Chapter 11 A Moment of Madness
THE FIRE BURNED low in the hearth.
Craeg sat slumped in his chair, staring at the glowing embers. Faolan lay at his feet, the wolfhound’s brindled head resting on his boots. The castle was quiet at this time—the witching hour—when the world seemed suspended between night and dawn.
He should have been resting. He couldn’t retire to his bedchamber next door though; he couldn’t sleep. He kept seeing his mother’s flushed face and hearing the wet wheeze of her breathing. What if Hazel’s remedies didn’t work? What if the fever consumed her despite everything?
His hands curled into fists on the arms of the chair.
A soft knock at the door made Faolan lift his head.
“Enter,” Craeg called.
The door opened, and Hazel slipped inside. Fatigue etched her face. There were smudges beneath her eyes, and her black hair had escaped its braid in wild tendrils. But her expression was resolute.
“I thought ye’d want to know,” she said. “Lady Liza’s fever is easing.”
Relief hit him like a physical blow. “Truly?”
“Aye. Her breathing is easier, and the flush has left her cheeks.” Hazel’s lips curved into a weary smile. “She’s not out of danger yet … but she’s responding well.”
Craeg stood abruptly, crossing to where wine sat on the side table. “Wine?” He didn’t know about Hazel, but he could do with some.
“Aye … thank ye.”
“No,” he said firmly. “Thank ye, Hazel.”
He poured them both wine and handed Hazel her cup. Settling back into his chair, he gestured to the one opposite. “Please. Sit. Ye must be exhausted.”
“I am,” she admitted, sinking into the seat. She took a sip of wine and closed her eyes briefly, savoring it. “Lady Liza is sleeping. Rankin is with her now … but I will check in on her again in a bit.”
Faolan, who’d been watching Hazel with keen interest, padded over to her. The wolfhound nuzzled her hand, his tail wagging.
“Hello, lad.” Hazel set down her cup and patted the dog’s head.
Watching them, Craeg felt something warm unfurl in his chest. The firelight caught Hazel’s hair, turning it as black as pitch. It also burnished her smooth pale skin and darkened her eyes.
She was beautiful.
The thought ambushed him, stealing his breath. He stiffened then, kicking himself. Where had that come from?
“Maclean?” She was looking at him now, concerned. “Are ye well?”
“Aye. Just … relieved.” He looked away and took a gulp of wine, marshalling himself. “I was afraid we’d lose Ma.”
“I know.” Hazel’s expression softened. “But she’s tough.”
Despite everything, Craeg huffed a laugh. “Ye have no idea.” His mood sobered then. “My mother has overcome much over the years.”
Hazel nodded. He wasn’t surprised she knew the tale—everyone in Moy and Lochbuie did—of how his father had tried to murder his mother. Liza had rallied though, and she’d struck back. Her revenge had been swift and brutal. Leod had underestimated her.
“Life must have been hard back then … for ye both,” she said. “To live under the control of such a bully.”
Craeg nodded, even as his belly soured. “All my memories of my father are harsh ones,” he admitted, pulling a face.
He broke eye contact once more, his gaze settling on the dancing flames in the hearth.
“On the morning he tied Ma up and took her out to sea, he knocked me across the room for daring to weep over a dead puppy … after he’d drowned it. ”
Hazel sucked in a sharp breath. “How old were ye?”
“Five. It’s one of my first memories.”
He glanced Hazel’s way once more, to find her gaze shadowed, her jaw tight. She was outraged on his behalf.
He offered her a tight smile, reassuring her that he’d long recovered from the incident.
But in reality, his father was a specter that followed him as doggedly as his own shadow.
“I was only wee … but after I discovered what he did to Ma, I made myself a promise. I vowed that I’d never be like that shit-bag.
I’d never turn on those I was supposed to love and protect. ”
A sickly sensation washed over him then. Vows were all well and good. But blood was blood—and sometimes, there was no escaping one’s legacy.
Hazel set aside her cup of wine. And then, to his surprise, she leaned forward, catching his hand in hers. “Ye need not worry about that, Maclean.”
He stilled. The warmth and firmness of her touch made heat pool low in his belly, chasing away good sense. All he could focus on was how near they were. Her presence sucked all the air from the solar.
Thinking his silence was due to false modesty, she went on, “Ye are kind. Noble-hearted.”
He swallowed. “Am I?” And then, slowly—giving her every chance to pull away—he lifted her hand to his lips and gently pressed his lips to her knuckles.
Her skin was soft and scented faintly with herbs.
A tremor ran through her, and when he looked up, her eyes were wide.
Startled. But there was something else in their depths—something that stirred him.
This woman. She chased away the darkness.
Even with his mother lying ill in a nearby chamber, Hazel’s presence anchored him.
When she was near, restlessness and frustration seeped away.
He’d marked the effect she had on him that evening, as he’d sat at her hearth.
But it grew stronger now. Impossible to ignore.
Awareness pulled tight between them before he added, “Then why do I ache to kiss ye right now?”
Hazel stared at where the chieftain held her hand. What the devil is he doing?
His lips were warm against her knuckles, his breath feathering across her skin. Her own breathing grew fast and shallow. She should pull away. Should stand and make some excuse to leave.
But she couldn’t move.
She wasn’t prepared for this. His gesture stunned her, as did the rawness of his reply.
She’d been aware of attraction sparking between them before now, yet had deliberately ignored it.
Engaging her chieftain in lively banter, teasing him—or telling him off as she had after the market—was all well and good.
But it ended there. Her life was muddled enough as it was, without her complicating it further.
Besides, the man was soon to be married.
She’d meant what she’d just said. He was kind. Gallant too. A decent man who would rule Moy well. Nonetheless, she hadn’t indulged in foolish fantasies. She’d had too much on her mind of late to daydream about the handsome young chieftain.
But now his dark eyes held hers, and in them, she saw a hunger that made her heart kick like a wild pony against her breastbone.
He awoke something in Hazel—something that made recklessness sweep over her like a king tide.
Slowly, deliberately, he turned her hand over. His thumb traced the delicate skin of her inner wrist, finding her racing pulse. Then he lowered his head and pressed his lips to her palm.
The kiss was soft. Sensual. His mouth moved against her skin in a way that made heat flood through her, turning her bones to water.
“Maclean,” she whispered. A warning. A plea. She didn’t know which.
“Craeg,” he murmured back. “Call me by my given name.”
Rising to his feet, he drew her up with him. For a heartbeat, they stood there, so close she could feel the heat radiating from his body. She couldn’t help it; she inhaled, bringing his scent deep into her lungs.
That was a mistake, for dizziness swept over her.
His hand came up to cup her cheek, his thumb brushing her jaw. “Tell me to stop,” he murmured. “Tell me to let ye go … and I will.”
She should. God help her, she should.
But the words wouldn’t come.
Lowering his head, Maclean—Craeg—captured her mouth with his.
The kiss was gentle at first. Questioning. His lips moved against hers with a tenderness that made her chest ache. Testing. Seeking permission.
Gasping against his mouth, her hands came up to clutch his shoulders. The solid strength of him beneath her palms made her belly clench.
Her response unleashed something in him. The kiss deepened, becoming hungrier. More demanding. His arm banded around her waist, pulling her flush against him. She pressed against the hard planes of his chest, where the thunder of his heart matched the frantic rhythm of her own.
Opening for him, she let him taste her. His tongue swept into her mouth, and a moan escaped her. She’d been kissed before, by Ewan. But she’d never melted in a man’s arms like this. Craeg tasted of wine and delicious male, and of the forbidden.
Threading her fingers into his hair, she kissed him back eagerly, tangling her tongue with his.
He made a low sound in his throat. His hand slid up her back and over her shoulders and neck, to cradle the back of her head, as he deepened the kiss further. His teeth grazed her lips, and she trembled against him.
She felt cherished. Desired. Like she was the only thing that mattered in his world.
But she wasn’t.
There was Isla Macquarie. His betrothal. His duty.
The thought splintered the enchantment, like an axe through pine.
Wrenching her mouth from his, Hazel stumbled back. Her breathing came in ragged gasps. Her lips felt swollen, sensitized. Her entire body thrummed with need, yet this time, she mastered it.
This time, she used her wits.
“No,” she breathed. “We must stop.”
Craeg watched her, his chest heaving. His eyes had deepened to black, his hair mussed from her fingers. His lips parted as he readied himself to speak.
“Don’t,” she cut him off, harsher than intended.
She became all too aware then of the gulf that separated them.
Suddenly embarrassed by her work-worn hands, stained from years of collecting and mashing herbs.
By her faded blue kirtle, patched and threadbare in places.
By her lack of refinement. She didn’t belong in this castle, or with this man.
And she wasn’t interested in becoming his mistress either.
She might be low born, but she deserved a future. A chance at happiness. A man who was free to give himself to her.
He took a step forward, but she raised her hands, warning him from getting any closer. “No,” she gasped. “It was a moment of madness. Ye were relieved to hear yer mother’s fever had broken … and I was giddy with exhaustion.”
Aye, that was it. The warmth of the fire. The wine. His proximity. Tiredness. They’d all lulled her into doing something foolish.
The heat in Craeg’s eyes banked. “I’m—”
“No,” she interrupted him once more. “Let’s forget this ever happened.” She backed up then. “I need to check on Lady Liza.”
Craeg stood in the center of his solar, his breathing ragged. Still staring at the door that had just thudded shut behind Hazel. The ghost of her taste lingered on his lips.
Lucifer’s prick. Had he no self-control?
Running a hand through his hair, he turned toward the fire. His lèine was rumpled where her hands had gripped it. His mouth felt bruised from the force of their kiss.
He could still feel the softness of her lithe body pressed against his; could hear the small sound she’d made when he’d deepened the kiss—half moan, half surrender.
The Lord smite him, he wanted to follow her out that door, pull her back into his arms, and kiss her until the rest of the world disappeared.
Her embrace had brought oblivion. For a few blessed instants, his mother wasn’t deathly ill, the walls of this castle weren’t closing in on him, and he wasn’t promised to another. Nor was he his father’s son.
Heat flooded through him then. His rod had turned to wood in his braies. Had she felt that too? Was that what had startled her?
He’d crossed a line. Where was his honor now?
It’s beginning, a cruel voice whispered to him. Yer tainted blood is showing itself.
His mother struggled to draw breath in a nearby chamber, and here he was, sticking his tongue down the herb-wife’s throat. He found Hazel attractive. Her company both calmed and invigorated him. But that was no excuse. He’d taken advantage.
Sinking into his chair, he growled the filthiest curse he knew. Faolan padded over and rested his chin on his knee, whining softly.
“Aye, I know,” Craeg muttered. “I’m a turd.”
Leaning back, he stared at the ceiling beams. The wood was dark with age and smoke, scarred by centuries of fires. Solid. Dependable. Unlike him.
“Shite,” he breathed. He needed to be on the mainland, at Murray’s side. It would be better, for everyone, if he spent the rest of his days swinging a blade at the English. Better if someone else ruled Moy.
Faolan whined again, pressing closer.
Craeg stroked the dog’s bristly head, taking comfort in the simple gesture. The fire popped, sending sparks up the chimney.
In twenty-one days—aye, he was counting them—he’d be standing on the steps before Lochbuie kirk beside Isla. He’d bed her, would watch her belly swell with his child. More bairns would follow. The years would pass, and they’d grow old together.
The image made him break out into a cold sweat, but it was the reminder he needed.
A reminder of the promise he’d made.