“Your dog?” He’d started pacing, but stopped now, turning to look at her. He sounded puzzled.
She wasn’t surprised. “In a way he brought me to this place, aye. Like as not, I’d still be at Drumbell if he hadn’t died.”
Uncomfortable beneath his gaze, she placed the basket of broken pottery beside the door and then took a heather broom from the shadows, proceeding to sweep her floor. She needed to busy herself, a task to occupy her hands lest they reach for him, trying to claim what she had no right to desire so fiercely.
“It was Clyde’s loss that turned the villagers of Drumbell against me.” She risked a glance at the big warrior, her breath catching to see he’d removed his plaid and was pulling off his mail shirt.
Praise the powers, he’d sought a darkened corner to do so, and that he’d turned his back. She didn’t want to see his naked chest, hoped he’d not strip down beyond the tunic she knew he’d be wearing beneath the mail.
“It was known how much I loved the dog.” She spoke quickly now, nerves making her rush. “Some claimed that if I had the gift everyone believed I could’ve worked a wonder to keep my pet alive.
“But he was old, it was his time.” She brushed along the wall’s edge, not really seeing what she was doing for the heat swimming in her eyes. It’d been long since she’d spoken of Clyde. It hurt to do so. Yet for some reason, she wanted this man to know how things stood with her. Why she’d come to this bleak, sequestered place.
She glanced at him again, found he was frowning at Troll. He’d folded and placed his plaid atop one of the baskets that held her clothes, and his steel-linked hauberk glimmered on the floor beside the basket.
Blessedly, he still wore his tunic.
The linen shirt hugged his powerful muscles, showing her every hard-hewn muscle of his chest and arms. She swallowed, wishing she hadn’t seen, but torchlight threw flickering shadows on the wall behind him, limning his strapping body, the pale light leaving no secrets. His broken sword was propped nearby, the halved blade reminding her why he was here, and of fates worse than hers.
But the dance of light and shadow also spilled across her bed of furs, and seeing him standing so close to her sleeping place made her pulse quicken, despite the grim truths she meant to tell him.
She wanted him badly, gods help her.
She tore her gaze away before he caught her looking at him. It was madness to do so. Everything about him proved a danger for her. She could even see a dusting of dark hair shadowed beneath the tunic’s cloth and her fingers ached to trace the arrowing pattern from his chest lower, straight down to his groin. Her blood heated, her belly fluttering. Determined to squelch such thoughts, she plied the broom with renewed vigor, whisking around the smooth rocks that circled her hearthstone, then moving on to poke the heather branches at the three legs of her stool.
If need be, she’d sweep all night, even cleaning the lower reaches of the broch’s circular walls.
“It was cruel for anyone to scold you for no’ saving a dog you loved.” Gare’s voice came from across the room. He sounded angry, which didn’t surprise her.
He was clearly a good man.
A landed noble, a chieftain and great warlord who cared about honor and believed that no one, whatever their station or what they may have done, should be treated unjustly.
Lady Beatrice Burnett was a lucky woman.
Mairi resented her greatly, which made her less goodly than her guest.
Sure her desire for him was earning her a place in hell, she raised the broom and took a few hefty swats at the leather door-curtain.
“I would have done anything to keep Clyde alive, given all I had, though the gods know it wasn’t much.” She could hardly see now, took blind swipes at the hanging. “My cottage at Drumbell was small, only slightly larger than this broch, though I’d taken care to make it a cozy and comfortable home. It was mine, inherited from my late aunt and uncle who raised me. Even loving my home as I did, especially my garden, I’d have surrendered it gladly to help Clyde.
“But there was nothing I could do.” She felt chilled, hard memories making her heart pound wildly. “I had no bat toes or newt’s eyes to mix into a potion for Clyde’s achy hips, no magical herb to restore his labored breathing. No powers to cast a miracle.” She paused, drew a long shaky breath. “I’ve told you I am as ordinary as anyone else, certainly unable to bring the dead back to life, or keep an old and weary dog from dying.
“You will have done what you could.” The rasp of a buckle warned that he was removing his sword belt.
“I did.” She closed her eyes, willed them to stop leaking.
Behind her, a dull thunk on the floor proved she’d guessed correctly about his belt. Her eyes snapped open, but she wasn’t about to turn around.
“Voices were raised against me, fingers pointed.” She moved down the wall, gripping the broom tighter, swishing the heather branches at nothing. “Many railed that I’d deceived them, that I’d boasted of powers I didn’t have. Yet I’d always argued the opposite, insisting I was only a village lass, capable of no more than knowing the right herbs to brew a tisane for a sore throat, or a sleeping draught.
“I tended my garden for a love of green, growing things. The feel of good, damp earth beneath my fingers, and the loamy richness I loved to breathe in.” She blinked hard, not wanting to swipe at her eyes again. “I enjoyed the harvest, sharing its bounty, helping those in need if I could.” She pressed a hand to her breast, inhaled deep. “Never did I use my garden to craft spells or harm folk.”
“That I know, lady.” He spoke again from the other side of the broch, his voice tight, even roughened.
“They called me a witch, saying Clyde had been my helpmate and without him, I was nothing. That I’d lost my powers with his death.” She stopped, setting the broom against the wall so she could dab her eyes with the edge of her shawl. “They wanted to stone and burn me. They-”
“They were fools.”
Mairi swung around, surprised to find him right behind her. How had he crossed the room so silently? For such a big, tall man, he moved with the devil’s own stealth. He also looked as dangerous.
“Lackwits the lot of them, and you, lady, are anything but ordinary. You are a prize beyond telling.” He pulled her into his arms, crushing her against him as he rained a storm of kisses on her face and her throat. Then he groaned and slanted his mouth over hers, thrusting his tongue inside and kissing her almost savagely.
Mairi clung to him, sliding her arms up and around him, gripping his broad, strong shoulders as she welcomed the onslaught. She twined her fingers in his hair, drawing him closer, her entire body melting when she felt the hard ridge of his arousal nudging her belly. Even through their clothes, she could feel the heat of him, the corresponding warmth at the center of her crying out to know him intimately.
It was madness.
Yet she couldn’t stop kissing him, feared she’d die if he tore his lips from hers.
Some crazed, wild-hearted part of her wanted to beg him to choose her, to forget Lady Beatrice and be hers. Staying with her at Dunwynde or taking her with him wherever he wished to go. As long as they heeded the powerful pull between them, she didn’t care.
Never had she been so roused from a mere kiss. Yet Gare kissed her unlike any other man she’d ever known. He devoured and drank of her, branding his passion on her as surely as if he’d seared his name across her heart. Her entire body quivered, the longing for more almost unbearable. He kissed as she’d known he would the moment she first saw him, and worse, as if he’d already claimed her lips a thousand times or more, and was only coming home.
That rightness terrified her, knowing he’d leave on the morrow.
She started to pull back, but he broke away first, his breath coming hard and fast. He shoved his hands through his hair, the look on his face a knife in her heart.
“By the powers, lass, I didnae mean for that to happen.” He stared at her, shaking his head as if he c
ouldn’t believe what had come over him.
“My apologies.” He sounded sincere, but distant, as if he’d already pushed her from his heart. “I cannae say what came o’er me. There is just something about you. My wits are scattered since entering this glen. I am no’ myself here.” He paused, once again shaking his head. “It willnae happen again, you have my word.”
“It was only a kiss.” You branded me for all my days, perhaps beyond. “No harm came of it, and I enjoyed it, so you needn’t worry you shocked or tainted me.” Lifting her chin, she met his gaze, her own as proud as she could make it. “I’ve told you that I am not a lady. What I am is a woman and I have known a man’s touch. My blood runs thick and strong, and I am not shamed by passion.”
“You are a great lady, Mairi MacKenzie.” His voice was deep, still roughened by their kiss. “Any man would be proud to call you his own.”
I do not want any man. I wanted you.
She bestowed her coolest smile on him, prayed to all the gods, those known to her and any she hadn’t yet heard of, that he couldn’t see how she was breaking inside, bleeding from the heart, her soul weeping.
She’d loved before, or thought she had. Twice, if she counted her young husband-to-be, a fine farm lad taken from her by death before they could speak their vows. And her more recent lover, a lying, conniving sixth son of an impoverished knight who’d abandoned her to wed the daughter of a well-pursed Inverness merchant.
Now she questioned how she’d felt about either.
For regardless of Gare not wanting her, no matter what the emotion inside her truly was, she’d never known such a powerful, all-consuming draw to someone. It went beyond craving, yearning, and desire.
How foolish to think she could hold him so tightly that he wouldn’t be able to let go?
That he wouldn’t want to?
That their kiss had slammed into him with the same ferocity as it had her.
“You, sir, should be glad we kissed so heatedly.” She flipped back her braid, silently thanking her every MacKenzie forebear for the steel in her backbone, the strength in her heart. “There can now be no doubt that Lady Beatrice will be a most pleasured bride.”
“Lass…” His voice held a note of sorrow, the anguish saying either how much he regretted kissing her, or that he longed to do so again, but wouldn’t.
She couldn’t tell.
When he didn’t move, made no attempt to reach for her, the answer was clear.
So be it.
Mairi hitched her skirts and brushed past him, going to a broad stone ledge on the wall where she kept a store of uisge beatha. She poured two measures, knocking back her own with a swiftness that would’ve made her chieftain proud. She carried Gare’s portion across the room, her chin high as she handed him the small cup.
“Drink, and then take your night’s rest,” she said, nodding as he tossed back the fiery spirits. “I want you gone before the morning light burns away the last of the glen mist.”
Turning, she went to her three storage baskets and lifted the lid on the largest, retrieving several clean, neatly folded woolen blankets. She placed two on another basket, and then shook out one, intending to spread it on the floor near the hearthstone.
But Gare was already at the door, his plaid draped over an arm.
“You needn’t make me a pallet, Mairi MacKenzie,” he said, guessing her intent. “I’ll sleep outside your door, wrapped in my plaid.”
“Wait, it’s a cold night, and the mist is damp…” She started forward, ridiculous guilt sluicing her. But he’d already stepped out into the darkness, the door’s leather curtain falling shut behind him.
Mairi sank onto the floor, only realizing that she’d sat beside his dog when the great furry beast stirred, resting his head in her lap.
He resumed snoring at once, falling back into a deep canine sleep, and seeming so comfortable she couldn’t bear to disturb him.
Nor did she want to, for Troll had also stolen his way into her heart.
“Oh, dear.” She took a deep shuddery breath, gently stroked the scruffy fur between the dog’s ears. “Whatever am I going to do, Troll?”
He didn’t answer.
Though she would’ve sworn he cracked an eye, giving her a quick look of great satisfaction.
Chapter Six
“That should do you well, my lady.” Gare watched Mairi carefully as he stepped back from the repaired table, looking to see if even the slightest change of expression flickered across her cool, closed face. But there was nothing. Only the same distant politeness she’d shown him since sunrise, when he’d collected an ax from her to fell a good, sturdy branch from the nearby birch wood.
“I am grateful.” She nodded, her gaze on the new table leg. “It was good of you to fix it.”
“I’d have preferred oak, but the table stands steady. It willnae tilt when you use it.” He wanted to see her at his high table at Blackrock, claiming pride of place beside him at that huge, magnificently crafted masterpiece, the as yet unoccupied lady-of-the-castle’s chair just as richly engraved and beautiful.
He felt a muscle jerk in his jaw.
She shouldn’t eat at rough-planked cast-off from a shepherd’s hut.
Worse, he hated that the repaired table would always remind her of their ill-fated meeting. The mad, wild and wondrous kiss they’d shared. A kiss that had carved deep wounds into the souls and hearts of them both, he knew. He could see the pain all over her, in her eyes, her cool, shuttered face, and in the overly polite tone of her voice.
She loathed him.
And she had every reason.
She’d gone to the broch’s door where the leather curtain was latched back, giving a fine view down the whole of the narrow, steep-side glen. “The mist will be lifting soon.”
“So it will.” Gare followed her gaze, speaking as levelly as he could. “Troll and I will be away anon. I gave you my word.”
She inclined her head again, her glossy black braid slipping over her shoulder to hang to her waist. “I am glad you remember.”
“I aye keep my word.” He did, even when it didn’t please him.
Feeling that way now, he stared past her into the glen, too aware of the temptation she presented. He felt a fierce urge to undo her braid, to let her gleaming black hair stream across the back of his hand, spill through his fingers. His need was so great, so strong, he didn’t dare look at her.
The glen was safer.
It beckoned as the start of his journey home. He couldn’t wait much longer either.
It wasn’t a sun-bright morning, but enough light slanted through the clouds to chase the chill mist and drizzle that usually blew through the Glen of Winds. For two pins, he would’ve sworn the gods were conspiring against him, snatching away the mist tendrils at speed, their anger at him so great that they stole his last excuse to stay on in the sweet, soothing, and powerfully seductive presence of a raven-haired, sapphire-eyed vixen named Mairi MacKenzie.
A woman he had no right to have touched, much less kissed.
Gods help him, he wanted more.
He burned to scoop her into his arms, carry her to her bed of furs, toss up her skirts and spread her legs, showing her with all his passion and need how much he desired her. Far gone as he was, he’d also bare his heart to her, confess that he’d never felt so strongly for another woman in all his life. That he suspected he could, or perhaps already was falling in love with her. He did know he wanted her safe and that he couldn’t stand the thought of leaving her in this empty, rockbound gorge.
In truth, Kintail’s highest peaks hugged the valley floor so tightly, the Glen of Winds could hardly be called a glen.
For a crazy-mad moment, he considered telling her that he wished to show her true glens. The broad sweeping beauties that filled Scotland’s vast northeast where he made his home.
She’d love Blackrock, he was sure.
But he said nothing.
Lady Beatrice Burnett’s quiet face hovered before him, a
s did Robert Stewart’s writ. The parchment damned him, its wax seal and the bold, slashing signature of the King’s Lieutenant – and his own - making it impossible for him to heed his heart, to abandon plans forged to safeguard Scotland’s oft-times most troublesome and perilous territories.
With privilege came duty, and he’d sworn oaths to uphold his.
Feeling despicable, however untarnished his knightly honor, he glanced to where Troll had slept away the morning beside Mairi’s peat fire.
His good friend wasn’t there now.
And his bowl of morning stew hadn’t been touched.
Gare frowned, pulled on his beard. Troll ate well and with gusto, never missing a meal. He was also not shy about begging for more. There could be no good reason for the dog’s lack of appetite.
“Have you seen Troll?” He joined Mairi at the door where she’d already placed a bulky linen sack of victuals for his leave-taking. “He was there by your fire last I looked and he hasn’t eaten his breakfast.”
“I saw.” She glanced at the bowl, piled so high with beefy stew. “I thought he doesn’t care to eat so early in the day.
“Troll would ne’er stop eating if I allowed. He doesnae care when he eats, only that he does.”
“Clyde was the same.” Her face softened, the sadness in her eyes, spearing Gare’s heart.
“I am sorry you lost him.” He was, and he didn’t know what else to say.
He wanted to touch her cheek, tuck that stray hair behind her ear, then cradle her face in his hands and kiss her again, long, deep, and slowly this time. It was a need that hardened him at once, his unchained desire for her making clear how urgently he needed to be gone.
“Any guess where he’s gone?” he asked again, glancing into the broch’s shadows.
Changing the direction of his mind before his need became obvious.
“Nae.” She stepped back, drawing her shawl closer about her shoulders, putting distance between them. “Perhaps he needed to go out?”
The word ‘go’ apparently drew him, for Troll appeared at once, coming through the door opening without a glance for either of them. He also ignored his food, walking past the bowl to the farthest, darkest corner of the broch where he circled three times and then plopped onto the cold, earthen floor, clearly wanting to sleep.
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