Chapter Fourteen #2
Ach, that woman dug under his skin and made him itch.
Did she cry still or had she drawn herself up into that noble posture, with her pointed chin lifted, her pert nose in the air?
He recalled staring down at her nose and counting the freckles as she kissed his injured hand.
In his short memory no one had cared for his injuries.
How different would his recovery have been with her at his side?
He stopped at the well to bathe briefly, stripping down to the waist and dashing icy water over his face and chest. His skin prickled and he shuddered, but he welcomed the bite of cold drops on his skin.
It eased away any heated thoughts or wishes.
If he wasn’t careful, he’d fall too easily for that lass’s lies.
To believe he had lain between those creamy thighs and heard her sighs or his name on her lips, was too enticing indeed.
As he dressed, his traitorous gaze drifted to the window of her chamber.
The shutters were thrown open and he could have sworn he caught sight of the swish of a chemise.
He clutched his fists at his side. How easy would it be to stride up there, pretend he believed her and take her against the wall, hard and fast, like the savage peasant he was.
Would she deny him? Attraction might swirl between them but there was no changing what he was—a battered, scarred nobody.
Mayhap he would call her bluff and when she denied him, he would know for certain she had lied.
But he knew that already, did he not?
And, of course, the risk was she’d say aye and then he’d be lost to her. He suspected a moment of freely touching that soft skin and kissing her with abandon would be the end for him. Everything he’d worked for would be dashed by that vixen.
Logan rubbed his temples and strode to the kitchen steps. He needed to be concentrating on proving his worth to Laird Gillean, not agonising over that woman. He took the steps quickly and paused outside the door. It was ajar and the voices of several men drifted up.
Norsemen. Was Ivar amongst them? He listened hard but could not make out the sound of his voice. He had to face the Viking at some point but he’d rather not do it in the company of his companions.
Crooking his neck, he pushed through the door and took the few wooden steps down to the dark kitchen.
A handful of servants and the cook scurried around the men who were clearly in the way of the morning preparations.
With their boots propped on the table, they looked to be deep in their cups already.
Scattered beakers and several jugs sat next to the dusty soles of their leather shoes.
One—Olvir—dropped his feet from the table and lifted his beaker in greeting.
It seemed none knew of his altercation with Ivar yet then.
“Good morrow, Logan, have you come in search of drink? I fear we may have emptied the stores of it already.”
The men around the table laughed and Logan kept his expression impassive. He could ill afford to anger them, but he did not see how drinking at such an early hour was a wise choice when they should be readying themselves for battle.
“Have you been to visit the lady this morn?” Olvir asked.
“Nay, why.”
“Well you spend a lot of time with her. We were just saying she seems to favour you. Perhaps Ivar should heed some of your advice on how to charm her.”
Logan pressed past the cook, who grumbled something about ‘damned Vikings,’ and snatched a chunk of bread from the side table. He tore off a bite with his teeth and spoke through the mouthful, “I know little about charm, and I didnae think ye Norsemen relied on it either.”
Olvir laughed and another man, Gunnar, lounged against his chair, his grin expanding. Logan only remembered his name because the man was more scarred and grizzled than himself. An ugly slash marred one side of his face and his closely shorn hair revealed an angry welt across the top of his scalp.
“Aye, it is true. Why charm when you can take. No doubt Ivar will make good use of the lady soon enough. And if he does not, I will be sure to do his duty for him.”
The remains of the bread in his mouth grew tasteless and dust like. He swallowed the remnants with difficulty.
“Gillean will have yer head,” he warned.
And if Gillean didn’t, he would. Regardless of how he felt about the lass, the thought of these filthy Vikings pawing over her, ravishing her, tore at every fibre of his being.
Olvir shook his head and laughter rippled through the men. “Gillean cares little for the woman. If it were not for Ivar’s interest he might have killed her long ago.”
Logan shook his head. “Nay, he talked of ransom.”
“Why ransom when he is to kill her family and take their riches anyway?”
He dropped the remaining bread on the table and pushed away. Gillean was ruthless, aye, and heartless for the most part, but would he have killed Lorna for no other reason than he had no use for her? Unease made his neck twinge, and he rubbed the scar.
He studied the group of men, sickness churning in his stomach, and without bidding them farewell, he took the steps two at a time until he reached fresh air. He paused and bent double to draw in air through his tight throat.
The Norsemen had made it clear. Lorna would be raped or killed. He might be without honour in her eyes and he had behaved little better than a savage these past seasons, but could he really stand by and let that happen?