Authors: Susan Sizemore
“Fat chance on both counts,” he heard her reply as he reached the door.
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Her words sounded strange to his ears but he had no doubt about what they meant.
“We’ll see about that,” he called back then hurried outside.
Maddie returned to Rosemary’s side after Rowan was gone. “That man is a pain in the butt.”
“Aye, always has been. He has no balance in his stars.”
“Right.” Maddie didn’t want to discuss pseudoscience with the other woman. She did lean close and whisper, “Uh, what does ‘tup’ mean?”
Rosemary’s answering laugh was bawdy and not at all reassuring.
Maddie sighed as nerves and heat curled deep in her stomach. “That’s what I was afraid of.”
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The grooms told him to mind his own business and let them mind theirs as they went about taking care of the tired horses. The herdsmen were no less adamant and their dogs barked impudently at him, as though to chase him off. The smith was already heating the forge to mend dented weapons. Father Andrew knelt before the chapel altar, praying for the souls he’d helped dispatch to Hades. Aidan had settled himself in the kitchen and was already giving more than enough orders for the roasting of meat for a victory celebration despite the bad-tempered glowers of the cook. The stronghold of Cape Wrath seemed to be working in good order. Rowan felt almost as if his people conspired against him to get him back into the hall. So he went to the village to quiz the fishermen, or would have if the boats hadn’t been out in the bay. He did find a workman on a village roof and helped him to mend the thatch.
All in all, he felt his time had been wasted when he finally made his way up the ladder to the hall at sunset. He’d proved to himself that he could control his lust, now he had every intention of satisfying it.
“Here,” was the greeting he received when he came through the doorway.
Rosemary handed him a steaming pail of water. “Clean yourself up,” she commanded.
Rowan glowered suspiciously. “Why?”
“You stink of cow manure, horse and your own sweat.”
“Hmmph. Where’s Ma—Micaela?” he hastened to change the question. He was determined not to seem too eager. Besides, it was important to know what his sister was doing with the Harboth lad.
“Don’t you worry, Rowan. He’s weak as a kitten. I’ve told her we’ll send her back to the fair folk if she dares to even give him a peck on the cheek.”
“I shouldn’t have brought him here.” He shook his head. “It seemed better to send him home mended rather than wounded. I didn’t want to give Allen Harboth cause to complain after his little brother helped rescue our cattle as well as his.”
“Are you sending the cattle home to the Harboths?”
“Most of it.”
“And you’ll send the lad home to Allen as well? He’s no your prisoner?”
Rowan bridled. “I’ve said as much already.”
“So you have. Well, I suppose Micaela might as well spend some time with him under my managing eye instead of sneaking off to meet him in the heather—which I’ve no proof she’s ever done,” Rosemary added hastily.
“Keep close watch on her.”
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“I always watch what’s going on in the heather with the Harboths. Now, you get yourself washed. There’s clean clothes laid out for you.”
“What? Why would I need a new shirt so soon? Has the season changed while I wasn’t looking?”
She laughed and slapped his arm. “Go on, lad. Do as I say and stop your fussing.”
Rowan rubbed his jaw. He was wearing several days of beard stubble, which was more than he liked. Most Highlanders grew thick, warm beards but Rowan preferred his face bare. He weighed the bucket in his hand. Being clean wouldn’t be a burden to him, though he hated the thought that he might be suspected of primping for his wife.
“Where is my wife?” he asked before he turned toward the stairs.
Rosemary gestured into the depths of the hall. “Standing over Flora at the loom,”
Rosemary said. “Studying how it’s done she said.”
He gave a grudging nod of satisfaction. It was good to know that Maddie took an interest in the household. His stepmother had been useless about such things and had led the mortal Murray women into all sorts of foolish notions.
“Did I tell you she built us something she calls a spinning wheel while you were gone?”
Rowan eyed his cousin suspiciously. Perhaps Maddie had notions as mad as any of the fair folk. She must have dwelt among them, after all. “Spinning wheel? What’s that?”
“A device for spinning wool of course. And easier to use than a drop spindle, I can tell you that. She says it will improve production, quality and process. I’ve no idea what she means but I do know the work’s not so tiring as I’m used to.”
Rowan didn’t know whether to be pleased or annoyed, or simply to ignore the whole issue of women’s work as none of his affair. “Oh.”
Rosemary patted him understandingly on the arm. “Get cleaned up. You’ll feel better. I’ll send your wife and dinner to your chamber.”
He couldn’t deny that he wanted both. So he nodded and took his bucket of warm water off to his room.
* * * * *
“What are you doing here?”
Maddie stumbled to a halt just inside the bedroom and almost dropped the tray in her hands. That would have meant spilling the dishes of fried bannocks and stewed beef. She was too hungry to lose her dinner even if dropping it and running was tempting. Someone closed the door behind her while she caught her balance. She registered the sound as Rowan, wearing only a thigh-length yellow shirt, and looked up.
“Where else should I be? Put my supper down here.”
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He pointed to a low table by the bed where a basin of water already sat. He held something that looked like a small knife in one hand. She noticed his cheeks were smooth and a bit pink from scraping and realized that it was a razor.
“You ought to try using some soap with that.”
“Soap’s dear.”
“Taciturn
and
parsimonious. How stereotypical. And you’re not even a Presbyterian yet. You could give Scotsmen a bad name, you know.”
She was blathering. She knew it. He said it. “Stop your blathering.”
“Bugger off,” she replied. She was going to get Rosemary for conspiring to get her alone with her husband but she took her annoyance out on Rowan for now.
If Maddie hadn’t been distracted with an idea for the loom, she might have suspected Rosemary was up to something. Instead, blissfully involved in developing an improved design, she had accepted Rosemary’s suggestion to take her meal and escape the noisy, smoky hall. Lost in her own world she had totally forgotten about Rowan’s return. She’d forgotten about his plans for “tupping”—or she’d hidden from thinking about them by getting involved in practical, controllable, work-related speculations.
“I’m really getting into textile manufacturing, you know,” she said, and was aware of just how inane and incongruous her words were. She almost didn’t blame him for looking annoyed and hurried to put the tray where he’d told her under his frowning gaze. “Really,” she went on. “There’s so many relatively easy ways to improve—”
“You talk too much.”
“Aye,” she agreed then smiled at her use of the word. Well, why not? She thought.
She’d been living in Scotland long enough—even without the time travel—to pick up some of the vernacular. She’d long ago learned how to swear in British, including quite a few words for sex—she worked on an oil rig after all, not the most genteel environment in the world. Tup was not one of them. It was one bit of slang she had no interest in learning how to put into a sentence. Or doing for that matter.
But there was no reason to be rude and uncivilized. There were other subjects besides sex. Other distractions. And speaking of distractions, she really wished his shirt covered a bit more of his well-muscled legs.
She motioned at the food. She tried not to look at him. “Have some dinner.”
Rowan put down his razor then splashed water on his warm cheeks. Whether they were heated from recent shaving or awareness of the furtive but interested way she studied him, he wasn’t sure. He took refuge in the thought of the meal. He took a bannock from the tray, sat down on the bed and proceeded to polish off the warm cake while he made an open study of his wife. He had to admit that though his thoughts had been too much on her while following cattle thieves over the rocky coastline, it was her form more than her face that he recalled. He remembered freckles and thick copper-bright hair but not much else. He knew many a Highland woman with freckles and coppery hair. They were as common as tides and stormy sunsets. Perhaps that was a blessing, he supposed, if she looked no better or worse than any other woman it would 72
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be easier to fight an attraction to her. She was far from ugly, pretty even, healthy-looking with good teeth and clear blue eyes. Good teeth counted for a lot in a young woman. Her tongue was too lively of course, but he was used to that. He might have wanted an obedient wife but fate and the White Lady had given him one with more common characteristics.
He knew already that her body was not common at all, her curves and softness were uniquely her own. Her kisses tasted like no one but Maddie. He’d spent his nights and his waking hours longing to cup her breasts and her buttocks in his hand, to know the flavor of her mouth again, to find the soft heat between her legs and bury himself in it.
Now he fought hard to keep from translating that longing into action too quickly, to keep control of the night. Maddie, meanwhile, settled on the room’s only chair and ate with her eyes averted from him now that she had looked her fill at his thighs. He supposed that her refraining from hungrily throwing herself into his embrace was a good thing but he was already half hard just from the look that had been in her eyes.
So he pulled off his shirt and sat naked on the bed. He patted the place beside him.
“Come here.”
Maddie dropped the empty bowl and jumped to her feet. Her gaze flashed to Rowan and away immediately. The man was naked! In his own bedroom. What was she doing here? Trapped by her own hunger, hunger she didn’t want to try to define too closely and Rosemary’s plotting, that’s what she was doing here. She risked another quick look at the man as she backed toward the door. He was more than just a naked man, he was an aroused naked man. A fine-looking, aroused, naked man.
“Oh hell.”
“Come here,” he repeated.
She ran for the door.
The next thing she knew she was flat on her back on the bed and Rowan was poised above her, his weight pinning her down, his hands on either side of her head.
He put his lips close to her ear. “When I say come here, I dinna mean get you gone.”
She was panting and vaguely aware there had been a brief struggle that she had lost. “Get your hands off me!”
“They’re not on you.”
Before she could argue the point, his mouth covered hers. Her mouth was already open to speak, he took advantage of this, and his tongue delved into her mouth. The sensation of having his tongue stroke against hers was shocking but not unpleasant. For a moment she closed her eyes, pretended it was Toby and just let herself be kissed. He looked like Toby, his rangy, muscular body felt like Toby’s must. Maybe she could make love to him if she made herself think—
She couldn’t do that to Toby.
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She couldn’t do it to Rowan either.
She especially couldn’t do it to herself.
Kissing might feel good but there wasn’t any love here. Without love, it wasn’t right. Not for her.
But it still made her limbs feel all warm and heavy, made her insides tingle and ready to melt. Her body was telling her just to lie there and enjoy it. Her body was increasingly aware of the heat generated in the spots where their flesh touched. He was naked, her chemise was open and her skirt was pulled up around her hips so their flesh touched in several important spots.
His mouth moved to her breast. She heard herself moan. Her fingers began to caress the taut muscles of his back. It was like touching velvet over heated steel. A fire began to kindle deep inside a part of her that had never been touched.
Good was too petty a way to describe this delicious ache. It wasn’t just delicious, it threatened to grow into an urgent, burning need.
There wasn’t going to be any burning going on here tonight. There shouldn’t be. No matter how good it felt, it was wrong. She was still lucid enough to know right from wrong—which was somewhat regrettable, under the circumstances. Still, she made herself take her hands off Rowan’s back and sink her nails deep into the soft skin on either side of his throat.
He howled. She pushed.
Rowan sat up and shouted, “What the devil are you doing, woman?” He swiped a hand across the scratches. “I’m bleeding!”
Maddie scrambled into a kneeling position. He was bleeding. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
He held out bloody fingers. His eyes held fire and ice at once. So did his voice. “Is that so?” He grabbed her by the shoulders. “If you wanted to say no, you could have just said no.”
“I’m saying no.”
“You can’t say no, you’re my wife.”
“You just said—”
He kissed her again. It was demanding and passionate and sent a wave of utter panic through her. She pushed at him but there was no breaking the grip he had on her shoulder. So she flailed her hands out, groping for something, anything, as he pressed her backward across the side of the bed.
Eventually she grasped the edge of the water basin.
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“She said no, didn’t she?”
Rowan was wet, his head hurt, he wasn’t quite sure where he was and he was lying flat on his back, naked but for the clothes piled on top of him. The one thing he was sure of was that the voice belonged to Rosemary and she sounded amused.
He sat up, very slowly, pulled his saffron shirt on over his pounding head then looked up to see his cousin smiling down at him from over the bright wick of a tiny oil lamp. Even that small light seemed overly bright at the moment. It occurred to him that perhaps he’d had too much mead, which wasn’t his usual habit but not an unreasonable assumption.