by Wilde, Tanya
Drew fell back onto his bed and groaned.
“You look like hell.”
Drew lifted one eyelid to peer at his brother, Alasdair. He knew intimately that looking like hell and feeling like hell were two completely different things. His brother must be referring to his earthy scent. How many days had it been since he’d last bathed? Was he still wearing the same clothes from the last time he had touched Isla?
Tragic.
If he closed his eyes, he could imagine her scent still clung to him—a scent that had evaporated days ago, replaced by a smutty odor.
Her eyes, so full of misery, haunted him, evoked nightmares and guilt. So he drank. And schemed. And drank. Whisky, the color of her eyes—the only remedy for the constant hammering of pain in his chest.
“Bloody hell, man, you didn’t even look this bad after Ewan’s death. At least you’ve shaved. That is something, I suppose.”
“I cannot bring Ewan back, no matter what I do,” Drew muttered. “She, however, is a mere day’s ride away from me, but still lost to me forever.”
“Drew, get a grip. It’s been over two years.”
Drew gave a bitter laugh. “They say time heals all wounds. It hasn’t healed mine.” His gaze searched his brother’s. “Why won’t it heal mine?”
“Because instead of facing the pain, you drink and lay around in your own muck.” Alasdair eyed him up and down. “Are you at least going to try to get her back?”
“I have been trying.”
“How?” Alasdair’s incredulous voice asked.
“I’m still working out the finer details.”
“Will it include another disguise?”
“Aye, but only because I haven’t thought of something grander than that yet.”
“How about bride theft?”
Drew lurched up.
“Forget I said that,” Alasdair added hastily.
“It should be considered,” Drew announced. “It might even be the smartest thing you have ever proposed.”
Alasdair rolled his eyes. “How long are you planning to live in this drunken stupor?”
“Until I have a solid plan or all the whisky in Scotland has been consumed, forcing me to reside in hell—whichever comes first.”
“So until death darkens your door.”
“Death already darkens these doors.”
“Dammit man! Don’t say such things.” His brother ran a hand through his hair.
Drew shot his brother a peeved look. “I’m dejected. That’s what dejected people do; they deject.”
“If Dianna hears you, she will make you her project.”
Drew groaned. “Anything but that.”
“Then take the damn bath I’ve ordered for you.” His brother motioned to his person. “And for Christ’s sake, eat something. You’re sinking into your bones.”
A maid entered the chamber carrying towels and soap.
“Dejected people don’t bathe!” Drew called after his brother as he stalked from the room. “They wear the same clothes for days!”
“If you put those filthy clothes back on, I will have the servants hold you down and cut them from your body,” Alasdair’s voice came from the hallway.
“You can all try,” he muttered, eyeing the maid who was sniffing the air.
Drew shook his head. His stench wasn’t that—he sniffed his armpit. Och, that is foul.
His brother reappeared in the doorway with a trio of servants who carried steaming water buckets for his tub. “I’ve ordered food to be brought to your chamber as well. Beef stew, your favorite. Eat it.”
“I eat.” Drew’s eyes tracked the movements of the maid.
“Whisky is not eating; you need proper substance, meat.”
“I keep asking for broth, and the cook keeps sending meat. Tell them to send broth, and I shall eat it.”
“The cook thinks you are insulting his beef stew.”
“It’s not an insult if I prefer broth to beef stew these days.”
“Christ, you are impossible,” Alasdair muttered. “Have you always been this way?”
Drew snorted, watching the maid cast his brother a curious look. Drew almost did a double take.
“Eat the damn stew, or I shall set Dianna on you.”
Drew’s eyes skittered back to his brother. “Stop worrying about me, brother. I don’t plan on withering away.”
“Good. Does your plan include giving up drink?”
“It includes taking that bath now.”
Alasdair curled his lip and stalked off, tossing one last threat over his shoulder. “I expect you at breakfast.”
“I suspect I will be otherwise occupied tonight.” A wicked smile stretched across Drew’s lips. “And most of the morning.”
“Breakfast,” Alasdair called out, “or I will drag your arse out of bed.”
When Drew was sure Alasdair well and truly gone, he rose, slowly removing his shirt, boots and, last, breeches. The chambermaid seemed not to notice, too busy inspecting shirts and items of clothing in the wardrobe.
Drew hid a smile.
Deliberately, he groaned as he sank into the tub, watching her stiffen at the sound from the corner of his eye.
Damn, she was as beautiful as the last day he had seen her. Soft, pearly skin tinged with a cherry blush. She hadn’t revealed her face, but Drew knew those eyes to be gold-dusted and alive with spirit. And her hair hidden inside a cap, Drew knew its strands to be a copper as vibrant as any sunset.
He had never loved her more than at that moment.
Isla MacCallan had chosen him.
And she was thoroughly offended.
Her gasp, uttered when she turned to confirm that he had indeed undressed with her in his chamber and now reclined in the tub, was a delight to his ears. She averted her gaze with a jerk of her head.
Her lips . . .
Ah, but Drew knew those lips.
Plump, full, and bright pink, they were pure temptation. The merest thought of kissing them, running his tongue over their softness, stirred his body into total rebellion. Beneath the water, he hardened. She had entered his home in disguise and was now in his chamber. A slow smile curved his lips.
“You are still here, lass?” he asked, splashing water over his chest.
She swung toward him, then spun back, her color heightening. “I . . . that is . . .”
“Never mind. Since you are, tell me—do you believe that if the person you love slips through your fingers, time and time again sliding from your grasp, that there will ever come a day when you can simply tighten your fingers and they will always stay at your side?”
Her wide eyes darted to him and away again. She cleared her throat. “I believe . . .” She cleared her throat again. “I believe that if your heart is true, your love all-embracing, then all paths will lead you back to each other.”
Drew liked that.
He eyed her askance, biting down on his lower lip. “Hand me the soap, lass.”
“I beg your pardon?” This time when she swiveled, her doe-eyed gaze met his. “You want me to hand you the soap?”
He raised a brow.
“As in, take five steps to the tub where you are naked as a bairn and hand you the soap?”
“You sound offended.”
“Am I not supposed to be?” Her eyes skittered to the table beside the tub that held the soap, barely out of his reach.
Drew bit down on the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing at her outrage. “If you do not wish to perform such a minor task, call for another maid.”
“Another maid?” Her eyes flashed. Then her mouth clamped shut.
Drew watched as she marched over to the table, snatched the bar of soap, and practically shoved it in his face. Their eyes met.
A mistake.
The air between them sizzled with sudden intensity.
“Did you know,” he murmured, drowning in her gaze, “I heard disguising oneself as a servant is all the rage these days?” He tapped his chin. “Even I
tried it a time or two.”
Her eyes widened.
And this time Drew did laugh.
Chapter 23
Ye gods.
It was difficult not to stare. Drew Murray had the kind of body a woman only read about in books—the brawny kind that made you want to drape yourself over all that muscle and feel the delicious hardness against your skin. Resisting fanning her face with her hands proved even more difficult than keeping her gaze averted. His chest glistened with water droplets, almost blinding her.
Isla shook her head to clear the thought.
She shot him a dirty look through narrowed eyes. Was this how he treated all his servants? Woman servants? Bathing in their presence? Embarrassing them by making them perform improper duties? And this after spending months as a servant himself?
The man was unbelievable.
She glared down at him.
And for the first time, she saw Drew—the real Drew. No eye patch. No beard. Just Drew. Scarred and weathering all that had been done to him with a cocky grin.
Stormy and sensual, the blue depths of his eyes called to her. Even bare-chested, he was enveloped by an aura of supreme power. She would never get over this man, Isla realized. Worlds could separate them, but she would never be free of him.
Breathless, she took a moment to study him, hoping to find any clue that might suggest he had missed her. He was supposed to be heartbroken or, at the very least, sulking. But the scoundrel seemed overly happy. He had even started to whistle a merry tune!
Had he been happy while she had been living in total misery this entire time? The mere prospect angered her. In fact, the sight of him sitting in the tub, merry as a fiddle, infuriated her!
She scowled.
If she did not find some semblance of calm, Isla was sure she would explode into violence and club him over the head with a—her eyes swept the chamber for a choice of weapon—a candlestick.
He raised a brow, a somewhat unsettling, vexing eyebrow. She had forgotten how arrogant he could be. And since she could not possibly justify or defend her actions—chambermaids were limited in their insolence—the only things that were in her power to do were to huff out an indignant breath, turn on her heel, and march to the door. “If you will excuse me.”
She did not know why she had let Honoria talk her into disguising herself as a maid. Granted, at the time, their scheme had seemed impossibly romantic, but now she regretted it wholeheartedly.
Wait, what had he just said? Disguising oneself as a servant is all the rage these days. Hah!
Er?
She spun around, eyes settling on his face. An infuriating smirk perched on his lips. She had been so distracted by her disgruntlement at finding him happy, bathing before servants, and his spectacular chest, she hadn’t registered his words.
“Did you just say you pretended to be a servant?” she asked him. “Why would you do that?”
He gave her a lopsided grin. “To see how the other side lives.”
If her eyes could flash fire, Isla would have toasted him on the spot. “Please excuse me,” she bit out.
“I do not.”
Isla did not dignify that response with an answer; wholly overwhelmed by his lack of melancholy. She marched toward the door, intent on leaving the wretched man-beast behind. Had it all been a lie? Had she gone through all this trouble for nothing? When she had asked him what was real and what was not, he had told her everything was real.
She withheld a snort—she was a servant, after all—and yanked the door open at the same time an arm stretched past her face and slammed it shut again. He turned the key in the lock and removed it.
Drops of water fell on her cheek, and the breath froze in her lungs.
He was naked behind her!
She pressed herself against the door. “This is most inappropriate, sir! I demand you step away from me at once.”
She felt his face settle in the crook of her neck, inhaling deeply. Her wits scattered at the mere thought of him naked, caressing her, water dripping from his body.
“Sir, if you do not step away from me at once, I shall scream.”
He chuckled. “Roses,” he whispered in her ear.
Isla’s jaw dropped as he moved away with a chuckle. Moments later, when she heard the soft rustle of fabric, she whirled back to face him, mouth still agape, then snapped it shut so quickly her teeth clanked together.
The rustle of fabric she’d heard hadn’t been clothes, just a towel wrapped carelessly around his sculpted waist.
“I love the scent of roses.”
He stood before her, the smile gathering on his lips reaching his eyes. The sheer size of him and the shock at his sudden proximity made her inhale sharply. Even as Patrick and Mr. Ross, Drew had always been fierce. This close, the man possessed the infuriating ability to reduce her mind to a puddle of water. She could not think, could scarcely breathe with him this close. Those blue eyes burned so scorchingly hot, it was a wonder she didn’t burst into flames.
“You—you—” She marched over to him and shoved his chest. “You knew it was me!”
“Aye,” he drawled, hands catching her wrists. “You are not a master at disguise.” A spark of fire came to his eyes. “And you were too distracted.”
“How long did you know?”
“Your face is an open book.”
“How? I spent hours on this disguise!”
“Hiding your freckles?” He raised a brow. “Dressing as a servant?”
“It didn’t work?” She glanced down at her outfit and patted her bonnet. “I thought it was genius.”
“Every time you enter a room, your presence raises the hairs on my arms,” he said softly. “It must be your scent. Always roses. You could never disguise yourself from me.”
“You are such a scoundrel,” she accused, but there was no bluster in her voice. “Bathing before a simple chambermaid like that.”
“There is nothing simple about this chambermaid.” He traced her cheek with his thumb. “You are one of a kind.”
“Perhaps it’s because I started today,” Isla murmured. “Men like new baubles to look at.”
One of his finely arched brows shot up in a mocking expression. “Is that why you remained behind when I began bathing?”
“You did not give me a chance to excuse myself.”
“Of course not. I wanted you trapped.” The scoundrel twisted his lips into a mocking smirk. “You are new, so you must not have heard the rumors yet.”
“What rumors?” Isla queried.
“That I am utterly incorrigible.”
Isla snorted. “I do not find that hard to believe.”
“You are insolent for a chambermaid.”
“I finally understand Mr. Ross,” Isla said in a dry voice. “At least, the mark of his insolence.”
“What about falling in love with an inappropriate woman?”
“Inappropriate?” she asked, a note of intrigue in her voice. “Do tell.”
He leaned forward to whisper. “A woman way too good for a man such as me.”
“Och, then I need not worry for my virtue since your heart is already taken.” She tipped her head to the side. “Why aren’t you with her?”
“She broke my heart to pieces, she did. Left me in a wretched state.” The back of his fingers stroked her cheek. She shivered at his touch and closed her eyes, leaning into his hand.
“That’s—” Isla started but stopped when his brows drew together, “terrible indeed.”
Drew nodded. “She abandoned me in the middle of a snowstorm, and that after I laid my heart at her feet.” He lifted his hand to his chest and rubbed the spot. “It feels trampled.”
“If you are looking for sympathy . . .”
“Aye, only kisses can heal my flattened heart.”
He continued stroking her cheek, and she drowned in the sea of his blue eyes.
“But then,” he said with the lift of a splendid bare shoulder, “she did leave me, and now fate has bes
towed upon me a beautiful little wench for my enjoyment. So I suppose your kisses will do.”
In the next heartbeat, he wrapped one well-muscled arm around her waist and pulled her into his arms—against his very wet bare chest. His eyes glittered hotly an instant before he lowered his lips to hers.
For the merest second, Isla was stunned by the warm softness of his lips—so amazed that she did nothing but let his lips brush against hers. The gentleness of his embrace soothing as he coaxed her lips apart in the sweetest kiss she’d ever known.
“I thought you hated me,” he said against her lips, eyes lifting to reveal twin blue crystals darkened with torment.
“I could never hate you,” she told him with a soft exhalation of breath. “Left to my own thoughts, I could not help but find it admirable.”
He seemed shocked by her words.
She nodded at his silence. “I also find it grievously wrong that you should carry so much guilt over something that happened as no fault of your own. It could just as easily have been you who died.” Isla held his gaze. “Let us make fresh memories. Let us not be apart anymore.”
“Do you mean that?” he whispered, searching her eyes. “You were so hurt that day—”
She silenced him with a single finger to his lips. He had laid his heart at her feet. Now she would lay down hers.
“As a girl, Drew stole my youthful heart. On the cusp of womanhood, Patrick’s quiet strength gave me back my heart when I thought it lost forever. As a woman, Mr. Ross breathed life back into the hopeless heart I believed had no use any longer.”
She touched his cheek.
“What I’m saying is, I have loved three men in my life, Drew Murray, and all three were you.”
Chapter 24
Isla found herself lifted in strong arms and twirled about in the air. Her cap nearly vaulted from her head, and her mouth parted in delighted laughter. She looked down into the loving eyes of Drew, searching for even the slightest bit of Patrick and Mr. Ross, the men who had crawled into her heart.
A smile formed on her lips.
Those eyes.
Always those stormy blue eyes.
She hadn’t thought them the same as Patrick’s because Patrick had worn spectacles. As for Mr. Ross—impertinent and bossy Mr. Ross—och, well, Isla decided to blame the eye patch. But in Drew, she saw them all and knew, by the light shining in them, the light that had always shined in them, that what she had shared with each of them had been real. Every earth-shaking moment.