She furrowed her brow and placed her fingertips on his shoulder lightly. Even the soft contact made him twitch. His muscles flexed involuntarily under her touch. Christ, he was acting like an untried lad!
She poked and prodded him, telling him to say when it hurt. At random intervals, he would say, “That” or “There,” trying to guess how to fake an injury. As she worked, she leaned over him, and her golden braid swung over her shoulder, the tail of it brushing against his bare stomach. He gritted his teeth, resisting the urge to wrap that blonde braid around his fist and pull her down onto his lap.
She didn’t seem to notice how she tortured him, or perhaps she just thought that his twitching jaw was an indication of the pain his shoulder was causing him. Either way, his thoughts didn’t seem to penetrate her concentration. Her nervousness dissipated as she focused on his shoulder. He could see from the absorbed look on her face that she was lost in thoughts about how to heal the imaginary injury.
“Have you ever hurt it before?” she said softly, her breath brushing his exposed skin.
“Nay,” he gritted out, not caring that he had slipped into a thicker Scottish accent.
Finally, she turned away from him and toward her basket of herbs, which she had deposited on one of the smithy’s tables. Trying to remind himself of what he was supposed to be doing—which was not to stare at her curved bottom—he cleared his throat.
“I’m curious—why does John bow to you?” To be honest, that question had less to do with their mission and more to do with his own suspicion that the lass was more that she seemed.
She spun around, her eyes wide, but then she casually waved her hand as if brushing away his question. “Oh, you know. I suppose he feels grateful to me for easing his pain. I am the village healer, and many of the people I treat do that.” She spun back around to dig furiously in her basket. What was she hiding?
Trying to shake his suspicion, he forced his mind back on topic. “I suppose you’ve had to do a lot of extra healing lately, what with more soldiers moving through Dunbraes, and the increasing number of skirmishes here in the Borderlands,” he said, summoning all of Burke’s smoothness he could muster.
“Yes, there are far more war wounds now, though my brother doesn’t let me—” She stiffened suddenly.
“Your brother?” Garrick said lightly, sensing a moment to strike.
“Um, yes, my brother. Ranald Williams. He worries about me, that is all. He doesn’t like me to come too close to the war, even though I could help.”
Garrick could hear the strain in her voice, sensing a lie, or at least an omission, but he could also hear the pain there.
“So he forbids you to use your skills?”
She turned around, holding a brownish-looking root. “He…doesn’t approve.” She moved to the fire, which burned cheerily in the back wall, and tossed the root into the caldron that hung there. Then, using the bucket next to the fireplace, she poured water into the caldron over the root.
“But you are clearly very talented.”
She shot him a wide-eyed glance, but quickly averted her eyes, and he could see that sweet pink blush creeping to her cheeks again. “Perhaps you shouldn’t say such things until after I have administered my remedy to your shoulder,” she said, her eyes still shifting away from his but a smile quirking the corners of her mouth.
He very nearly smiled himself, which shocked him. He couldn’t remember the last time he had felt happy or carefree enough to indulge in a smile, let alone a laugh. Forcing his thoughts away from the lass’s comely curved lips, he tried a new angle.
“Have you lived here long? In the Borderlands, I mean.” Perhaps she would have English relatives who might know something about the temperament of the country.
“Oh yes, years now. We moved to…find work, like you. I trained with the former healer of Dunbraes, and my brother…works in the castle.” She paused and stirred the brew she was making in the caldron. “I haven’t seen England since we moved here. I know this may sound strange coming from and Englishwoman, but I think of Scotland as more of my home than England now.”
That surprised him. An Englishwoman who cared enough about Scotland to call it her home? He wouldn’t push the issue, though. Allegiance in the Borderlands, and during times of war especially, was a sticky subject, one that could offend at best and end with a hanging for treason at worst.
Instead, he watched in silence as she rolled up the sleeves of her dress and reached for a wooden spoon to continue stirring the contents of the caldron. Something on her forearm caught his eye, though. Several marks, fading from purple to yellow, marred her creamy skin. A handprint.
Suddenly he bolted up from the footstool and crossed to her in front of the fire. She jumped at his lightning-fast movement, but he wrapped his hand around her wrist delicately, holding her in place.
“What is this, Jossalyn?”
Chapter Seven
His touch on her wrist was light, but his voice was dark with anger, and his gray eyes were stormy as they bore down on her. She nearly flinched under the weight of his stare and his question.
“It’s nothing. I just…it’s just an old bruise.” She hated the sound of the lie in her voice, but what was the alternative? Tell this strange Scotsman that her brother, Raef Warren, Lord of Dunbraes, had squeezed her arm so hard a week ago that the mark was still visible?
His eyes searched her face, seeming to see right through her, lies and all. “Your brother?”
She inhaled sharply, suddenly frightened that he knew too much. But she had told him that her brother disapproved of her healing. Lowering her eyes, she simply nodded, not wishing to either lie more, or worse, reveal the truth.
“He is so against you helping people that he uses force against you?” The incredulity and rage in his voice made her feel—safer, surprisingly. This stranger seemed to have more decency and regard for women than her own brother did.
She nodded again, but pulled her wrist back, breaking their light connection. She turned back to the caldron, where the comfrey root was turning into a paste the right consistency to apply to Garrick’s shoulder. Hopefully the same remedy that had John feeling young and spry again would work on Garrick as well.
“Jossalyn.”
The sound of her name on his deep voice sent a shiver up her spine. “Yes?”
“You don’t have to stay with your brother. Where I’m from, your gift for healing would be valued, and the people there would treat you as you deserve. People would…care for you.”
Her hand stilled in its stirring. Was she hearing him right? Was he suggesting…? No, he hadn’t said that he cared for her, or that she should leave with him. But the seriousness in his voice told her that he did want better for her. And she wanted better for herself.
She had always let herself fantasize when she was collecting herbs or roots in the forest next to the village that perhaps someday she would escape her brother. This had often involved imagining getting married to some honorable English knight and living in the countryside where she had grown up.
But with her brother’s recent threats to use her marriage to forge an alliance for his benefit, those dreams of wedded bliss had been quashed. And even setting aside the nauseating thought of marrying some old lecher for her brother’s gain, she was no longer sure she wanted to move south back into England. She had never been farther north than the Borderlands, but she had become enraptured by the more rugged, wild country that she now inhabited. The longer summer days and the colder, snowier winter nights, the towering mountains in the distance, the violent storms and the tranquil lochs—these were the things that moved her, that made her feel alive.
And then there were the people. The village was a constantly changing hodgepodge of Englishmen, Borderlanders, and Scottish Lowlanders, most of whom were simply trying to keep their heads down and survive. No one would speak directly about it, but Jossalyn had been in enough backrooms and marketplaces to hear talk of the desire for Scottish independe
nce. These people, on whose lands she was living, had been hammered by her countrymen, just as King Edward had set out to do. They sought their freedom—freedom from oppression, freedom to worship, to keep up their traditions, to live in peace—yet her King and countrymen had to have more, had to be in control.
Though she had never voiced such thoughts to anyone before, she had often felt a kindred struggle for her own freedom. She understood perfectly the value of independence and liberty from tyranny. She didn’t want to live under her brother’s control for the rest of her life, and certainly wouldn’t be married off to some cradle-robbing English nobleman, so what was left?
She had always pushed away the whispers inside her head, but now they were clear and loud: she should escape, move north, leave behind England and its constant quest to make Scotland come to heel.
If she were free, she could work as a healer—a real healer, not just one who could only see patients when her brother wasn’t paying attention. She could help more people. She could live as she pleased, marry whom she pleased. Perhaps she could even marry a man like Garrick.
Her heart pounded furiously at the thought. Of course, she hardly knew him, so she wouldn’t let her mind rush to thoughts of a life with him, but maybe she could find someone who was as kind, or who would accept her as a skilled healer, or who stirred her and made her stomach flutter, the way the mere sight of him did.
Yes, the man standing behind her moved her in ways she didn’t even understand, but this wasn’t about him—it was about her freedom. But perhaps he could help her.
Letting that thought simmer for the moment, she turned back to face Garrick. He loomed over her, his naked torso dominating her field of vision. He was a patient at the moment, she reminded herself as she tried to keep her eyes from roving all over him.
She failed. She couldn’t help but drink in the sight of all those contours and muscular planes. Something hitched in the back of her mind, though. She had noticed it before when she was checking his shoulder, but hadn’t registered it.
“How did you get these scars? I would have expected to see burn marks on a blacksmith, not so many healed cuts.”
His eyes flashed, and he paused for a moment before answering her. “My brothers and I roughhoused with each other a lot. When we were children, we fancied ourselves knights.”
“Jousting and sword fights and all that?” she said with a wry smile.
“Yes, something like that,” he replied, one corner of his mouth quirking into something resembling mirth. “But we grew out of it,” he continued, more serious suddenly. Something dark lay behind his words, but she didn’t want to pry.
“If you’ll sit again, I’ll wrap your shoulder, which should ease the pain.”
He obliged, and she dipped a strip of cloth from her basket into the paste bubbling over the fire. She approached him, blowing gently on the paste-covered cloth to cool it enough to apply it to his skin. After placing the strip across his shoulder, she returned to the caldron, repeating the steps until his shoulder was covered in comfrey-soaked cloth.
As she finished arranging the last of the strips, his hands suddenly came up and wrapped around her waist. Before she could get out a gasp of surprise, he had pulled her down onto his lap, and placed a kiss on her surprise-parted lips.
He hadn’t meant for it to happen, but he damn well didn’t regret it either.
Her nearness was intoxicating him, making it hard for him to think straight. He didn’t plan on getting involved, but hearing the strain in her voice when she mentioned her lowlife of a brother had made him furious—and protective, for some reason. This lass was none of his concern, but then why was his blood boiling at the thought of her brother laying a hand on her in anger? And why was he so intrigued at her apparently strong feelings of connection with Scotland? And why had his cock stirred when he had held her delicate wrist in his hand and inhaled the scent of her?
When she had pursed those plump red lips and blown on the cloth, however, that was his undoing. His mind had flown unbidden to thoughts of what else those lips might do, and he had nearly lost his battle to control his cock. It was all he could do to stop from pulling her to him right then, but he had managed to resist.
It wasn’t until the last piece of cloth had been placed on his shoulder and her hands drew back that he lost his battle. He wanted more of her touch, wanted to feel her fingertips grazing across his skin again, to feel just how soft and sweet her lips actually were.
It was even better than he could have hoped. Her surprise melted almost instantly into soft tentativeness. He forced himself to keep the kiss light, just a brush of his lips against hers. His hands stayed around her waist, and hers rested between them against his bare chest. Just when he was about to break off the relatively innocent kiss, she leaned into him a little, pressing her lips more firmly against his and slightly curling her fingers into his skin.
He tilted his head to deepen the kiss. Their lips melded more firmly together. She made a little noise like a sigh, and he took the opportunity to brush his tongue against her slightly-parted lips. She inhaled with surprise as his tongue gently teased the inside of her mouth, but she melted even further into him, moving her hands from his chest to wind around his neck.
Slowly at first, then with more confidence, she matched the movements of his tongue, caressing, teasing, and intertwining. Heat shot to his cock, which was pressed against her bottom. He gripped her hips, pressing her more firmly into his lap, even though he was only increasing the exquisite, pleasurable torture.
“Ahem.”
Jossalyn shot like a spooked cat out of his lap and onto her feet at the sound of Burke’s voice in the doorway.
“Am I interrupting?” Burke asked innocently, though his raised eyebrow and quirked mouth said he had seen enough to know the answer to his question.
“No, no, I was just…I’m all finished here,” Jossalyn stammered out, her cheeks flaming red.
“What do you want, Burke?” Garrick ground out through gritted teeth. Damn his cousin’s bad timing—or was it good timing? How far would he and Jossalyn have gone? And what would have been the consequences to his mission? Christ, he had let his cock do his thinking for him.
“I finished up with that horseshoe and came in to see how it was going in here. Garrick, you look like you feel better already,” Burke replied, his smile widening.
“I should go,” Jossalyn said in a small voice. She snatched her basket from the table and hurried to the back door, pushing past Burke with her head down.
“Jossalyn, wait!” Garrick strode after her, pausing only to say out of the side of his mouth to Burke, “You’ll pay for embarrassing her like that.” Burke only grinned wider in response.
Garrick caught up with her in the alleyway leading off the smithy’s backyard. He moved in front of her to stop her hurried steps, but she kept her head down, not meeting his eyes.
“Jossalyn, pay no heed to Burke’s teasing. He only meant to aim it at me.”
“But we shouldn’t have—I shouldn’t—”
He placed a finger under her chin and lifted it so that her eyes met his. Their emerald depths were clouded over with embarrassment. He struggled to find the words that would ease her shame, to express to her how much that one kiss had stirred him. He couldn’t even believe he was chasing after her; normally, he let the lasses come and go, enjoying their company but nothing more. But with Jossalyn, he longed for more—more contact, more kisses, more conversations.
“I want to see you again,” he finally managed.
“But you will likely leave in a few days’ time when John is caught up on his orders, and I—I wouldn’t be able to come and see you even if you stayed.”
Her fragmented and cryptic speech brought a question to his mind, but he pushed it aside for the time being. He had to convince her somehow to see him again, for he didn’t know what he would do if he never laid eyes on her again.
Damn his brother and this mission. He hadn’t wa
nted to go on an information gathering operation in the first place, and now that he was here in the Borderlands with this remarkable lass, he had to leave. Burke was clever in letting it be known that they would be moving on shortly. It would rouse less suspicion if they had only planned on staying a short while from the beginning, but he had never foreseen becoming so enthralled with an English lass.
“Please, Jossalyn, I have to see you again,” he said simply, unable to explain the situation to her, and not fully understanding his strong desire for her either.
She bit her lower lip, a look of frustration crossing her face. Finally, she said, “All right. I will visit you again. But,” she said seriously, “we cannot…behave so intimately again. We must be friends, and no more.”
He felt his face grow dark. Why would she deny the passion that clearly crackled like lightning between them? Why would she push him away like this?
Then it dawned on him. She was protecting herself. She was keeping her distance so that she wouldn’t get overly involved, knowing as she did that he would be leaving soon. She had the strength to do what he was too weak to attempt. He wanted any time he could get with her, but wouldn’t that make his departure harder on both of them?
He considered her demand that they act as friends. Would it even be possible? Based on his body’s reaction to their kiss, it wasn’t likely. But then again, he would rather see her again, if only for a few days, than not at all.
“Very well. Will you come by the smithy tomorrow?”
She nodded, her green eyes clearing slightly. “Yes. I’ll come check on your shoulder.”
He let his hand fall from under her chin and stepped back from her. She scrutinized him for a moment longer, her expression somewhere between quizzical and decisive. Seeming to have come to some sort of conclusion, she gave another little nod and walked around him and down the alley.
He waited until she was out of sight, then barreled back toward the smithy with one intention. He found Burke still smiling and leaning against the frame of the smithy’s back door. Without ado, Garrick marched up to him and plowed his fist into his stomach. Burke immediately doubled over with a loud grunt.
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