by Ruth Langan
The little girl folded her hands and closed her eyes.
“Come on, Gwen,” Brock called irritably. “We have chores to see to.”
“Aye. And I’ll do them. Every one. But first I intend to pray harder than I’ve ever prayed before.”
Brock rolled his eyes, then caught her hand. “There’ll be time enough for that after we finish our work.”
When the two were gone, Morgan sat alone at the table, sipping his cold tea. Without ever meeting Heywood Drummond, he despised the man. Jealousy, he knew. An alien emotion, until he’d met Lindsay Douglas. But there it was. He despised the man not only because he wished to court Lindsay, though that would be reason enough. What was worse, this man was using his wealth and power to bully a helpless female. One who deserved so much more than this out of life. Morgan had no use for bullies.
He stood and began to pace, until pain caused him to sit down again. He idly rubbed his shoulder, despising this weakness. It was something else that was alien to him. But pain was something he could endure. It had been an accepted part of being a warrior. And so he focused on the pain, using it to fire his blood.
Gritting his teeth, he pulled himself to his feet and waited until the dizziness passed before making his way to the door of the hut. Maybe he couldn’t hunt a stag yet, but he could certainly hunt smaller animals, and fish. And he could fetch water and gather firewood.
For as long as he was forced to remain here, he would find a way to ease Lindsay’s burden. In whatever manner he could. He was determined to help this amazing little female survive the harsh Highland winter. And see that she had no need of Heywood Drummond.
Chapter Five
“What’s this?” Lindsay stepped into the hut and sniffed the air, perfumed with the wonderful fragrance of bread baking.
She walked to the fireplace to find a loaf of bread browning on the warming shelf. She lifted the lid of a blackened pot resting on hot coals. Inside were chunks of meat and roots bubbling in a sweet-smelling juice.
“Did you do this, Gwen?”
The little girl looked up from where she was setting the table. “Nay. It was Morgan. He showed me how to cook the squirrels, after he and Brock used his secret method and trapped four of them for our supper.”
“A secret way of trapping squirrels?” Lindsay found herself wondering if he might teach her, as well. “And the bread?”
“Morgan said his mother taught him how to bake it. And now he’s taught me.”
Lindsay could have wept with relief. She had returned home feeling beaten down by worry, and wondering where she’d find the strength to begin even one more chore. Suddenly, she felt as if a weight had been lifted from her shoulders. “Where is Morgan?”
“By the stream. Teaching Brock how to prepare the skins for tanning. Shall I fetch them?”
Lindsay shook her head. “You can finish here. I’ll go.”
She smiled at the sight of her father, contentedly sleeping before the fire. Letting herself out, she walked through the fading light of evening until she reached the banks of the stream. The man and boy were kneeling side by side. They had stretched out the skins over a flat rock.
Knowing they hadn’t yet spotted her, she stood a moment, watching and listening. Morgan was once again wearing the length of plaid as his only garment. He had wrapped it around his waist, where it fell to the middle of his muscled thighs, then tossed the other end across one shoulder. Though it was modest enough, it revealed a great deal of muscled flesh. Flesh that always seemed to cause her all sorts of strange feelings and jumbled thoughts.
“A warrior learns to waste nothing, lad. The meat, even a small amount, can sustain you through a long siege. The innards, tied at both ends, can be used to carry liquids inside your tunic. And the pelts can offer warmth, especially if the enemy is near, when a fire can’t be lit.”
“But what good are these?” The lad pointed to the squirrel skins. “They’re too small to be of any use.”
“Is that what you think? What if they’re woven together? A dozen or so can make a warm cloak. Even one or two can be used to warm your hands or feet. Tucked inside your boots, they’ll keep your feet from freezing even in winter’s snow. As for these puny skins, they’d be more than enough for Gwen’s small hands.”
Brock grudgingly nodded, obviously impressed with what he was learning. He looked up when he caught sight of his aunt.
“Lindsay. Look what Morgan is teaching me.”
“I see.” She felt herself grow warm under Morgan’s gaze.
Brock picked up one of the skins. “Do you think Gwen would like to wear these?”
“Aye. They’d keep her warm through the winter. And she’d think them special indeed if her brother was the one who made them. Perhaps as a special gift for Christmas.” She saw his eyes light with the thought.
“Now come.” She draped an arm around the lad’s shoulders. “It’s time to sup.”
“Did you see what Morgan prepared?” the boy asked as they started toward the hut.
“I did.”
“Were you surprised?”
“Aye. It was a wonderful surprise.” She turned her head and spoke to the man who walked just a few paces behind them. “Thank you.”
He smiled and she felt her heart dance.
Inside the hut her father was already awake and seated at the table, nibbling a piece of the bread that Gwen had just sliced.
He looked up as they entered. “If you’re not careful, lass, you may be replaced by this warrior.”
Morgan chuckled. “I wouldn’t worry, Lindsay. I’m afraid there are only two things I know how to cook. Meat and bread.”
“That’s enough to sustain life,” the old man said as they took their places around the table.
“Aye.” Morgan winked at Lindsay. “But what a drab life it would be, if that was all we had.” He turned to Gordon. “As for me, I’ll take your daughter’s cooking over my own any time.”
The old man nodded. “You may have a point there, Morgan. In fact, I’d take my daughter’s cooking over all the gold at Holyrood House.”
At Morgan’s arched brow, the old man flushed, then added, “Well, maybe not all the gold. But I’d take my Lindsay over the queen.”
“Aye. You’ll get no argument out of me on that, Gordon.”
The two men shared a knowing smile.
As the platter was passed, and they filled their plates, Lindsay glanced around at her family, marveling at the lightness of all their moods. Because of Morgan MacLaren, they had enough to fill their stomachs for another day. And because of him her father had something even more important. A reason to smile.
After supper, the two men took themselves off to the fire to smoke and sip a bit of ale, while Lindsay and Gwen washed the dishes. By the time darkness had settled over the land, the children and their grandfather were climbing the ladder to the loft.
Lindsay picked up her mending and settled herself in front of the fire. She looked up to see Morgan rubbing his shoulder.
“Are you in pain?”
“Just a bit.” He tried to smile, but she could see the truth in his eyes.
“You did too much today. Hunting, skinning, cooking and baking. You’ve just come back from the edge of death, Morgan MacLaren. You should be resting, not working.”
“I can’t abide being idle. Besides, I’ll feel better in the morning.”
“Not unless you let me apply my ointment.” She set aside her mending and walked away. Minutes later she returned with a basket of dried herbs, and tossed a fur on the floor.
“You’ll need to bare your shoulder and lie here in front of the fire,” she said.
He knew it was fruitless to argue, so he did as she bade. Taking the garment from his shoulders, he tied it around his waist and lay, facedown, on the fur.
Lindsay knelt beside him and began by rubbing a small amount of the ointment on his skin. At the first contact, she felt a surge of warmth, and cautioned herself to think of him, not
as a man, but as that wounded warrior she’d first encountered.
It was, she realized, no longer possible. There was no way she could forget the fact that he had kissed her, and stirred feelings in her that she hadn’t even known she possessed. Nor, she admitted, did she ever want to forget such a wondrous thing.
As her fingers kneaded his flesh he couldn’t suppress the sigh that escaped his lips. “Ah, Lindsay, you’ve an angel’s touch.”
“You may soon regret those words.” Despite her turmoil, she couldn’t help laughing. “For I’m told that this burns before it soothes.”
“I care not what the ointment does. But feeling your fingers on my flesh is the sweetest thing I’ve ever known.”
She went very still, wondering if he could read her mind. She was just thinking that very thing. The feel of his hard, muscled flesh beneath her fingertips was unlike anything she’d ever experienced. She wanted to touch him everywhere. And, if truth be told, she wanted him to do the same to her.
“What is it, Lindsay? Why did you stop?” He rolled over and caught sight of the flush on her cheeks. He instantly knelt up and caught her hands in both of his. “I’m sorry. Is it the sight of all my battle scars? I know they offend you.”
“Nay.” Held fast, all she could do was lower her head to hide her shame. “I spoke those words in anger. What I said was a lie. Your scars don’t offend me, Morgan. In fact, nothing about you offends me.” She lifted her face, her eyes bright with unshed tears. “Oh, Morgan. I’m so sorry I said such a hateful thing.”
“Hush now.” Warmed by her admission, he drew her into the circle of his arms and gathered her against his chest.
“You need have no regret, my lady. We all say things in anger we don’t really mean.”
She gave a little sigh. “When you call me ‘my lady,’ it makes me feel like someone fine and special.”
“You are special, Lindsay.” He pressed his lips to her hair. “You’re very special to me.”
Heat spiraled through her veins as his big hands moved across her shoulders, down her spine. Everywhere he touched her she could feel little sparks, igniting a fire deep inside. A fire that was spreading, growing, until she feared she would soon burst into flame.
She wanted to touch him the same way. To run her hands up his naked chest, around his neck, along his arms and shoulders. But she was afraid. And too shy. And so she just knelt, stiff and unyielding, afraid that if she dared to move, her bones would shatter like fragile glass.
“I have to—” he framed her face and stared down into her eyes with such intensity, she felt a flash of fear “—risk your temper again.”
“My temper?”
He smiled. Half amused. Half dangerous. “I’m going to kiss you again.”
“Oh.” She sighed.
He paused for the space of a heartbeat. “Is that approval?”
“Aye. I guess it is. I don’t mind, Morgan.”
His smile grew. “That’s good to know.”
And then there was no need of words as he lowered his mouth to hers and kissed her with such gentleness, such sweetness, she felt her heart flutter inside her breast like a caged bird. With his mouth still on hers he drew her closer. It seemed the most natural thing in the world to wrap her arms around his neck and cling as the kiss seemed to spin on and on.
The floor actually seemed to tilt beneath her. She could see lovely colors behind her closed eyes. Outside, the sound of a night bird’s call became a beautiful love song. The hiss and snap of the fire seemed to fade away. As did the sound of her father’s snoring from the loft. In fact, the whole world had suddenly slipped away. She was alone in the universe, with just this man. Lost in the wonder of his kiss.
When Morgan finally lifted his head he took in deep draughts of air and held her a little away.
Her eyes remained closed for a moment longer, before the lids fluttered open. “Why…” She struggled for breath. “Why did you stop?”
She was so open. So honest. He could see, by the flush on her cheeks, and the confusion in her eyes, that he was moving too fast. Taking her too far. She was an innocent, and he was taking advantage of the situation. “You need your sleep, Lindsay. And I…” He stood, drawing her up with him. “I need to go for a walk.”
“A walk? But it’s dark outside. And cold.”
“Aye.” His voice was unusually gruff. “Exactly what I need right now.”
“But I want you to kiss me again.”
He nearly groaned with frustration as he turned her around and pointed her toward the ladder. “Go to bed now. And let me get some air.”
Stunned, confused, she walked slowly across the room. At the foot of the ladder she paused and turned.
Morgan picked up the fur and tossed it over his shoulders, then stalked to the door. Without a backward glance he let himself out.
Disappointed, Lindsay plopped down on the lowest rung of the ladder and propped her chin in her hands. What had she done wrong? Was it the way she’d kissed him? Or maybe the fact that she hadn’t touched him the way he touched her.
Oh, if only she knew more about such things. But the struggle for survival had left little time for anything else, like courting.
Courting. Her frown deepened. She knew what men and women did after courting. They mated. But that was not the same, she thought. From the whispers she’d heard from other women, mating never seemed something that would be pleasurable, but rather something a woman would tolerate in order to be taken care of. From what she had observed, most women in the Highlands took a husband for practical reasons. It was the man who hunted, who provided food and shelter, and protected the woman from attack by the outlanders.
She thought about Heywood Drummond, who had made it plain that he wished to take her for his wife. But there were rumors that he’d beaten his first wife into the grave. Because she had seen signs of his cruelty, Lindsay had managed, thus far, to hold him at arm’s length.
Morgan MacLaren was another matter altogether. He was unlike any man she’d ever met. Strong, as any warrior should be. Yet tender with her, and with her family. And when he touched her, she found herself thinking about the strangest things. About lying with him, and letting him kiss her all over. Even mating. Though she was certain it would be distasteful.
Or would it?
She closed her eyes and groaned at the thoughts that were filling her mind. What a fool she must seem to him. What a silly, useless fool.
Morgan walked through the woods to the edge of the stream, where he stood staring up into the midnight sky. He’d pushed himself to the limit today, and now he was weary and aching. He ought to be sleeping like a bairn. Instead he was here, waging a battle with himself. And he couldn’t return to the hut until he was certain Lindsay was asleep.
He wanted her. And the wanting was an ache worse than any wound he’d ever received on the field of battle.
He’d never known a lass so sweet. So innocent. But her innocence was the reason he was out here, instead of inside a warm hut, locked in her embrace.
He had no right to a maiden’s honor. It was the first lesson he’d learned at his father’s knee. In order to be laird, a man must have the respect of his people. And that meant living an honorable life, not just for a short time, but for all time.
He’d tried to live up to his father’s code of honor. And until now, he’d never been unduly tempted. But Lindsay Douglas might yet prove to be his undoing.
When he’d counted hundreds of stars, and filled his lungs with cold night air until it burned like icy needles, he finally turned back. He entered the hut and made his way by the light of the glowing coals toward his pallet in the corner.
But even in sleep there was no escape. The flame-haired temptress was there in his dreams, smiling, taunting, teasing. He awoke with a start, damp with sweat, and fully aroused.
Chapter Six
Lindsay descended the ladder and glanced toward the pallet in the corner. It had already been carefully folded and set as
ide. The sight of it caused her heart to lurch with sudden fear. She turned away and began to prepare their morning gruel.
Minutes later Brock and Gwen, shivering in the early morning chill, hurried down to dress in front of the fire.
“Where’s Morgan?” the lad asked.
Lindsay shrugged. “Maybe he left.” Not that she’d blame him. It wasn’t something she wanted to face, but she had to be honest. “Now that his wounds are healing, he’ll want to seek his own kind, Brock. Warriors, with whom he can drink in the nearby taverns.” Drink and wench. That thought brought a sudden pain around her heart. She had probably driven him away with her foolish ignorance. What did he need with a woman who didn’t know a woman’s ways? Why would he want to be part of this miserable existence?
“Leave without a word?” The lad shook his head firmly. “Morgan wouldn’t do that.”
Lindsay glanced at her nephew. “So, now you’ve become Morgan MacLaren’s champion?”
“Aye. I know him, Lindsay. He wouldn’t just walk away.”
She decided it was best to let the lad down gently. “A worldly man like Morgan MacLaren, a man who has actually been to Edinburgh and has seen the queen, doesn’t belong in a hovel.”
“What’s that I hear?” Her father’s voice thundered from the loft. “I’ll not have you talk that way about our home.” He climbed stiffly down the ladder.
Lindsay ducked her head, ashamed at having given voice to such an unworthy thought.
Just then the door was thrown open, and Morgan stepped inside, carrying an armload of firewood.
“You see?” Brock’s tone was high with triumph. “I told you he wouldn’t leave without saying goodbye.”
“Who’s leaving?” Morgan deposited the wood beside the fireplace, then straightened and wiped his hands on his plaid.
“Lindsay thought you had left us.”
He glanced across the room, to see her turn away abruptly. But not before he caught sight of the flush on her cheeks.
“I’m not going anywhere, Brock.” He tousled the lad’s hair before walking toward the table. “At least not before I have another chance to sample your aunt’s cooking.”