Chapter 5 #2
She was stiff, her fingers digging into his.
He coaxed her mouth to softness, tasting the salty sweetness of her, running his tongue lightly along the generous curve of her lower lip.
Her breath exhaled on a sigh, her lips opening to him, kissing him back.
He released her hands to put his arms around her, to press her closer.
Her hands came up to his shoulders, as if to push him away, but she didn’t.
She was warm and soft in his arms, and tasted like heaven.
He didn’t know what demon had prodded him into demanding a kiss, but he was glad for it.
“My lord,” she breathed, exerting the slightest pressure against his chest. “I—”
He took advantage of her open mouth to kiss her deeper, sliding his tongue between her lips. Her tongue met his with no hesitation, and need closed around him like a fist, hot and urgent. He wanted more. He wanted her in his bed.
Her hands slid up to his shoulders, where they clutched the fabric of his shirt near his collar. Her breath came fast and fluttery, her skin gloriously warm and flushed to his palms. He was quickly descending into the realm of mindless lust, and she offered him no resistance.
What was he planning? To bed her, obviously, but then?
She was no village whore, or even a widow in need of companionship.
This was a gentlewoman betrothed to someone else.
He was asking for trouble. These thoughts were like a trickle of freezing water down his spine, returning him to sanity.
He set her away while he still could. She blinked up at him with wide-eyed confusion.
He made himself cross the room to put some distance between them, then he grabbed his trews off the bench beside the bed.
All his clothes from the day before were folded and neat.
“We’ll leave tonight, after dark. I suggest you get some sleep.
” His voice was gruff, making him sound bad-tempered—which in fact he was.
He was damned uncomfortable now. He threw off the plaid he’d wrapped around himself and pulled on his trews, grimacing in discomfort as he laced them.
When he turned back to her, she looked away quickly, staring into the fire with intense interest.
“Come, let’s find you somewhere to sleep.”
Rose’s heart still thundered against her ribs as she stood alone in the cold room William had deposited her in.
She gazed around her. The room was sparsely furnished, but the bed was sturdy and soft, and the woolen blankets and furs would keep her warm.
She had a large fireplace, cold now, and a tall clothespress.
A brass chamber pot peeked out from under the bed.
She propelled herself to the chest at the end of the bed and sank down onto it, folding her body over her legs so her forehead pressed into her knees.
With great clarity she could recall the last time she’d been so shaken.
It had been an unrest of a very different sort, but it had still left her both numb and strangely sensitive.
She put that from her mind. She was closer than ever to resolving what had happened all those years ago—at least as best as it ever could be. Time to focus on the present.
The wizard of Strathwick had agreed to heal her father.
And then he had kissed her senseless. And then shown her to a bedchamber as if nothing had happened.
It was all very strange. Had it been Dumhnull who’d kissed her, she would have felt differently, she realized—which was absurd.
Dumhnull and Strathwick were the same person.
But it was a matter of birth. What could Strathwick have meant by kissing her in such a manner?
—for it had not been chaste at all. It had been slow and hot, his hands, his body…
She covered her flushed cheeks with her palms. It had been a very long time since a man had roused such a passion in her.
But she was older now, smarter. She could handle Strathwick and his advances. She was no silly outraged female. It was just a kiss. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t been kissed before. The important thing was that he’d finally said yes, he would come to Lochlaire and heal her father.
Someone knocked at the door. Rose gripped the sides of the chest, wondering if it was Strathwick, come back to finish what they’d started in his chambers. Her heart resumed its frenzied pace.
“Aye?” she called cautiously.
The door opened and, to Rose’s embarrassment, the woman she’d held hostage in the courtyard entered, shoulders hunched, as if she expected to be bludgeoned.
A young man bearing an armful of peat blocks followed, staring threateningly at her, as if daring her to attack the woman now.
As Rose sat in mortified silence, her fingers digging into the wooden chest, the lad arranged the peat in the fireplace and the woman set a pitcher and ewer on the hearth.
“Miss?” Rose said, when the woman would not look at her.
She glanced suspiciously at Rose and moved closer to the lad. She was a very pretty lass, with big blue eyes and bright blond hair pulled back into a thick braid.
“What is your name?” Rose asked, smiling politely.
“Betty.”
“Betty—forgive me for what happened earlier. I vow I would not have hurt you…but I was desperate.” When the woman only stared at her, wide-eyed, Rose stood and took a step toward her. Betty backed away, and the lad at the fireplace straightened to give Rose a warning look.
“My father is dying…I’ve been writing Lord Strathwick letters. Then I came here and he wouldn’t see me. I didn’t know what else to do. Please forgive me?”
Betty’s suspicion softened as Rose spoke. She smiled slightly, showing good teeth. “Aye. I ken how it is. People come all the time and yell and scream for Strathwick to aid them. But they’ve never made it in—and it was all my fault.”
“I hope I didn’t cause you any trouble?”
Betty shook her head, and the lad returned to his work.
Rose took a step closer, and this time the servant didn’t retreat. “Your name is Betty? Are you from the village? Allister’s wife?”
Her face fell and she looked at the floor, nodding. “They told you about me?”
“Tadhg did.”
Betty looked up, her expression fierce. “They’re wrong, all of them. Lord Strathwick is not evil. And I am not a witch.”
“I know,” Rose said gently. “But this is a bad time, and people frighten easily. What happened? Lord Strathwick healed you?”
“Oh, aye, miss, he did. I don’t remember it, ken?
But I remember Allister axing me. I remember the pain and the fever when it began to fester.
Then I remember naught else but nightmares.
I would have died. Then it was all gone.
I opened my eyes, and there was my lord’s fair face, gazing down at me. ”
“Did he say anything?”
She shook her head. “No. When Allister saw I was awake, he grabbed me and started bawling like a bairn. When I was able to breathe again, my lord was gone.” She smiled shyly, looking down at her feet. “I’ve been able to thank him since I’ve been here, though.”
I’m sure you have. The thought pricked her when it shouldn’t have.
She didn’t like imagining Strathwick embracing Betty as he had her—but it was good that she did imagine it, she told herself firmly.
That was the way of things. He wasn’t Dumhnull, and he hadn’t kissed her for any reason but lust and that she’d been available.
Rose wondered if he was married. Not that it mattered; lords and chiefs accosted female servants with or without a spouse.
“What happened in the village?” she asked, as much to stop the troubling direction of her thoughts as from curiosity. “Tadhg seems to believe you killed someone’s chickens.”
Betty shook her head, her shoulders slumping dejectedly.
“I didn’t! Gannon left those poor beasts out in all sorts of weather.
All I said was, ’Gannon, you must let those poor chickens in your house when it snows, or build them a shelter.
Otherwise they’re going to die come winter.
’ When the snow came, most of the chickens managed to get under the cottage, but two couldn’t fit and they froze.
He said I killed them with the evil eye. ”
The story chilled Rose, so similar to others she’d heard. It took so little to incite people these days.
“Do you believe me, miss?” Betty asked anxiously, her hands twisting in her skirt.
Rose gave her a reassuring smile. “Oh, aye.”
The lad finished with the fire. Rose moved closer to the blaze. Pale smoke wafted from the fireplace, and the sweet, acrid scent of burning peat filled the air. Rose coughed, but she welcomed the warmth, rubbing her hands over her arms.
“Your leave?” the lad asked, kinder now that Rose and Betty had made amends.
Rose nodded, and Betty followed him out.
Rose sat before the fire, warming herself and thinking about Betty’s tale and the caution with which Strathwick left his castle.
Men had come for him, to lynch him, and that had been after he’d healed a child—brought her back from the edge of death.
She unbraided her hair and combed her fingers through it, thinking about Strathwick, the miracle he’d performed, and how it had debilitated him afterward.
That was why they were leaving at night, to avoid being seen and mobbed.
What a dismal existence, to be hated and hunted by your own people.
Even when her life on Skye had been naught but misery, she’d never feared for her life.