My Fair Highlander (7 page)

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Authors: Mary Wine

BOOK: My Fair Highlander
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“You beast!” She flipped onto her stomach and felt the night air brush against her bare thighs above the top of her knee-high stockings. She jerked her face up to discover Gordon admiring the view her tussled skirts afforded him. Kicking at the fabric, she rose up onto her knees but stopped because the man stood in front of the bed, blocking the path she would have taken off it.
He looked for all the world like some Viking from winter stories. The ones that were told near the end of winter when all the better stories were exhausted. Sitting back down, Jemma rolled over, intent on leaving the bed from the opposite side. But something large and heavy landed on the bed. She snarled and tried to swing her legs off the bed only to discover that her dress held her back. Turning her head, she found Gordon lying across the foot of the bed with one elbow propped against its surface and his head resting in his hand while the beast smirked at her.
His heavier body lay across her skirts, trapping her with only her chemise to guard her modesty.
“Ye hit me, wildcat, so do nae be crying when it was you that set the tone of our conversation.”
Jemma grabbed her skirt and gave it a yank, but the fabric remained lodged beneath his weight. “You earned it for behaving like such a blackguard and stealing a kiss from me.”
“Hmmm . . . possibly.”
“There is no question about it. Now get off my dress, we should not be in . . . in—”
“In bed together?”
Jemma felt her face burn with a blush. “Exactly.”
“With yer skirts tossed?” His lips were curving up in a grin while his tone mocked her.
“Stop it. This is cruel. Riding out was foolish, but I am not a slut, and you should not be looking at my thighs. No one has ever looked at . . .” She couldn't help how pitiful she sounded. Helplessness was closing around her with an icy grip. There was nothing to stop him from doing what he would. Even her own body seemed to have a liking for his touch. She looked away from him, unable to prevent two tears easing from her eyes. She may have done some foolish things since her father's death, but never had she shamed him.
A soft word muttered in Gaelic drew her attention back to Gordon. He lifted his body so that her skirts were loose. She pulled them toward her and sat up so that her legs were covered once again. Gordon relaxed against the bed once more, lying in a contented pose while he studied her. It was by far the most unusual setting she had ever been in. All her life had been dictated by rules and traditions. The prospect of being in bed with a man she barely knew had never occurred to her. At least, not if that man was not her husband. Brides often had to deal with meeting their spouses for the first time on the their wedding night.
But she had no such comfort as knowing that wedding vows protected her honor and future. Losing her maidenhead tonight would see her facing a harsh reality tomorrow morning. There would be plenty who would point and judge her for not being pure. Gordon wouldn't face such. No, the shame would be hers alone and well deserved for sneaking past Synclair the way she had. There was no one to blame but herself.
She drew in a deep breath and banished the tears from her eyes, better to face what was to come than shiver in dread.
“Well? What do you want now, Gordon Dwyre?”
His lips twitched, but they didn't curve. The man appeared to be watching her, studying her.
“I shouldn't have looked at yer thighs, lass.”
Jemma nodded agreement.
“But I enjoyed it full well.” He smiled with arrogant confirmation of that enjoyment.
She offered him a short huff. “If you think I'll thank you for that compliment, you are mistaken.”
He lifted one thick finger. “Maybe not, but I see that ye find me as interesting as I find you.”
“I do not.”
His lips parted as his smile became larger. “Ye undress me with yer eyes, Jemma; 'tis a fact that I find it hard to resist.”
“Try harder.” She would, she had to.
He shook his head. “But ye did hit me, so—” His gaze lowered to her lips and passion flared to life in his eyes. “Ye owe me one sweet kiss to relieve the pain.”
“Trust a man to believe kisses relieve pain.”
One of those eyebrows rose once more. “Do ye deny that many a mother has offered a kiss to soothe the discomfort of her child?”
“You are not a child.” And she was far too aware of it for her own sanity. Her nipples were still hard, begging for the touch of his skin against them. The idea of kissing him was threatening to cast every scrap of self-discipline aside.
“If I roll onto me back and allow ye to tickle me belly, will ye offer me a sweet kiss, Jemma?”
Her mouth went dry. “I shall not.” Jemma forced the words past the wicked urgings that were emerging from the excitement flickering inside her. Part of her did want to touch him, almost too much to ignore.
“Well, that's a pity. I think I would have enjoyed it full well.” He winked at her before rolling over his shoulder and off the edge of the bed. His kilt went flying, but he landed on his feet in a balanced stance before straightening up, and all she gained was a flash of his trim backside.
A pity . . .
Her cheeks flamed scarlet.
“I must admit that I did enjoy putting ye to bed, lass. I hope I get the chance to do it more often.”
She gasped and snarled as she struggled to crawl off the bed, but her dress hampered her progress.
“Why do women wear such stupid clothing?”
Jemma didn't realize that she had voiced her thought until she heard Gordon laughing once again. This time it was husky and sweet, sounding far too enticing for her frayed self-control.
“Well now, lass, I admit that the idea of seeing ye in a kilt would be pleasing indeed.” His face became a mask of sensuous intent, shocking her how much she noticed his emotions. “But that would put yer thighs on display to everyone, and I think that I'm not liking that part of it at all.” He plucked at the edge of the rust and orange wool that formed his kilt, lifting it a few inches to show his own thigh that was cut with powerful muscle. Her gaze lowered to it, remaining there until the wool pleats of his plaid fell back down to cover his bare skin.
“No one will disturb ye in this chamber. Ula will knock.”
“So I may feel at ease, is that what you suggest?”
He shrugged. “I could stay and do me best to help ye settle in. We do seem to find things to talk about.” His eyes narrowed. “And do.”
“The chamber is very nice. Thank you for your kindness, but I have all that I require.” She fired off her retort rapidly. “Pray, do not let me keep you from more important matters.”
He chuckled at her, his lips flashing an arrogant grin. “Very well, lass, although I confess to being just a wee bit disappointed in yer choice.”
He considered her with one more long look before turning and quitting the room. Jemma relaxed, her body sagging on her knees in the middle of the bed with her skirts puddled about her. Her heart was beating fast as though she had been running. The night air felt good against her skin because she was warm, just like on a summer day. Her corset felt abnormally tight, and her nipples were still hard behind them. She felt drained now that he was gone, as though her emotions had returned to normal. But she now understood how little she felt during her everyday life.
Jemma gasped at the horror of the moment, raising a hand to cover her mouth. Horror, torment, and longing. Shock held her in its grasp so tightly, all she could do was sit there while the events of the night replayed themselves across her mind. She trembled at the recollection of how close she had come to her own death, but that paled when compared to the way she quivered when she thought about the kiss Gordon Dwyre had pressed against her lips. The darkness around her suddenly became more friend than enemy because it shrouded her and her blush. Try as she might, there was no way to banish Gordon from her mind.
No, there was only the night and the man who had kissed her beneath its velvet curtain.
 
His cock was hard.
Gordon made his way down the hallway, forcing his feet to carry him away from the woman who had awakened his flesh. Her kiss had been sweet, so much so he felt drunk on it.
“I heard that ye rode back in.” Anyon leaned against the wall with her skirt raised up to show him one long leg. She was a well-shaped woman and knew how to use what nature had blessed her with.
Used it to bring a great deal of pleasure, too. She offered him a sultry look from beneath lowered lashes before sending her hand over her own thigh. One slow rub that normally captivated him. She lifted her eyelashes and stared at him with invitation burning brightly in her eyes. Her breasts swelled temptingly above the edge of her bodice that had always been cut just a small amount lower than the other women who served in his house. He'd never lamented that fact, either.
But tonight it wasn't holding his attention. Instead he noticed the knowing gleam in her eyes and the practiced slant to her smile.
And almost coy.
“What keeps you from me, lover? Shall I come to you, like a harem girl in the east?” Her skirt fell down to cover her leg, and her hips swayed with just the right amount of motion while she moved to him. She didn't rush, knowing full well how to draw out the moment to build up the passion.
“Not tonight, Anyon.”
She fluttered her eyelashes and ran a knowledgeable hand along the front of his kilt. Just a light caress, but she sighed when she felt his erection.
“If ye are weary, I'll ease the stiffness from yer flesh before ye seek yer bed.”
She sent her hand down to the edge of his kilt, her fingertips touching his bare thigh before denial shot through him so hard he jerked away from her. Hurt crossed her face, confusion filling her eyes.
“Ye desire that Englishwoman ye brought back with ye.”
Hurt edged her words, and she pressed her lips into a hard line before backing up. “She'll not be able to satisfy ye as I can. She'll cry that ye bruise her. The English are too soft to be good bedsport.” Anyon held out her arms. “Come to me, lover. I'll give ye what ye crave as I have before.”
“I know ye have, but tonight I have no appetite for ye, Anyon. 'Tis sorry I am to say such to ye.”
He kept his voice low, but her eyes still blinked rapidly as she tried to hold off tears. Anger darkened her complexion. “Fine then. See what sort of sleep ye get with that swollen cock keeping ye company.”
“Anyon—”
She didn't give him time to try to comfort her. In a swirl of wool she turned and disappeared down the hallway. The night swallowed her up as though she had never been there.
Gordon Dwyre cursed.
Low and deep and he meant every last syllable.
Chapter Four
J
emma fell asleep sometime in the early morning hours. Her body fought against her mind and won, at least for a few hours of much-needed rest. The bed was soft and comfortable, cradling her while her dreams were filled with Gordon Dwyre. Was the man her host? Possibly. She wasn't sure, but she was equally certain that she did not want to label him her captor for fear that it might be so. That left her tossing and kicking most of the night.
Dawn spread its pink fingers over the horizon, and she opened her eyes because she was sensitive to the change in light. Rubbing at her burning eyes, she looked toward the windows and gasped. Rising from the bed, she walked across the floor to stare at the glass-paned windows. Such was an extreme luxury. Something found in a palace where princes and dukes slept. She reached out and fingered the veins of lead that held the small panes of glass together to fill in the entire window.
“Trade with yer brother has brought many good things to Barras land.”
It was Ula who spoke. Her tone even and just a tiny bit hushed to reflect the early morning hour. Jemma turned to look at her but became engrossed with gazing at the rest of the chamber. Tapestries hung on the wall. Each one was a work of art, the weaving of threads into depictions of legend or biblical stories. The two that hung in the chamber were eight feet by ten and hung on thick wooden beams. One was a soft-colored representation of the baby Moses being placed into the river by his mother. The other was a bright blending of harvest colors depicting plump pumpkins and rich vegetables hanging on vines while two lads sampled them instead of filling their baskets.
“Those were made by the laird's mother. She had great affection for tapestry weaving.” Ula pointed to the rich shade of orange used to make the pumpkin. “This is Barras orange, and here is the rust, but the boys wear the green and mustard colors of the Seton clan that she came from.”
The housekeeper smiled with the memory. “There are many stories in each one of her tapestries. I am one of the few who recalls them these days, for she never had a daughter to pass her skill along to. Only sons.”
“Many would consider that a blessing and praise her for doing her wifely duty.”
Ula turned to look at her. “All children are a blessing. They bring life to the clan and happiness to all. Is yer sister-in-law growing round yet? Yer brother consummated his vows in the old tower.”
“Um, well she is sick now and the midwife says her belly will rise soon.”
The housekeeper nodded with a gleam in her eyes. “A good time for ye to marry then.”
Ula picked up a brush and patted the top of the large chair that sat near the table where the candle had set last night. It was now a small, melted puddle because she had never pinched it out. That was wasteful, and she frowned as she sat down.
“Ye should not have slept in yer dress.”
Jemma bit her lip to keep from scoffing at the woman. She certainly had not been willing to take her clothing off. Not even her boots, although that was yet another wasteful thing, for her dress might carry dirt into the bed. She looked at the bed to see that she had only pulled the heavy coverlet over herself during the night. At least she had not soiled the sheets. But her back was stiff from sleeping in her hip roll and cartridge-pleated skirts, her skin itchy from the creases pressed into it by not stripping down to her chemise and allowing the garment to flow about her body.
So much better for Gordon to be able to see my thighs . . .
“Yer hair is a mess, to be sure. I am glad ye rise early, else we might not get it all straightened out before the priest rings the bells for Mass.”
“But I am a Protestant.”
The hands in Ula's hair froze. “Of course ye are. What with yer King Henry the Eighth setting himself up as the head of the Church and getting himself excommunicated. Ye'd be a poor subject to not obey yer king. Mary of Guise is regent for our little Queen Mary and she is Catholic. 'Course, she was born in France, which means she was following her king, too. That's a woman's lot in this life, we must adjust to follow the whims of men.”
Which accounted for the war of rough wooing that had almost cost her so much last night. The room was brightening, warm yellow sunlight spilling through the glass windows like water. In the winter there would be light but no freezing wind. In the yard below a bell began to chime. Slow and steady, the sound rose up in the morning air to touch the ears of everyone who inhabited the towers of Barras Castle.
“Well, 'tis the only service there is here, so ye'd be best to come along and leave the bickering over church policy to the kings and nobles. 'Tis praising the Lord, no matter the manner it is done in.”
Jemma couldn't suppress a small sound of amusement that bubbled up from her lips. It was actually quite refreshing to have someone poke a little fun at all the fighting over what service was considered correct. She had read many a letter to her father on the new policies that were sent out from his secretary in London. Always it was little things that were altered, and truthfully she did not see so great a difference. Yet men had died for those changes.
“I agree, but my father warned me often to never say so.”
Ula merely shrugged. “At my age, speaking my mind is na so forbidden. At least no when there are no men about to hear me.”
There was a truth if ever Jemma had heard one. Men were often power hungry and didn't take kindly to any woman who forgot that they didn't like to share that authority. What was allowed in private was not the same as how she was expected to behave when others might overhear her. Refusing to attend morning Mass might very well see her branded as a heretic. She stood on Scottish ground, and it was a Catholic nation with priests empowered by the crown. Public disobedience would be chastised.
So she followed Ula, lowering her head when she entered the church, but she noticed the looks of approval from the Barras clan members. She found herself listening to the service and noticing the details. So much blood had been spilt over the split between England and Rome. Even now, the English soldiers were intent on capturing Mary, Queen of Scots, just to prevent her from being raised Catholic. There was also a growing pressure from Catholic France to take the girl for their prince and form an alliance against the English because they were Protestant. Scottish and English shared one island, but it was faith that kept them divided. Henry the Eighth had a good idea to unite the two nations.
That would make a marriage between myself and Barras a good match, too . . .
Jemma cringed at her thoughts. They just kept rising up, ignoring her more logical thinking that reminded her she had no control when it came to the man. That was dangerous, very much so.
He kissed well...
Her eyes widened while she searched for a counterthought. Aye, but the man was a brute the way he swept her off her feet and carried her inside his tower like some bundle of goods he'd taken as his prize during a raid.
He also smelled good . . .
Her cheeks heated, and she became annoyed with herself as she recalled exactly how much she had enjoyed the scent of his skin. Strong and powerful. It was more than just the fact that he was clean, she had enjoyed the way his scent filled her senses during that kiss. Somehow, it had added to the intoxicating power of his mouth against her own.
She was not applying herself well. Jemma tried to concentrate on the priest, but instead her gaze wandered to the kilt on the man standing on the end of the row on the other side of the sanctuary. His legs were muscular, too, but she still preferred Gordon's. There was a power that radiated from the man, and just thinking about him stirred the excitement that had flared up so brightly, deep in her belly last night.
I had longed to give him that kiss he'd wanted . . .
And just what would that have gotten her? Nothing but dishonor. Jemma used that harsh fact to sober her thoughts. Her insides might have tormented her with how much they craved more of Gordon's touch, but she was still a virgin this morning and that was what she needed to focus her attention on. It was true that there was nothing at all about Gordon Dwyre that was so unique, nothing at all. The change was within herself. Now that she had recognized she needed to stop grieving, her body was telling her it was time to marry.
There was nothing unusual about her host, except his ability to annoy her. She would return to Amber Hill and allow her brother to arrange a good match for her. Obviously there was too much tension between Scotland and England for her to continue to consider Gordon. Henry the Eighth would die soon, leaving his young son Edward to wear his crown. Two children could not bring peace between the two nations. If she married into Scotland, her own brother would have to call her husband his enemy. Even if Curan had given his permission for Barras to court her, that was not permission to wed. Better to leave before her longings gained too much hold on her.
It was logical, but she felt disappointment creeping across her heart. No amount of thinking dispelled it. She needed her virtue, and just because she craved something did not mean it would be hers. There was nothing to do save endure.
That was something she understood well how to do.
 
The first meal of the day was served soon after Mass. It was a simple offering of porridge topped with the last of the season's fruits. The cereal might be stored and left in large iron pots while the staff attended Mass. The cook used a large ladle to fill wooden bowls with the thick sustenance. Maids brought trays of bowls that gently steamed in the cool morning air. The main hall became crowded and noisy as everyone filled the long tables that ran across the space. Benches skidded on the hard stone floor, and men whistled to their comrades before sitting down to partake of the morning fare. If it hadn't been for the rust and orange tartans they wore, she might have thought she was at Amber Hill.
Except that she didn't recognize a single face. A lump lodged in her throat as she realized how alone she was. There was nothing to force Gordon to return her home. She might never get the chance to stare down those who doubted she was still pure because she was unsure of her host's intentions. He was a difficult man to understand or anticipate. The way he had handled her was clear evidence that he would do exactly as he pleased in spite of her arguments. The lump grew larger and the porridge looked too coarse to force down her throat.
Commotion from the end of the hall drew her attention. Gordon entered with his captains on his heels. Gordon wore a knitted round bonnet tipped to the side of his head. On the right side of the band was a solid gold broach in the form of one rampant lion. The eyes of the animal were set with rubies, telling her that Barras blood was considered noble. Each of the men following him wore a pheasant feather in his cap. It was a mark of their position, and the hall quieted while they passed.
Jemma felt the color drain from her face, for this was not the man who had teased her last night. The man who strode so determinedly down the center aisle, without a doubt or any hint of mercy, was Laird Barras. His stride was purposeful, carrying him quickly toward the table that waited. It was set up on a dais, further reinforcing the authority of the man. Bowls had not been placed on the table yet. A maid lifted a tray and hurried to serve her laird the moment he sat down. Every one of his captains waited until Gordon sat. Women attended the table immediately, bringing tankards and pitchers to fill them with. The morning meal was served to each captain and to the laird. What the men failed to see was the scuffle behind the servers. Girls cut one another off in order to be the ones serving at the high table. One woman actually aimed a silent snarl, her lips curling and her nose wrinkling at another woman when she made the mistake of trying to place a bowl in front of Gordon. But when she leaned over where her laird might see her, she was smiling sweetly as though she were kin to the Virgin Mary. She leaned very far forward, making sure her breasts were displayed for Gordon. His gaze dropped to the creamy swells, and his lips curved just a slight amount.
Jemma felt her cheeks heat with temper. She knew that grin. That curving of his mouth that he'd aimed at her across the bed last night. Her eyes widened when she realized that she was caught in a flash of jealousy.
She looked down at her bowl, silently chiding herself.
“I enjoy riding . . .”
Of course the man did. He knew too much about how to fluster her, how to touch her so that her heart began racing. It should come as no surprise at all that he had women fighting over him. No doubt the man had walked away from her last night and into the arms of another woman who knew more than she did about satisfying him.
Being a maiden had never bothered her before, but for a moment she detested her lack of knowledge. She was ignorant, and she felt the lack keenly. Lifting her face, she looked at the girl lavishing service on Gordon. Her lips were plump and inviting; they glistened as if she'd licked them before leaning over the table where she might be seen. Instead of securely braided hair, tucked beneath a linen cap, her cap hung from her belt and her hair looked tousled or just right for a man to slide his fingers into. Her hips swayed when she crossed in front of the table on her way back toward the hearth. Unlike the other maids, she didn't take the shorter path that ran behind the table; no, she crossed in front and took her time covering the distance. More eyes than just Gordon's watched her, and Jemma stared at the expressions on those faces. Lust was there for certain, but there was also heat and passion. The girl carried herself with supreme confidence, and the cutting glances of the other Barras women didn't gain even a tilt from her head. Instead she smiled at the men watching her, absorbing the attention they lavished on her.

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