Chapter Seven
An hour later, Catherine stood at the window, peering out at the darkness beyond. The wind moaned like a ghost through the eaves. Rain pelted the glass like a pebble storm, and water streamed down the panes in shiny, jagged rivulets, like little knives of silver.
The storm showed no signs of letting up, and she could only hope that the squally weather had detained the magistrate at some point in his travels—for she did not wish to return to Drumloch.
At least not yet. She wanted to recover her lost memories, and if that meant galloping into the Scottish Highlands with a volatile warrior who detested her, then that was what she would do.
It was unlikely, at any rate, that the magistrate had been able to follow their trail through the woods.
The rain would have washed away their tracks, and besides, Lachlan had taken them south, rather than north, which was not what the magistrate would expect.
It would take a bit longer to circle around in the direction of Kinloch Castle, Lachlan had told her, but they would reach it eventually.
Letting the curtain fall closed, she turned and faced the bed, just as he was climbing into it. Naked.
Her eyes darted to the hearth, where his tartan was draped over a chair, drying in front of the dancing flames.
He had given his bloodstained shirt to Abigail a short time ago.
He’d walked into the corridor where she was waiting for him and made a great spectacle of leaving the door open, so Catherine could watch while he pulled it off over his head.
Abigail’s eyes had gone wide as saucers, and Catherine was ashamed to admit that hers had done the same, when confronted with all those lovely, rippling muscles.
But none of that mattered now, she told herself, pushing the image from her mind. What mattered was how she was going to manage her anxieties through the remainder of this storm, with a naked and powerfully built Highlander lying in the bed she’d assumed was meant for her.
He drew the covers up to his waist, let out a lazy sigh, and tossed an arm up under his head.
Catherine noticed the gash across his ribs. It was covered in dried blood, but he seemed oblivious to any discomfort.
“How pleasing it is,” he casually purred, “to be warm and dry. Do you not agree, lassie?”
He turned his head on the feather pillow to look up at her directly, waiting for an answer.
Catherine cleared her throat.
“Is there a problem?” He asked the question with a glimmer of satisfaction in his eye, as if he knew exactly how he affected her and was amused by it.
A wave of excitement flooded through her treacherous body.
“Yes,” she haughtily replied. “There is only one bed, and if you were a gentleman, you would let me have it.”
He stared with casual indifference at the ceiling. “First of all, I’m not that sort of gentleman. I am a different sort altogether. And if you think I’ll try to seduce you…” He paused. “Ach, bluidy hell, Raonaid. Just take off your gown, hang it to dry, and get in the bed.”
She lifted her chin. “No, I most certainly will not get in that bed with you.”
He leaned up on an elbow and glared at her, all amusement gone now as his eyebrows pulled together in a frown.
Clearly they were at an impasse.
Catherine glanced at her wet skirts and knew he was right about hanging everything to dry, but there was no way on God’s green earth she was going to disrobe in front of him, then join him under the covers. He was naked!
She moved closer to the fire and plopped down into the wooden chair. She would sit there all night if she had to, if he insisted on behaving like a brute.
Savage, indeed.
“What are you waiting for?” he asked, rolling over onto his stomach and resting his chin on a hand.
She glanced over at him.
“You’re keeping me awake, lass,” he added, “and we both need our rest. We’ll be heading into some rugged country in the morning.”
He had already explained that Kinloch was nestled deep in the Scottish Highlands, beyond the Great Glen.
It would take at least five days to reach it, perhaps longer if the weather was foul.
Once they reached Fort William, the English garrison, there would be few opportunities for hot cooked meals delivered on trays.
They would be forced to sleep under the stars and eat around an open fire.
She only hoped the rain would hold off after tonight; otherwise, it would be a long and arduous journey, to be sure.
“Ah, come now,” he said, his voice teasing again. “Show me how brave you are. Slide in next to me, and see if you can resist any improper urges you might experience.” He regarded her with challenge as he lifted the covers.
Catherine lowered her eyes to the braided rug on the floor and wondered how difficult it would be to sleep on such a hard surface. Would he even offer her a blanket or pillow?
Lachlan sat up, and his long, damp hair fell forward across his bare shoulder.
“Now you’re being ridiculous, lass. I’m only teasing.
Think about it. Whether you are in the bed or on the floor makes no difference to me.
If I grow tempted to unleash my pent-up desires on you tonight—and I haven’t completely ruled that out—I will do it, here or there. ”
Catherine spoke sternly. “You gave me your word of honor that you would not touch me.”
He gazed at her in silence for the longest time, and she could not mistake the quiet, simmering desire in those beautiful onyx eyes.
He wanted to do things to her—wicked, unspeakable things.
She could see it in the brooding intensity of his stare.
He wanted to slake his caged-up lust on her.
To pleasure her and punish her, both at the same time.
“Maybe I’ll change my mind about that,” he said in a low voice of sensual allure. “Because if I made love to you, lass, you’d have no choice but to lift the curse, in order to save yourself.”
She shot him a threatening glare. “Go ahead. I dare you to do it. But keep in mind, Lachlan MacDonald, there are always choices. Perhaps I’d let myself die, just to spite you. Then you’d be cursed forever.”
A dark shadow of surprise passed over his features. “That’s insane.”
She shrugged arrogantly. “Perhaps. But it’s not as if I have much to live for. I have no memories, and everyone I know is using me for their own purposes—whether it’s to lift a curse or get their hands on a fortune that may or may not belong to me.”
She would never do it, of course. She wanted to live. She wanted that more than anything, or she wouldn’t be here.
Finally, he rolled onto his back again, rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands, and groaned irritably. “You are mad,” he said. “Fine. If you must have your way, I will be a gentleman for the night, and take the floor.”
He rose, fully nude, and reached for the folded woolen blanket that was draped over the brass footboard.
Catherine couldn’t look at him. He was too attractive, too spellbinding.
Instead, she turned her gaze to the fire, where the flames seemed to dance with delight as he moved across the room.
When at last she heard the sound of the blanket unfolding and flapping outward to cover him, she carefully looked down.
He was stretched out on his back on the braided rug at her feet.
“Thank you.” She stood up and stepped over him. “Now close your eyes and don’t look.”
“How you torture me so,” he said with frosty sarcasm, covering his eyes with a hand while she removed her skirts and bodice and hung everything on the chair.
Wearing only her shift, she dashed across the floor on her tiptoes and scrambled into the bed.
Quickly she turned down the lamp and drew the covers up to her ears.
Everything was quiet in the room except for the sound of the fire snapping in the grate. She rolled over and faced the wall, and was very aware of Lachlan’s movements as he, too, rolled to face the other direction.
* * *
Contrary to whatever form of torture Lachlan expected to endure while sleeping naked in a room with Raonaid (he’d had visions of waking up with his wrists tied to the bedposts while she chanted some dark spell), he somehow managed to sleep for an hour or two.
When he woke, it was nearly dawn and the rain was no longer beating against the window.
The fire had gone out, and the only warmth came from a few red-hot embers, pulsing like quiet heartbeats in the ash.
He rolled to face the bed. Raonaid, too, was curled up on her side, facing him.
The sight of her lovely, curvaceous figure in the dim light was enough to affect the tempo of his heart.
He felt yet another unwelcome surge of arousal in the pit of his stomach, which fanned the flames of his discontent, because he was sick of the torture.
He was a man forced to live alone, without intimacy in any form, for if he ever made love to a woman, he would become a murderer.
As a result, he’d had very few intimate encounters since the night of the curse in Kilmartin Glen. In the early months, a few generous young lassies had been willing to pleasure him with their hands and mouths, but even that had troubled him, and he had not enjoyed the experiences.
He remembered pulling one eager lassie to her feet halfway through a session of oral frivolities, apologizing to her gruffly, then stalking off and concluding the matter with his own hand, outside in the bailey, alone in a dark corner behind a wagon stacked with empty whisky barrels. It had been a low moment.
Now, he yearned not only for sexual release, but for any form of intimacy.
It had been a long time since he’d been touched by a woman.
There had been no caressing, no kissing.
Nothing—until his botched seduction in the stone circle the day before, when the floodgates had opened to a raging tidal wave of desire.