Heart of a Highlander

by Collette Cameron

  Bending forward a handbreadth, Hugh reached behind her and lifted the hood over her head. Her perfume, something light and floral with just a hint of spiciness, wafted to his nostrils. He bent another inch and inhaled.

  Intoxicating.

  He’d never tire of her scent.

  Tugging the hood lower to protect her face, his hand brushed her velvety cheek.

  She gasped, and her gaze flew to mesh with his.

  His groin tightened.

  A blush swept up the fine lines of her cheeks, and her pink tongue darted out to lick her bottom lip before she bit it and averted her gaze.

  Hugh cocked his head and considered her.

  Eyes downcast and her breathing shallow, she fidgeted with her plaid, running her forefinger along the frog closure at her throat.

  She’s nervous.

  A slow grin edged his lips upward at the corners.

  Aye, the kind of apprehension a woman displays when she’s interested in a man and unsure her feelings are reciprocated.

  His heart clenched, as did the eager length tucked in his trews. Now, to make the most of this unexpected gift. This Valentine’s Day might prove providential.

  Let’s just see how attracted she is.

  He pulled her glove from his belt. “Ye dropped this.”

  Giselle reached for the fur-lined leather. “Oh, thank you. They’re my favorite pair. My sister gave them to me.”

  He lifted the glove beyond her reach.

  She gave him a puzzled frown, a trace of blue fire igniting in her eyes.

  He pretended absorption in the fine black leather.

  “Ye ken what Scottish folklore says about finding a glove on the road on Valentine’s Day?”

  Grinning, Giselle jumped and snatched it from his hand. “Non, but I’m sure you’re going to enlighten me.”

  “Aye, lass. When ye find a glove on the road on Valentine’s Day, yer beloved will have the other.”

  Her gorgeous eyes rounded for an instant before she chuckled, the sound unusually low and husky for a woman.

  “You Scots have a tradition for everything, don’t you?” She slid her left hand into the glove’s protection. “Ah, much better. My fingers are near frozen.”

  “I’d be happy to warm yer hands. . . .” Hugh winked and wagged his eyebrows. “And the rest of ye, lass.”

  Her sable brows swooped upward, and her mouth dropped open, then snapped shut. “I don’t—”

  “Look. Over there.” Ewan fisted one hand in Hugh’s hair while pointing the other.

  A man’s cursing and the frightened bleating of sheep echoed across the winter air.

  Fergus, one of the castle’s young sheepherders, chased a pair of stray ewes down a snow-covered trail. One moment he lumbered after the sheep, the next, he encountered a slick patch, and his feet flew out from beneath him. His kilt flipped upward exposing his scrawny backside and spindly thighs.

  “His skinny arse be showing.” Laughing hysterically, Ewan wobbled atop Hugh’s shoulders.

  Hugh set him down, fearing the chortling lad would topple to the ground.

  “Hush, Ewan. Don’t use such vulgar language, chéri.”

  Fergus clambered to his feet, and after brushing snow from his thighs, shook his fist at the strays. Seemingly chagrined, or perhaps anxious to get out of the nasty weather, the naughty ewes ambled past him to join the rest of the herd.

  Giselle’s quivering shoulders revealed the mirth she attempted to hide. After a moment, her usual placid brow furrowed, and her expression grew troubled. She laid a hand on Hugh’s arm.

  His muscled bunched at her touch.

  “Hugh, the snow falls much faster.”

  He perused the surrounding area. At least an inch of snow had fallen while they stood there, and the white powder showed no sign of stopping. The day’s shadows had deepened to smoky gray, and the temperature had taken a dive as well.

  Neither Giselle nor the laddie had dressed for weather this severe, though she couldn’t have predicted the rapid switch from amiable to hostile conditions.

  Omen tinged the day, although for good or bad, was anyone’s guess.

  Should he run to the keep and saddle two horses? Nae, by the time he returned, Giselle and Ewan would be half-frozen.

  They’d best make haste to the castle on foot.

  “Hugh, we need to get Ewan home.” Worry filled her voice as she gathered her son near.

  “Aye, I’ll carry the laddie. Ye grab me belt, and dinna let go.”

  Once again, he lifted Ewan, only this time, he carried the lad in his arms.

  Giselle latched onto Hugh’s belt as they stepped onto the small road.

  He paused.

  She raised her trusting gaze to his.

  By God, she’s a breathtaking lass.

  When had she gone from regarding him warily to this woman whose eyes revealed the longing she had yet to voice?

  “Is something amiss?” A fat snowflake landed on her pert nose.

  Hugh chuckled and strode toward the keep, a dark, monstrous silhouette against the winter backdrop of white. “No, but ye do ken that in Scotland, the first person ye meet on the street on Valentine’s Day becomes yer sweetheart for the entire day?”

  * * *

  “Non. Another tradition?” Giselle arched an eyebrow. “Why is it I’ve never heard of this one, either?”

  She stepped over a rock, never slowing the brisk pace Hugh set.

  “And this—” she gestured at the snow-laden path “—hardly qualifies as a street. It’s scarcely wide enough for a cart to pass on.”

  “Besides,” Ewan said, his chin resting atop Hugh’s shoulder, “I be the first person Maman met on the street today. That means she be me Valentine.”

  Hugh’s deep-timbred chuckle rumbled once more. “Ye would deny me the company of yer beautiful mother?”

  Ewan’s face fell. “Nae, of course not.” He brightened and smiled. “We can share her.”

  “That’s most chivalrous of ye, son. Ye’d make a fine knight.”

  Giselle jerked Hugh’s belt hard, and he grunted.

  “Gentlemen, I don’t like being divided like a loaf of bread or a piece of cheese.”

  Ewan gazed at her over Hugh’s broad shoulder. “My Maman be verra bonnie, isnae she, Hugh?”

  He raised his cherubic face to Hugh’s, waiting for his confirmation.

  “Aye, laddie, that she be.” Hugh’s voice deepened, the tone husky with promise.

  His gaze caught hers.

  Giselle nearly tripped at what shimmered there.

  Desire.

  Hooded eyes, flared nostrils, quickened breath—all signs of a man’s arousal.

  Her pulse quickened in mutual response. She’d found the marriage bed most enjoyable the two years before losing her husband. A few seconds ago, she’d been cold as ice. Now, a delicious heat encompassed her. To hide her discomfiture, she turned the conversation to the evening’s festivities.

  “I suppose we’ll have to cancel the Valentine’s celebration.”

  “Why?” Hugh shifted Ewan.

  The movement caused her knuckles to brush his broad back.

  Muscles flexed against her bent fingers. Taller and heavier than Liam, Hugh epitomized the fierce warriors of Scottish legends. She’d seen him shirtless, the ridges of muscles lining his abdomen and swelling across the hard planes of his chest and shoulders.

  She swallowed against the tantalizing memories.

  “How will people attend?” She slogged through the four inches of snow, the hem of her gown and cloak heavy from moisture and ice.

  “There are over sixty people within the keep. I’m willing to bet me broadsword they’ll want to exchange a Valentine or two.” He winked. “Besides, Sorcha and the kitchen staff have been cooking for days. There are untold pasties for our laddie here to sample.”

  He patted Ewan’s back.

  Our laddie? I do like the sound of that. If only it could be so.

  * * * />
  Half an hour later and chilled to the bone, they made the kitchen courtyard. Tromping a path through calf-high snow, Giselle rushed to the door. She threw it open and stood aside so Hugh could enter, carrying Ewan.

  His boots rapped on the stone floor as he hurried inside.

  A blast of welcoming heat encompassed her, and she inhaled the scents of fresh-baked bread, roasting meat, and spices as she shook the snow from her cloak.

  Sitting to the side of the hearth, a young lad turned a haunch of venison on a spit. The fire hissed and sizzled as an occasional droplet of fat dripped into the orangey-red flames.

  Sorcha, the keep’s cook, glanced up as they burst into her domain. Taking their measure, she set aside the spoon she’d been using to stir a pot atop the stove.

  “Me lady, Sir Hugh, ye be frozen toe to top.” She stuffed a stray strand of reddish hair beneath her cap as she issued orders. “Blair, heat water for tea. Elspet, start their bathwater, and Garia, fetch some whisky. . . . The good stock.”

  Sorcha bustled her way to the entrance, clicking her tongue like a disapproving hen the whole while. “Off yer heids, ye be, outside in this devil’s weather.”

  She made a few more scolding noises in her throat, and wiped her hand on her pristine, white apron.

  Ewan raised his drowsy head from Hugh’s wide shoulder. “Sorcha, may we have a picnic in the library. With shortbread biscuits?”

  Teeth chattering, he rubbed his eyes. “Maman said we might.”

  The cook smiled and chucked his chin. “Aye, laddie, after ye’ve bathed and warmed up.”

  She switched her vexed gaze to Giselle, then Hugh. “Now, above stairs with all of ye!”

  Giselle snatched Ewan’s sopped hat from his head. “Sorcha, will you please have Ewan’s bathwater prepared first?”

  “Aye, me lady. I be sending up hot toddies and broth straightaway, too.”

  Giselle hurried up the stairs ahead of Hugh. “We’ll leave Ewan at the nursery. I want him out of those damp clothes as soon as possible.”

  Ewan gave her a groggy smile.

  She kissed his cold, cherry cheek. “I think a nap is in order, non?”

  He yawned and nodded his head sleepily. “Aye. Maybe a verra wee one.”

  After leaving her son in Nurse’s capable hands, Giselle turned to Hugh. She removed her gloves to hide the fit of nerves suddenly seizing her at finding herself alone with him in the corridor.

  What an idiot I am, she scolded.

  She’d been alone with him hundreds of times over the past five years. Why did he set her all atwitter now?

  Because now you’re aware of him as a virile man, not a harmless friend.

  Well, that wasn’t entirely true. She’d always been aware of Hugh’s virility, but only in the last few months dared to entertain thoughts about him as something other than a friend.

  As if compelled by a force beyond her control, her gaze sank to his groin before whisking over the rest of his manly form. A familiar twinge of desire sluiced her.

  Very virile, indeed.

  Stop staring, Giselle. Say something.

  His gaze darkened to obsidian and a seductive smile curved his strong mouth.

  Was that a spark of interest in his eyes?

  Tension hung dense and sensual between them.

  Zut, she’d given herself away. Stupide. She tore her gaze from him and focused on her hands.

  “Thank you for coming after us, and for carrying Ewan all the way home. I wish I could adequately express my appreciation.”

  She risked a quick glance upward.

  Hugh said nothing, just stared at her, the chiseled planes of his face, sharp and intense.

  The heat smoldering within his almost black gaze caused her breath to hitch and a tendril of want to jolt her.

  She fumbled and dropped a glove.

  Bending to retrieve it the same time he did, she froze. Mere inches separated their mouths.

  Giselle couldn’t move, her entire being mindful of one thing. If she leaned forward . . . not even a hairsbreadth, her lips would touch Hugh’s.

  Oh, to taste his sculpted mouth.

  * * *

  Giselle hovered so close, Hugh could see the dark blue flecks in her wide, sea-green eyes. Hesitation tinged with yearning simmered in their depths.

  He cupped her nape, closing the remaining distance between them.

  She didn’t resist, but instead, her lashes fanned her silky cheeks, and she sighed.

  He dipped his head, hovering over the sweetness of her soft lips, savoring the moment. He’d fantasized about kissing her for so long, fear he’d frighten or disappointment her made him as nervous as an untried lad.

  A groan of longing escaped him.

  Then her lips touched his.

  Passion exploded, so intense, Hugh’s head spun.

  Giselle wobbled and folded to her knees, her hands fisted in his sodden overcoat’s lapels.

  He followed, dropping to one knee and teasing the seam of her lips with his tongue.

  Panting, she opened her mouth, her moan of submission nearly causing him to spill his seed in his trews.

  He deepened the kiss, keenly aware they could be discovered kneeling and compromised at any moment. Yet, he’d take the risk for a few more moments of bliss.

  Giselle returned his kiss with a woman’s passion. No coyness or hesitation, just unselfish giving.

  His arms wrapped around her, Hugh tightened his embrace. Such a little lass, though the full breasts pressing into his chest gave irrefutable testament to her womanliness.

  Her arms crept up to wind behind his neck, holding him captive to her hungry kisses.

  He dared to trail a hand along the curve of one ripe breast, the other caressing her plump buttocks.

  A door banging closed jerked him back to the present.

  Breathing heavily, he drew away. He cupped her face and caressed her cheek with his thumb.

  “Ye have a mighty fine way of showing your appreciation, lass.”

  She blanched and scrambled away from him, her lips swollen and red. The line of her mouth flattened, and woundedness replaced the desire in her eyes.

  Shite. Why did I say that?

  “You think that’s what this was?” She gestured between the two of them. Blue sparks spewed from her eyes. “My way of . . . thanking you?”

  Features strained, she stood. Her small form quaked, though whether from cold or outrage, he couldn’t discern.

  “I didn’t realize you thought so little of me that you’d compare me to a putain.” Hurt echoed in her voice and lingered in her soulful eyes. She gave a long blink and drew in an even longer breath.

  “Nae, jo, yer talking pish. I dinna mean that the way it sounded.” Hugh rose in a sharp, smooth motion. “Yer a verra bonnie lass, and I’d have to be dead not to want ye.”

  He reached for her.

  She backed away and cast a fretful look about the passageway.

  “If you’ll excuse me, I’m rather cold.” She grasped her cloak and skirts, and with her head held high, swept past him.

  “Mo chroí, wait . . .”

  * * *

  Giselle managed a sedate walk until she turned the corner. Hiking her skirts knee high, she dashed to her room. She rushed inside, then shoved the heavy door closed hard enough the bang echoed throughout the bedchamber.

  She should have slapped Hugh, knocked that enigmatic smile off his handsome face.

  Breathless from running and emotional turmoil, she leaned against the aged wooden structure. Something in his demeanor told her things would never be the same between them again.

  He’d called her jo-sweetheart—and mo chroí-my love.

  Words of a man bent on mere seduction, or did they mean something more?

  She and Hugh had stumbled across a new threshold, and despite his crude remark, she couldn’t deny he’d awakened dormant sensations.

  He said he wanted me.

  And she wanted him too, except, not j
ust to warm her bed and satisfy her carnal desires, for she didn’t doubt he’d be a skilled lover.

  She wanted to marry him.

  Giselle nibbled her lower lip, and after tossing the cloak on a chair, removed her half boots and stockings. Violent wind pounded her chamber’s mullioned windows, shaking the glass. The snow beyond the panes whirled, wild and frenzied, much like her tumultuous emotions.

  Shivering, she hurried to stand upon the thick rug before the fireplace. She rubbed her arms, attempting to warm herself.

  Bright pink toes, cold and numb, peeked from beneath the saturated hem of her royal blue morning dress. She wiggled them and grimaced as needle-sharp pricks announced the return of sensation to her feet.

  What had she been thinking, kissing Hugh in the hallway where anyone might come upon them? As chieftainess, she must set an example, even if she wasn’t Scottish born.

  Though the fire roared strong and hot, she shivered again. She needed to remove her wet garments at once. She hurried to the oversized cherrywood armoire, and after opening the doors, removed a clean chemise and stockings.

  A sharp knock echoed outside her chamber.

  The bathwater, already?

  She hadn’t even decided on a dress to change into. Something simple, yet elegant. Mayhap the black and violet satin.

  An insistent knock sounded again.

  “Come in.”

  She scrutinized her gowns. Or mayhap, the white and ruby velvet, one of her favorites and perfect for Valentine’s Day.

  The door whisked open. A slight thud announced its closing, followed by a soft clunk as the bolt slid home.

  What in the world?

  She took a step away from the armoire, leaning back to see who’d entered.

  Hugh stood in the center of the bedchamber, legs apart and hands on his lean hips.

  Wearing trews and a shirt gaping open at the neck, he advanced toward her, every bit the cocky, confident Highland warrior she’d likened him to.

  Giselle couldn’t tear her gaze from the dark hair peeking from his shirt’s vee. She itched to run her fingers through the curls, or better yet, nuzzle her face in them.