Chapter 7
Afew hours after Ailsa finished her morning chores, ate a quick meal with her friend Siobhan, and settled a dispute between two of the maids charged with cleaning in the keep, she nodded to the guard and opened the door to the herbal to check on Anders.
He sat on a stool, her favorite book of Highland myths and sagas open on the table before him in a pool of morning light from the herbal’s small window.
He’d requested something to read to alleviate his boredom.
He’d told her he liked myths, or Makars’ poetry, but he would not be opposed to learning more about Sinclair history.
She thought he needed something more diverting than Sinclair history, which bored her to tears, so she’d started with tales of mystical creatures.
When he wasn’t reading, he paced the chamber, walking in circles and figure eights around the tables Maighread used for her pots and potions, claiming the movement helped him get stronger.
He certainly seemed improved over the day when he came out of the fever.
His concentration on what he read was so deep that he didn’t react to her presence and greet her as he normally would.
So, she took advantage of the chance to stand quietly in the doorway for a few moments, look at him and imagine his kiss.
He would be gentle and yet persuasive, and he would light a fire in her body that might never go out.
She wanted his kisses, his arms around her, his body pressed to hers, his scent filling her nose, making every sense she possessed sing in excitement and longing. For him.
Ailsa couldn’t help letting her imagination run, inspired by the tales Anders now read.
She’d grown up with the idea of the fae, both fanciful and frightening, as a mystical part of her world from the lore of the Highlands.
She’d learned more on her family’s visits to Orkney.
And like most lasses, the desire for magical love in her life had never faded.
Looking at Anders, she had to wonder if a man as beautiful as he was a gift from the seelie, or if he could be a selkie.
Had he left his sealskin hidden somewhere in the forest above the bay?
He’d come from the sea, after all. She couldn’t imagine what she might have done to deserve such a boon.
He was the most handsome, funny, and gentle man she’d ever known.
He’d been kind to her and to the healer, even when he was in pain and frustrated over his lack of memory.
Had he lost it after being touched by the fae rather than because of the wound on his head or his time in the cold sea?
He bore his protective confinement in the herbal with grace, which continued to amaze her.
But being free of fever and clean had to have something to do with his improved mood.
In the days since he’d arrived, he’d made remarkable progress.
He moved as if his leg no longer pained him, and his scraped hands had responded so well to Maighread’s poultice that they were nearly healed.
Ailsa wanted him well and able to care for himself.
And in full possession of his memory. There was much about him that she wanted to know.
Needed to know if she was ever to act upon the feelings for him that filled her.
But she dared not start something she didn’t want to stop.
Not when her brother was ready to throw Anders into the dungeon, and getting too close to her would put him in danger from her father.
And not when he couldn’t remember whether he had a wife or bairns.
Surely he would remember them first—and he hadn’t.
Though she worried what his lack of memory would mean for Anders.
And for her. How would he leave Sinclair when he had no idea who he was or where to go home?
Would her father let her wed a man with no memory of who he was, where he came from, or whether he was already wed, and a man whose clan he could not name?
Or was her friend Siobhan correct that Anders remembered and was hiding what he knew?
He finally looked up from his book and saw her. A smile lifted the corners of his mouth. “Why are ye standing there, Ailsa? Come. Keep me company.”
Given her earlier thoughts, the steps she took toward him felt like steps through more than distance. What was she approaching? A man? Or one of the fae?
He stood and held out a hand to her and she paused.
He looked just as she had dreamed, just as she had told him she hoped to see him reach for her someday.
Her heart beat faster, but she gathered her courage and took the remaining steps to reach him and lay her hand in his.
He felt warm and real. Here was a man, not one of the sith.
A man she cared for, perhaps too much too soon.
That was her mind speaking, not her heart.
Somehow, though she’d barely noticed it happening, Anders had stolen her heart away.
He hooked the next stool with his foot and pulled it closer to his, then guided her to a seat.
“How are ye today?” She knew the answer before she asked the question, but those were the only words she could summon while he gazed at her with such admiration.
“I am better every day. Especially when I see ye, Ailsa. Do ye have any news?”
“I wish I did. Naught has happened. My parents have no’ yet returned, but should soon.”
“Perhaps I could be allowed to wander about the castle for a while? I appreciate the books, but I tire of these walls.”
“I ken ye do, but—”
“Ye fear yer da’s reaction. He will find out about me, lass. Sooner or later, I will have to face him.”
“If ye wander about, Boden will hear about it. Even if he does naught to punish ye—if Maighread keeps him from taking ye from here,” she said and gestured at their surroundings, “I fear he will take Da aside as soon as he arrives. If my brother gets to him first, he will be set against ye before I have a chance to speak. Da will be angry that I let ye in. I dinna want that to happen until I have a chance to prepare him.”
“Prepare him? Why? Have I done aught to make ye think I pose a threat to Sinclair? What will he think one lone man can do?”
“I dinna ken, but Boden thinks ye are a threat. Da may as well.”
“Ah, we’re back to that. Lass, I will leave now if ’twill keep ye from having to bear any punishment for my presence here.”
“’Twillna matter,” Ailsa said. “Ye are here now. Besides, ye have yet to ken where ye are from, or where to go.”
Anders shook his head. “I begin to dislike a man I’ve yet to meet.”
“My da? Or yerself?”
His widened eyes betrayed surprise at her perception. “Both, perhaps.”
She dropped her gaze for a moment. “I would be glad for ye to stay,” she told him, then covered her mouth with one hand as she looked up at him.
The warmth of a blush rose up her throat to her face.
Anders’ gaze turned molten as he admired her.
“I’m pleased to hear ye say that. Once I am stronger, I would—” He stopped suddenly, then took a breath.
“But nay. I canna promise anything. Do anything.” He traced his fingertips over her face ever so gently.
“Ye are so lovely, so tempting. But I dinna ken if I belong to another. I wouldna wish to harm ye. Or her. If there is another.”
Unable to resist, she traced her fingertips over the back of his hand, then pulled away.
“Ye are also wise,” she said, but she didn’t meet his gaze.
His eyes were as dark as hers must be when her hands lifted toward him again, but she pulled them back without touching him and stepped back.
She had to keep her distance. Anders was right.
“I think ye are quite strong enough,” she told him. “I dream of seeing ye well and strong, kenning who ye are, and holding out yer hand to me.”
“Ye dream of me?” He held one hand out to her. “I can do that now, Ailsa.”
His words gave Ailsa an odd feeling in the pit of her stomach. Hunger, but of a very different kind. And hope?
Her cheeks warmed again. “I’m spending most of my time with ye. ’Tis no’ surprising ye’d remain on my mind even when I try to sleep.”
“So, I keep ye awake, but when ye do sleep, I’m in yer dreams. A lesser man might think ye have come to care for me.”
“Ye mustna say things like that where others can hear. I’m caring for ye every day. If ’twere to get back to my da, I fear ye wouldna like what he did about it. Ye mustna antagonize him, Anders. He is the Sinclair. He could have ye killed.”
“My alternative is to remain hidden away, like the least favored neep in the bottom of a bin in the pantry. Is that it?”
“Or face the consequences before I have a chance to smooth the way.”
He cupped her face and traced his thumb across her lower lip, a frown drawing down his brows.
“Then I hope ye are very good at smoothing.” He leaned in, his gaze pinning her in place for endless moments, as if, after he’d promised not to harm her, he fought an overwhelming urge.
Or was he giving her time to deny him? She couldn’t.
Nor could he. Her lips parted as his touched hers, firm, yet soft, just as she’d imagined.
His scent surrounded her, and the feel of his kiss made her want to taste him.
She traced his lips with the tip of her tongue, and his answering groan spurred her on.
He slipped his hand behind her head, tightened his grip, holding her mouth to his while his tongue stroked hers.
Her body answered with a bloom of heat behind her breasts like a rose bud bursting into full flower.
Her nipples tightened as she moved closer to him, and the friction of her clothes shifting over them sent small shocks through her body.
The pulsing sensation broke the thrall his kiss had spun within her.
They were doing precisely what they’d sworn not to do.
She leaned away, and he dropped his hand. For a moment, he looked so forlorn she took pity on him. “I’m sorry.”