Chapter 15
Laughter lilted through the solar. The room was wide and bright, filled with looms and music and unnamed treasures garnered from childhood.
A trio of fair-haired maids bent their heads together and laughed again.
“Look at the three of you.” An old woman shuffled into the room. She was bent with age, bowed with wisdom. In the light from the high windows, her face looked as seamed as a patch of ancient parchment. “Did I not know better I would think you were plotting some mischief.”
“Mischief?” The smallest of the trio laughed as she finished the braid in her sister’s hair. “Nay, we are but preparing Rhona for her wedding.”
“Ahh.” The aged lady shuffled forward. “And so you are. The three of you together.” She shook her head and reaching out, smoothed her gnarled fingers down Rhona’s cheek. “So bonny you are. Me three bairns—like princesses awaiting—”
“Good eventide.” Lachlan MacGowan filled the doorway. He was dressed in a ceremonial plaid, neither garish nor pompous, but so handsome it all but made her breath stop.
“Lachlan,” said her sister and dancing forward, drew his hand into her own delicate fingers. He smiled down at her. “Come, see your bride. Is she not bonny?”
He went forward eagerly, but suddenly he stopped, and his expression of happiness became one of horror. It was then that she realized she was naked. Naked and vulnerable.
Rhona awoke with a start. She was breathing hard, and her heart galloped madly in her chest.
What had she done? Opened herself to the ridicule that would most certainly come. Begged for her sisters’ acceptance when she knew they would never—
But nay! She glanced wildly about her old chamber. Little had changed. Her secret was safe. No one knew. No one but—
And at that moment her gaze fell on Lachlan.
He slept on the floor, wrapped in his plaid.
Below the fringed bottom of the tartan, one dark leg was exposed to midthigh.
Even in repose, the muscles stood out hard and well defined, and though she knew she was foolish she was tempted to go to him, to touch him, to awaken him with a whisper.
Power lay in his hand, yet peacefulness there was too.
Against her will, she moved across her bed toward him, but in that instant, just when she was staring down upon him, he awoke.
Their gazes met. Emotions steamed through her, and then, like a startled deer, she bound out of bed, snatched up her clothing and stumbled over him to the door.
She drove him hard that day; there was much to be done and little time to do it in, for she must leave soon, must learn the truth before it was too late.
The masonry was finished before long, and soon the thatcher arrived.
Although she’d not asked for MacGowan’s company, they rode together into the woods and found timbers to replace the broken rails in the stable.
Like a hero of old, Knight pulled the felled logs down from the hill to Nettlepath, and as Rhona stroked his bowed neck and murmured her thanks, Lachlan glanced up from his task of hewing the gargantuan logs.
He had removed his tunic. The dark hose he’d borrowed from Nettlepath’s coffers hugged his hips and thighs like a second skin. His muscles gleamed in the misty sunlight, and for a moment, as her fingers snagged in the stallion’s dark mane, she forgot to breathe.
Knight bumped her with his bowed nose, drawing her back to earth, and hurrying her to her next task.
Barely a word was spoken for the remainder of the day, but more often than not, she could feel MacGowan’s gaze on her.
By nightfall, Rhona’s every muscle ached. As for MacGowan, he did not look the least bit fatigued. He only looked irritable. In fact, he was not too tired to heat water or to carry it into her bedchamber and deposit it into the tub.
She glanced at him as she entered the room. He was just straightening from his task. Muscles flexed and tendons tightened in his broad forearms as he dangled the buckets from square fingertips.
Without the least bit of effort she could remember the feel of his hands on her skin. Could remember the skittering emotions that soared through her. Could remember how his chest felt beneath—
He cleared his throat and she jumped as if caught peeping through a knothole.
“Well . . .” She shuffled her feet and barely kept herself from leaping back into the hallway. “I will leave you to your bath.”
“Nay.” He set the buckets aside and nodded toward the steaming tub. “’Tis for you.”
She considered arguing. He had labored hard and surely deserved a bath. On the other hand, he had bathed yesterday and it had been all she could do not to stare, not to turn on her bed and watch his every movement, not to beg him for things she could not have.
She cleared her throat. “’Tis . . . kind of you.”
A muscle jumped in his jaw. His eyes were dark and ultimately solemn. “I fear kindness is not me most outstanding attribute.”
She tilted her head in question.
“I did not offer to leave.”
“I beg your pardon.”
“I did not tote the water for selfless reasons,” he said and continued to watch her.
Her heart picked up its pace. “You are planning . . . to stay?”
“I worked hard for you this day.”
It was a statement simply made, as if he were certain he was deserving of some reward, as if she owed him something, when in truth she had done all she could to be rid of him.
The injustice of the situation struck her, and yet, strangely, she could raise no anger.
Indeed, she felt nothing but a breathless, shameful impatience.
“So this is the payment you would ask?” She meant to say it with disdain, but something had curled tight in her stomach and her face felt flushed.
His eyes were the color of amber, lit with a fire from within. “I am but your servant. I come cheap, but I do not come free. Do you need help with your garments?”
“Nay,” she said, but he stepped forward, and for reasons unknown, she lacked the strength to retreat.
“I worked very hard,” he said and reached for the ties that closed her tunic.
She knew she should slap his hand away, or knee him in the groin, or challenge him to a duel, or chant Hail Marys or . . . something. But she did nothing. Instead, she stood like a frightened hare, or a cornered doe, or perhaps, God forbid, like an enamored maid.
His knuckles brushed her skin. The ties eased open and then he tugged the tunic from her. Inch by inch he undressed her until she stood naked and vulnerable before him.
“Lass.” His voice was soft, and his palm, when he brushed it down her breast, was as gentle as a sigh. It was all she could do to keep from leaning into it. “You would give this to an aging marquis with waning strength and little honor?”
She shivered beneath his gaze, aching for the things she refused to receive. “What do you know of his honor?”
“He has none. Not where maids are concerned. He is a strange man with strange tastes.”
“How do you know?”
“I knew his wife before she married him some years ago.”
“Knew her?” She tried to keep her tone level, but it was not a simple task. “In what sense?”
He watched her narrowly. “Lorna was with child when he met her.”
Drawing a careful breath, she forced herself to remain calm. After all, she had learned much of the MacGowan rogues in the past few months. The child had not been Lachlan’s. She was certain of that, and yet she could not help but ask. “The babe . . . was it yours?”
His brows lowered still further. “Would you care?”
“Damn it, MacGowan!” she snarled, then loosened her fists and stepped into the tub. “I but wonder.”
“Nay.” He watched her closely, but it seemed now that his attention was on her thoughts and not on her body. “It was not mine,” he said, “but me brother’s.”
“Ramsay does not seem the type—” she began, but he interrupted even before she’d finished the thought.
“How did you know?”
“What?” She glanced up, sensing her mistake.
“How did you know the child was Ramsay’s? ’Twas Gilmour what had the roving eye.”
“I . . .” She calmed herself. He knew nothing, not of her heritage, and not of her mission. “As I said earlier—Ramsay punishes himself. I but assumed that was why.”
Perhaps he accepted that answer. In any event, he continued on. “Ramsay met her at court some years ago. He was young. She was beautiful. He thought himself in love, but he was called home to Dun Ard before he could declare his intentions.”
“And there he met Anora.”
“Nay, not for some time. Lorna sent a missive saying she carried Ramsay’s child, but he did not receive it until it was too late. When he next saw her she had already wed the marquis.”
“And the babe?”
“He had no interest in the bairn,” Lachlan said.
That was not exactly what her spying had revealed. Indeed, MacGowan was correct, the marquis had strange tastes, but though he may have wished to bed a pregnant woman, he did not wish to wed one.
“She had the babe taken before its time,” Lachlan said. “It all but ruined Ramsay when he learned she had sacrificed the child. Indeed, had it not been for his Anora and the heir she bore him, he might never have recovered. Late in the year they will hold a gathering to celebrate their—”
“And what of his wee lass?”
“What’s that?”
She had reason to hate herself again, for she had not meant to speak, had not intended to mention the tiny girl child Ramsay had claimed as his own and named Mary.
Nay, she had no intention of remembering how the MacGowan rogues fussed over the babe as if the wee lass were the most precious of children and not a bairn borne of shame and disgrace with no true parents to claim her.
But recently her own childhood seemed so raw, so close to the surface.
What would it have been like to be so adored by such a man?
Adored instead of abandoned and forgotten.
“’Tis naught,” she said. “I but find it interesting that you blame the marquis for your brother’s loss. ”
“What lass?” he asked.