Temptation in a Kilt

by Victoria Roberts

  ***

  When the healer said he would bleed Rosalia, Ciaran had tried to rein his anger. He had needed to remove the man from his sight and quickly. Unfortunately, throwing him through the door was not an option. What was the lass going to do when he and his men departed on the morrow? She had no one to look after her. If he was not here and the man had attempted to bleed her… The thought tore at his insides.

  “My laird?” Rosalia said softly, her eyes narrowing.

  A muscle quivered at his jaw. “Ciaran,” he simply stated.

  “Ciaran?” There was a gentle softness in her voice.

  “What kind of healer is that?” he bellowed. “Ye have nay reason to be bled.” He paced the floor of the tiny room. “I have seen men with injury worse than ye and still they arenae bled. He doesnae know what he speaks.”

  She sighed. Tossing off the blankets, Rosalia rose from the bed and approached him. Her fingers rested upon his arm. “Ciaran, I am well enough. My cuts and bruises will heal with time. Ye have spoken as much.” He stared at her hand upon his arm as there was another knock at the door.

  “Come,” he said curtly. A maid entered with a trencher of meat, bread, and cheese. “Place it upon the table.”

  The maid lowered the tray and, as she turned, brushed her breasts against Ciaran chest to pass. The woman hesitated briefly and gave him a pointed look. “Close quarters. If ye need anything, anything at all, please ask for Eilidh,” she spoke in a silky voice.

  Rosalia brought up her hand to stifle her giggles.

  “Thank ye, but ’tis all my wife and I need,” Ciaran said, ushering the maid out the door. When the door closed, he turned and scowled. “And what do ye find so amusing?”

  “She obviously found ye too tempting to pass.”

  He clenched his mouth tight and pulled out a chair for her to sit at the table. When she sat in the chair, his eyes roamed over her and he discreetly adjusted the front of his trews. “Rosalia, will ye don something other than only a tunic?” Slowly, she stood and grabbed her trews, and he turned around.

  “Ciaran, I must thank ye for the food, and the bath was welcome.” She grunted as she pulled on her trews. “Ye may turn.” She spoke with an air of ease as if she was not almost bare in front of him.

  He nodded for her to take her seat. “Please eat.” He paused for a moment. “May I ask a small boon?”

  “Aye,” Rosalia said, stirring uneasily in the chair.

  “Ye donna need to thank me for everything constantly. ’Tis something most men would have done had they been in my place.” His words seemed to amuse her.

  “Hmm… That, my laird, hasnae been my experience.” Something flickered in the back of her eyes. “I have a feeling ye arenae like most men.” Reaching out, she grabbed a piece of bread and cheese. “Please, ye are going to join me?”

  Ciaran nodded and sat down. Breaking off a piece of bread, he placed a morsel into his mouth.

  “I donna know if ye brought the ale, but might I have some?” she asked, rubbing her side.

  “Of course.” He wiped his hands on his trews and rose. Pulling out the ale from his sack by the door, he handed it to her. “Drink a fair amount this eve since we donna travel. It will help ye rest.”

  “My thanks.”

  He raised his eyebrow when she insisted on thanking him again, and she returned his look with a sheepish smile.

  ***

  Taking another swig of ale, Rosalia noticed how his chestnut hair hung low on his shoulders. She wondered how pushing it back behind his ear would feel. As if he read her mind, he took a strand of hair and placed it behind his ear. She studied his hands. Ciaran had such strong hands. They were rough and worn, but she could not believe how gentle they were when he touched her. She took another sip of ale, and her throat did not appear to burn as it had before. Why was it warm in here? Was he warm?

  Ciaran caught her staring and cleared his throat, and Rosalia promptly glanced down at her hands. He obviously did not want to be tied with her, but he did portray a tremendous amount of honor. Honor. She wondered if he was from the Highlands. It occurred to her that she had never asked him.

  “Ye spoke of Glenorchy,” she said as he looked up from the trencher. “Is it located in the Highlands?”

  “Aye.”

  “Is your wife waiting for ye there?” She caught herself too late. Why the hell would she ask him that? She could not believe she had spoken so freely. He must think her daft.

  His gaze traveled over her face and seemed to search her eyes before he responded. “I am nae wed. We travel with haste because Aiden’s wife is with child. Court took longer than expected and my men are anxious to return home.”

  “As are ye.”

  He studied her thoughtfully for a moment. “Rosalia, my apologies for what ye heard. I meant naught. My men are tired and only want to return home—and aye, as do I.” His tone was apologetic.

  She waved him off. “There is nay need for apologies, my laird. I have sought the healer, and ye have delivered me safely to the village. Ye and your men will be traveling on the morrow. I only hope I havenae delayed your journey too long.”

  His eyes were gentle, understanding. “Rosalia—”

  “Will ye tell me of your home?”

  “What?” Ciaran stared at her, confounded.

  “Will ye tell me of your home? I wish to hear of it,” she said, taking another swig of ale. Her reaction seemed to amuse him.

  “What do ye want to know?”

  Rosalia handed him the wine sack and he took a healthy drink. “Howbeit we make a compromise?” he asked, handing it back. “I will answer what ye ask, and in return, ye have to answer what I ask.”

  He waited for her response as she took another sip. “’Tis a deal as long as ye donna attempt to keep me further from my journey. Ye appear to be a man of your word. I will have it—your word.”

  Ciaran nodded his head in consent. “Agreed. Ye have my word.”

  “Good. Now tell me of Glenorchy.”

  He chuckled as if he was sincerely amused. Leisurely, he stretched his long legs. “Glenorchy stands at the northeast end of Loch Awe. The northwest side is where the River Orchy enters the loch. The land around Glenorchy forms an island on which sits my home. And where is your home?”

  She lounged casually in the chair. “My home is in Scotland but verra near to England’s border.”

  He wiggled his fingers for her to take another drink. “Is that where your horse was trained?”

  “Noonie? Aye. Ye forget it was my turn to question,” she scolded him.

  “Aye.” He held up his hands in mock defense and then held out his palm for her to continue.

  “If your home is on an island, how do ye get there? Surely ye donna swim,” she blurted out as she laughed—actually laughed. She could not remember the last time she had laughed. Why was she so warm?

  “Ye can get to my home by boat or by cabhsair.”

  “Can ye view the loch from all sides of your home?” Rosalia put her elbow on the table and rested her chin in her hand.

  “Aye, but ye see the mountains on all sides as well.”

  She sighed. “It sounds beautiful.”

  “’Tis. And your home? What loch is it near?”

  “My home doesnae sit on the loch. ’Tisnae far to travel to it, though. I enjoy watching it and hearing the water.”

  “Aye. Peaceful,” he agreed.

  She took another drink and handed him the wine sack. “Is it my turn or yours?”

  “Your turn to ask,” Ciaran said, handing it back.

  “Tell me of your family.”

  “My family. My mother and father have passed. As ye know, I am eldest. Aiden is my second brother and then I have Declan, the youngest. Tell me of your family.” />
  “I donna have a brother or sister.”

  “Are your mother and father still living?”

  She paused, looking down at her hands. “Aye. How far is Glenorchy from here?”

  “Two days. How did ye end up in the clearing where Donaidh and Seumas found ye?”

  Rosalia rubbed her hands over her face. “The pain was shooting and I needed to rest. I was only going to stop for a short time. I fell from Noonie and everything went black.” She took another swig of ale and handed him the wine sack. “I heard tales of fighting in the Highlands. Men fighting to protect what is theirs and such. Do ye fight or have a need to defend your home from another clan?”

  “Aye, the bloody Campbells. Why is your horse named Noonie?”

  “’Tis the name to which he has grown accumstomed. The bloody Campbells? Tell me. Why do ye fight?”

  “Ye didnae answer the question. I asked why such a name for your horse.” Ciaran raised his eyebrow and waited for her response.

  She was not exactly thrilled to answer him, but she did make a promise. “My mother named him. She often said I ate as much as my horse and I ne’er missed a noon meal. She said we were alike in that regard. Now… I will hear about the bloody Campbells. Tell me. Why do ye fight?”

  “’Tis a question that has nay easy answer. Glenorchy was originally owned by the Campbells.”

  “The bloody Campbells,” she slurred.

  He laughed. “Aye, the bloody Campbells. Glenorchy was bestowed upon the MacGregors for allegiance. The MacGregor Chief at that time helped Alexander II with his conquest of Argyll. The MacGregor Chief was one of the leaders of the Royal army as vassal to the Earl of Ross. When the leaders of the army were rewarded, Glenorchy was bestowed upon us.”

  “And they still continue to fight for it after all this time?”

  “Aye. Who hurt ye, Rosalia?”

  She took another swig of ale. “’Tis a question that has nay easy answer,” she repeated in the same mocking tone.

  “’Tis your turn to answer.”

  “Aye. ’Tisnae a pleasant tale to tell to recollect,” she moaned into her hands.

  “Take all the time ye need.”

  She raised her head and smiled at him. “Ye are too kind, my laird… Ciaran…by far.”

  There was a moment of silence and Rosalia found it hard to focus. “The family coffers are near to empty so I was to be bargained to an English lord in order for Mother and Father to obtain a heavy purse.” A heaviness centered in her chest.

  They exchanged a subtle look of amusement as Ciaran waited for her to continue.

  “Verra well. Mother and Father give me a strong hand—a verra strong hand. I gave the English peacock a chance and discovered he was the foulest of beasts. There was also a tale that he killed his own brother for coin. When I told Mother and Father I refused to wed this man… ye can see for yourself.” Her voice did not quite reflect the agony she felt. “I travel to Glengarry to seek my seanmhair, but the gods were kind enough to put ye in the path of my journey, Ciaran MacGregor. I will have a chance to heal and will be able to continue, thanks to ye.”

  ***

  Ciaran’s mind was racing with questions. Her own mother and father had caused these bruises? Glengarry? The Highland weather this time of year was unpredictable. Was the lass completely daft? He had known something untoward had befallen her and he still was uncertain he had the entire tale. He shifted in his chair and his heart pounded through his chest, a mixture of anger and respect overwhelming him.

  “Ciaran, I donna feel so well.” Rosalia rubbed her hands over her eyes. “Could we seek our beds now?”

  He exchanged a smile with her. “Of course, lass.” He rose and grabbed the back of her chair. “Donna stand too quickly, Rosalia.” She put her hands on his arms and tried to pull herself up, barely able to balance on her own two feet. He steadied her and she glanced up at him with trusting eyes—eyes that were the color of the sea. A man could easily drown in them.

  “Ciaran.” Raising her hand, she placed it on his cheek.

  He closed his eyes and leaned into her hand. When he opened them, she looked at him so intensely. Her short, cut tresses fell into her face and he brushed them back behind her ear. What was he thinking? Rosalia was injured and, no thanks to him, in her cups. He could not take advantage of her weakened state. Instinctively, Ciaran glanced down at her parted lips, and all sense of reason deserted him. The next he knew, he was bending his head slowly forward as she closed her eyes.

  His lips gently brushed hers. She melted into his chest, her fingers squeezing the muscles on his arms. She wrapped her arms around him and he deepened the kiss. When Rosalia let out a mewling sound, he pulled back. The last he wanted was to cause her pain. He kissed her bruised cheek and then kissed her on the top of her head.

  She pulled back slightly and raised her fingertip to her lips. “I need to sit before I fall.”

  “Come,” he said. He helped her into bed and covered her with a blanket. Sitting beside her on the edge of the bed, he again brushed her tresses away from her face. When he glanced down, she was watching him.

  “Please donna pity me, Ciaran. From ye, I donna think I could bear it.”

  Ciaran gave her a warm smile and bent down and brushed his lips with hers. “’Tisnae pity ye see upon my face, Rosalia.” He rubbed his thumb on her bruised cheek. “Now ye sleep.” He bent over and kissed the top of her head. He stood and gave her one last look before he blew out the candles and sought the floor. What the hell was the matter with him?

  Not sure why he’d kissed her, he contemplated his actions. No woman had ever gazed at him like that. Although the tale the lass told was not pleasant, Ciaran could not remember the last time he actually sat and spoke with a lass. He and Beathag never really had words, nor would he ever think of being that compassionate to her. Simply, they took their pleasure from one another and then took their leave. That was all he ever desired, nothing more. He had to admit he enjoyed speaking with Rosalia. Was it pity he felt for her? It was definitely not pity. He admired her courage.

  As he lay in the darkness listening to her gentle breathing, his mind wandered. How much had actually occurred before Rosalia decided finally to take her leave? She’d cut her tresses and dressed in lad’s clothing. He did not know too many lasses who would attempt such a feat. And who was this English lord she was supposed to wed? That was a mystery in itself. Ciaran finally closed his eyes and had fallen into a deep sleep when a piercing scream echoed loudly in the silence of the night.

  Startled, he sprang to his feet and grabbed his sword, ready to defend against whatever nightmare had awoken him. He found Rosalia thrashing violently on the bed. Ciaran dropped his sword and quickly approached her. “Rosalia, ye are dreaming,” he strongly whispered, grabbing her by the arms.

  Surely this commotion would bring the attention of the entire inn upon them. He did not want to think about that outcome. He needed her to stop—now. As he restrained her arms, she shook violently. The lass clenched her fists and tried to hit him. His grip was intense, but she managed to free her legs from the blankets and kick at him, almost hitting him between the legs. As Ciaran repositioned himself, he relaxed his grip on her arms. It was too late. He realized his mistake. She squeezed her hand into a tight fist and took another swing at him. This one landed squarely on his jaw.

  He placed his body weight upon her and whispered soothingly into her ear until she started to calm. She was still shaking, and he could feel the dampness of her tears upon his chest. “Rosalia, are ye awake? Ye were dreaming,” he whispered.

  She was actually trembling now. “Aye.” Her tears choked her.

  The innkeeper’s voice echoed in the hallway as he told everyone to go back and seek their beds. Ciaran closed his eyes at the inevitable.

  There was a knock at his door.


  “Everything is fine. My wife was only dreaming,” he called out with sternness in his voice.

  There was a brief pause. “Aye,” said the innkeeper as he paused and then walked away from the door.

  Ciaran moved to get up, but she wrapped her arms around him and cried into his shoulder. “Please stay with me, Ciaran. Donna leave. I need ye here with me. I donna want to be alone. Please…” Her voice faded to a hushed stillness.

  “I willnae leave ye, Rosalia.” He moved to her side and wrapped his arm around her waist as she nestled her bottom against his groin. He pushed stray tendrils of hair back from her cheek. “Shh… ye are safe.” Her breathing calmed and her tears finally stopped, but he continued to hold her well into the night. Although he was reluctant to admit it, Rosalia felt damn good in his arms. He swiftly pushed back the notion.

  He really would like to know what the hell was wrong with him. Maybe he’d had more ale than he realized or perhaps it was simply having a warm woman cradled next to him. He had not bedded Beathag for some time. He could not understand why he was drawn to Rosalia. Ciaran knew for certain he did not pity her, and she was not the type of lass he usually bedded. She had no tresses and dressed in lad’s clothing, and he most certainly did not take to men. What was it then? It could be her blue eyes—the color of the sea. When she laughed this eve, it had felt as if the sun bathed his body in warm rays of light.

  Rosalia stirred and he held her tighter.

  “Ciaran,” she murmured sleepily.

  “Aye, I am here,” he reassured her. God help him. He knew at that moment he needed to enjoy the warmth while it lasted because he had made a decision. Come first light, she would not like it—not like it at all.

  His vow of not becoming involved with her was solid, but his honor would not allow him to leave her here unattended. Whether the lass liked it or not, she would travel with him to Glenorchy. Once he delivered her to Glengarry, his conscience would be clear. Rosalia snuggled in closer and let out a sigh. Ciaran closed his eyes, having no intention of permitting himself to get too close to her. No intention whatsoever.