Odin’s bone,” he snarled, the heat in his eyes no longer from annoyance, but passion fired.

  She’d won.

  “Oh, praise the gods…” Her heart thumping, she pressed closer to him, winding her arms about his broad shoulders, stretching her fingers into his hair.

  She wanted this, needed his kiss.

  If only this once, she didn’t care.

  She did melt, a luxurious warmth spilling through her when, though he cursed again, he also gripped the back of her head and rained kisses across her forehead, her cheeks, and even the tip of her nose.

  “I cannae resist you, lassie.” He brushed more kisses against her temple. “You draw me too fiercely.”

  “I do?” Madeline pulled back to peer at him, and his eyes met hers with startling intimacy, revealing an undeniable bond between them.

  A connection so powerful it surged through her, touching her soul, she was sure. Every inch of her ignited, warming beneath his bold and claiming gaze.

  But then he sighed, and a shadow flickered across his face. The fleeting sadness revealed a vulnerability so poignant that a wholly different need swept her.

  The wish to stroke and soothe him, to banish whatever troubled him so deeply.

  She sat straighter, dredged up her courage. “I… we-” she began, intending to share her own darkest secret, tell him what she knew of his heart, and how. But he leaned in, stilling her with a gentle flick of his tongue across her lower lip.

  “Do no’ say it,” he whispered against her cheek. “Nae words, no’ now.”

  He kneaded her shoulders, his touch distracting her. “Acknowledging what is between us would only bring pain. Let it be enough to ken your sweetness could easily bring me to my knees.”

  Once more, sadness glimmered in his eyes. “Aye, precious lass, you could make me forget more than my tattered honor.” He traced a finger along her jaw. “Much more.”

  Honor, he’d said.

  For sure, he’d made her forget her own.

  She winced at that truth, shame sliding through her like sheets of icy water.

  Somewhere a shutter slammed, its banging almost as loud as the thunder. But then a burst of laughter came from Silver Leg’s men. Their debauchery was thicker now and it iced her bones, knifing into her in a worse way than the cold air streami
ng through the rain-drenched shutter slats.

  Disgust flooded her, too, for the men’s lechery only underscored her own breathless need.

  Was she now a wanton?

  She supposed so, because…

  The place between her thighs tingled with shamefully wicked sensations. Trickling desire she couldn’t ignore, and it beat just as urgent as the baseness firing the ruffians’ blood. She felt a keen awareness of Iain, a need that deepened with each swirl of his tongue against hers.

  The intimacy of his kiss, how they’d melded together, bound her physical body to him as soundly as his nightly visits to her soul had endeared him to her heart.

  Sure she was losing control, she struggled against the urge to bury her face into his shoulder and breathe deeply. His scent excited her and she drank it in greedily, reveling in its masculine blend of brisk cold air, old stone, and leather.

  She also caught a pleasing dash of peat smoke and an elusive but irresistible hint of pure, unadulterated male.

  Her heart racing, she combed her fingers through his hair, let the luxurious black strands slide across the backs of her hands.

  There could be no doubt that he’d charmed her.

  She inhaled, again wondering if he was a sorcerer. “You smell-”

  He reared back, startling her. “I what?”

  “The scent of you. I am almost drunk on it, it is that heady.”

  “So good?”

  “Better.”

  He laughed, his face transforming, giving her a glimpse of his appeal, how dangerously attractive he was.

  “Nae lass has e’er told me the like.” He looked amused. “Are you e’er so plainspoken?”

  “I am now,” she admitted, emboldened indeed. “It must be your kisses.”

  “Then you shall have more.” He pulled her closer, slanting his mouth over hers. Roughly this time, a deep, open-mouthed kiss, raw and savage.

  “Oooh…” she gasped, her cry lost in the rush of shared breath, tangling tongues.

  Now she knew for sure she’d lost herself.

  And her scruples.

  Abandoning them so irrevocably, she even forgot Silver Leg’s hirelings and the need to shield herself from them. She just wanted him to keep on kissing her as if nothing else mattered.