Chapter Six
Lachlan raised his tartan over his head, but nothing could keep the water out, nor could anything be done for Raonaid, who was seated in front of him, dressed in heavy silks and velvets that were quick to soak up the rain.
Her hair—piled on top of her head in a great mountain of curls and powder—tumbled onto her neck and shoulders in a hopeless avalanche of chaos.
Not unlike what was going on inside his body at the moment.
Obviously, if he wanted the curse lifted, he’d had no choice but to bring her with him, but it was no easy task to ride behind her, with his legs straddled around her sweet, warm bottom while she swayed back and forth in the saddle, rubbing up against the insides of his thighs.
He was in a constant state of arousal and was half-tempted to stop everything, dismount, and take her heartily up against some arbitrary tree, while the rain poured down all around them and drenched them both to the bone.
It seemed his careful plan to bully and coerce her was now a crashing wreck. She had turned the tables on him, and was now partly in control, after having set the rules in the library.
It was utter madness. He couldn’t imagine how it could be worse.
And then the wind began.
“I’m freezing!” Raonaid shouted.
He wrapped his tartan around her and held her close in the saddle to stave off the chill, while he hissed a few unsophisticated oaths inside his throbbing head.
“There’s a village not far from here,” he said in defeat. “We’ll go and dry out, and I’ll get us a second horse.”
He couldn’t ride with her anymore. Not like this.
She turned in the saddle to look at him through the driving rain. “Are you not worried the magistrate will catch us?”
“We won’t stay long.” He urged Goliath into a gallop.
By the time they rode into the village, splattering through puddles of muck in the street, they were both soaked and shivering.
“Take the pins out of your hair,” he said as they trotted to the stable and paused under the dripping overhang. “Let it fall loose, and give me your jewels.”
“But these belong to the Drumloch estate,” she replied, teeth chattering. “I am responsible for them, and they are worth a great deal.”
“If you walk in there wearing them, lass, I promise you’ll leave without them. Hand them over. I won’t let anything happen to them.”
She hesitated, then removed the pearl and emerald necklace and surrendered it. He dropped it into his sporran while she removed the earrings and handed them over as well.
Lachlan swung out of the saddle and held out his arms. She accepted his assistance without complaint, and a moment later was standing before him, letting down her hair.
It fell wetly onto her soft, ivory shoulders while rainwater glistened on her lips and forced her to blink away the silvery drops of moisture pooling on her eyelashes.
Ah, fook, but she is lovely.
It was too bloody much. He wanted to hit something.
“What now?” she asked.
He removed his hands from her tiny waist and let them fall to his sides. “We go inside and get warm.”
“Will we take a room?”
“Aye, but just until the storm passes.”
She turned away from him and began walking toward the front door while he handed Goliath over to a stable hand.
“We’ll use false names,” Lachlan told her as he caught up. “And it’s a good thing you look like a drowned cat. No one would take you for an heiress, looking as wretched as you do.”
It would help him if he could believe it.
“Thank you so very much for the generous compliment,” she curtly replied as he strode ahead to lead the way.
They entered the inn, which housed a taproom on the main floor, with dark paneling and hunting portraits on the walls. Lachlan took hold of Raonaid’s hand and approached the red-bearded barkeep.
“We need a room and a hot meal.”
The giant Lowlander waved a barmaid over.
“Abigail, take these soggy travelers upstairs and ask them what they want to eat.” He wiped a cloth over the bar.
“There are only two choices,” he added under his breath.
“Stew and stew.” He lifted his eyes and regarded Lachlan steadily.
“I’m Bill Anderson, and I’ll require payment in advance. ”
Lachlan dug into his sporran and dropped a handful of coins onto the bar.
The innkeeper’s bushy brows furrowed as he counted the money. “You plan to stay more than one night, stranger?”
“Nay, but I don’t want to be bothered. Do you understand my meaning?”
The innkeeper peered over Lachlan’s shoulder at Raonaid, who stood behind him, wringing the water out of her hair. It splattered onto the floor.
“Someone’s going to have to wipe that up,” Anderson said, sounding offended.
Lachlan tossed him another few coins. “Will that cover it?”
“Aye, friend, it will. Now go with Abigail up the stairs. She’ll see to all your needs.”
Lachlan tossed his hair out of his eyes and waved a hand at Raonaid, who followed him across the taproom.
Upstairs, the corridor was narrow and dimly lit by a single candle in a wall sconce. The floor slanted sharply to one side, but the roof was sound, which meant they would at least stay dry.
The barmaid slipped a key into the lock and took them into the spacious room. It had a window overlooking the stable yard below, and a fireplace opposite a table with four chairs. A clean blue and white quilt covered the brass bed. It was big enough for two.
Abigail lit the lamp and soon a warm golden glow filtered through the room. Lachlan’s eyes turned to Raonaid. She, too, glowed like fire with that mass of wet hair sticking to her gleaming white skin.
“You’d like two meals sent up?” Abigail asked as she moved to the bed and folded back the covers.
“Aye,” he answered gruffly, turning away from the sight of that soft, welcoming mattress, and moving to the window. “And a bottle of something. Wine, claret. Doesn’t matter.” He needed to numb his passions.
She nodded and left them alone.
Raonaid crossed to the bed and sat down, but Lachlan refused to look at her.
He could do nothing, however, about the sounds she was making.
His ears were attuned to everything—the bed creaking under her weight, her soft breathing, the rustle of her skirts.
With an exhausted sigh, she removed a shoe, dropped it onto the floor with a careless thunk, then removed the other one.
“I was never so happy to see a bed.” She flopped backwards onto it.
He did not share her joy, however, for it had been ages since he was alone in a bedchamber with a woman. And with this particular one, who was so bewitching to him in every way, he wasn’t entirely sure he’d be able to make it through the night without doing what he’d promised not to do.
* * *
Within minutes, Lachlan had an impressive fire blazing in the hearth. He dragged a chair across the floor for Catherine.
“Come and sit closer,” he said. “Dry your clothes.”
Pulling another chair forward for himself, he sat down and held his hands out to warm them.
Catherine watched him for a breathless moment, wishing he were not so …
wet. His long hair gleamed strikingly in the amber firelight, and his shirt was clinging to his massive arms and shoulders, his kilt hugging his strong, muscular thighs.
Ah, sweet Lord, he was a beautiful thing to behold when he was so shiny, dripping, and drenched.
He leaned back and propped both booted feet up on the opposite chair, which he had pulled forward for her. With a sigh, he crossed those big, sinewy legs at the ankles.
For the life of her, Catherine could not seem to tear her gaze away from the bulky plaid sticking to his lap, and his worn leather sporran, which rested on certain parts of his anatomy she was not meant to think about.
It was all very disconcerting, and for the first time she truly wished she could lift that disagreeable curse, for what an absolute waste of manhood it was—for a man like him to be celibate.
Imagine the beautiful children he could sire.
Tipping his head back, he ran his hands over his face and yawned loudly with exhaustion. Or perhaps it was boredom. She wished she knew what he was thinking. She stared at him for a long moment, then finally shook herself out of her stupor.
Gathering her heavy skirts in her fists, she rose from the bed. “When you said to come closer, I hope you meant closer to the fire, and not closer to you.”
She pushed the toe of his boot with her hand, forcing him to lift his feet off her chair.
“Why? Are you worried you won’t be able to resist my deadly charms? Deadlier than ever,” he added, “thanks to you.”
She sat down. “No, I am not worried, because I do not find you charming at all. Not in the least.”
It was a complete lie, of course. Everything about him fascinated her. Even when she was quivering with fear.
Especially then.
“You should be thankful,” he said, lounging back comfortably, locking his hands together behind his head and making her wonder if he was some sort of dubious archangel of a man, for he intrigued her so.
“Thankful for what?”
“For that promise I made in the library, when I agreed not to touch you. Otherwise, I’d be removing your gown right now, one piece at a time—verra slowly—and you’d be whimpering with ecstasy and delight, begging me to undress you faster, and trying like hell to figure out a way to lift that curse.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “You’re that confident?”
“Aye.”
She sat forward. “But why would you even want to make me whimper with ecstasy? You despise me. Why not just force yourself on me, like you tried to do back at Drumloch?”
The fire danced and snapped in the grate, illuminating the golden clarity of his skin, reflecting the sparks of gold in his eyes. He leaned forward as well, so their faces were very close, almost touching, and her heart began to race with anticipation.
“Would you really like me to answer that?”
He asked the question with a teasing undercurrent of eroticism that sent wild vibrations through her body.
A knock sounded at the door just then, and Catherine sat back quickly. Abigail entered with a tray of food and a bottle of wine.
“Bowls of hot stew with dumplings,” she cheerfully said, “and a basket of bread with butter and cheese.” She set it all down on the table, then turned her flirty gaze to Lachlan, who observed her overall appearance.
The girl was young and attractive, with dark, playful features.
She grew instantly covetous while she stood there, caught up in the flattery of his attention.
“Is there anything else I can do for ye, sir?” she asked, sounding a bit light-headed as she admired him from head to foot.
“No, Abigail, that will be all.” He rested an elbow on the arm of the chair, his temple on a finger. His mischievous eyes smiled at her.
The maid’s lips quivered with excitement. She pointed at his bloodied shirt. “Perhaps I could launder that for ye, sir. If ye wouldn’t mind taking it off…”
Catherine rolled her eyes, and Lachlan gave her a spiteful look, raising a brow as if to say, See? See how you hold me back?
“A fine idea, Abigail,” he replied, returning his attention to the young barmaid. “I will place my shirt in your capable hands. Come back after supper, and I’ll remove it then.”
She uttered a nervous little giggle. “Very well, sir. I’ll be back.”
She spun around and walked straight into the wall.
“Oh my good gracious. I beg your pardon.” She giggled again and rubbed the red mark on her forehead, then skipped out of the room.
Lachlan leaned back languorously in the chair and inclined his head at Catherine. He peered at her with lazy, hooded eyes.
“I’m not going to say one word about that,” Catherine sighed. “Except that it turns my stomach to see a perfectly intelligent young woman behave so foolishly.”
But in fact, she understood it very well and was thankful for Abigail’s well-timed interruption, and the reminder that this man was a shameless rogue in plaid—for Lord knows what she might have said or done next, after he answered her earlier question.
She, too, might have stood up and walked into a wall.
Feeling rather flushed all of a sudden, she rose and went to the table to eat. Lachlan remained in front of the fire, but she was intensely aware of his burning gaze while she inhaled the tempting aroma of the spicy, hot stew, and began to smear butter on both sides of her bread.