Wishing For a Highlander (12 page)

His nostrils flared at her thinly-veiled accusation. Mayhap she’d been too bold. She dropped her gaze in submission, lest he suspect she challenged his good sense. ’Twould not do to enrage the man, despite how magnificent he looked when riled.

“Do ye have this box to show to me?” His quiet voice made her raise her gaze to his.

“No,” she admitted, pouting and lowering her eyelashes. “Big Darcy returned to the stables and I hid while he took the thing away with him. But he surely has it up at Fraineach. ’Twould be a simple matter of searching for it.”

At his uncertain look, she closed the distance between them and clenched the lapels of his robe. He was close to believing. She just had to nudge him a little farther.

“Steafan.” Her whisper promised intimacies if he would only accept. “Ye canna keep Big Darcy as your heir. Whatever has become of his wife, ’tis clear he meant to betray you. Ye married him so he would have bairns, but he didna even spend a single night with his bride. I dinna blame him if he suspected the woman a witch, but if so, why did he not bring her to you for your judgment? Why does he sneak around at midnight and converse with her strange box?” She turned her hands so her palms pressed his firm chest. The warmth of him teased her through his robe and shirt. “If ’tis an heir you desire so badly, why not let me give you one of your own blood? Take me to wife, and I swear I will give you bairns.”

Using just his fingertips, he removed her hands from his chest and dropped them as though she were vile to touch. His lip curled. “I already have a wife, if you’ll recall. I didna accept your offer two years ago, and I havena changed my mind since. I willna have my heir be the get of Ackergill’s whore.”

She gasped as if Steafan had struck her. “You confuse me with my sister,” she bit out, too offended to strive for the subservience the man seemed to prefer. “I may freely sample Ackergill’s men, but only because they desire me. I canna understand why you pretend not to. I could be yours, and all the other men would be jealous, kenning they can never again have what you have claimed.”

“They only tup you, woman, because ye throw yourself at them. Ye arena as desirable as ye suppose. Ye are merely accessible.” His words lit a fire of indignation in her. “Now, be gone with you and your gossip. Respectable women are in bed at this hour and not eavesdropping in stables and running to their lairds with wild tales.”

He turned and strode from the library.

Rage burned every inch of her skin. She nearly unleashed a very unladylike tirade on the haughty man. But she bit her tongue. Her words wouldn’t hurt Steafan. She had another way to punish the laird, a way she’d been employing ever since that rejection he so callously referred to.

She rushed home and set to preparing a fresh batch of quinine-laced rose oil. At times, she’d felt guilty for sending him and Ginneleah an annual gift of perfumed oil under the guise of a laird who lived leagues away. But if he was foolish enough to use the oil and believe it a helpful gift from across Scotia rather than a spurned-woman’s revenge, then he deserved the monthly disappointment of his wife’s flow.

As she arranged the vials she would need for preparing the oil, she smiled to herself. ’Twas a delicious sensation, having power over the most powerful of men.

* * * *

Steafan went to the kitchen to rinse his hands. He didn’t like having touched that snake Aodhan insisted on tupping. Any man with sense should be able to see the glint of rebellion in Anya’s eyes, the selfish set to her mouth. She was bonny and built for a man’s pleasure to be sure, but only a fool would put his cock in such a trap. Once that woman had her hooks in a man, she wouldn’t let go without a fight. He had no wish to be caught. He liked being the fisherman, not the fish.

And his golden Ginneleah was a fine fish, indeed. Aodhan had raised the lass well. His body sang with desire just thinking of his bonny young wife. His cock leapt with the urge to take her, but the lass would be asleep at this hour, as he should be. As he would be, as soon as he shared Anya’s unlikely story with Hamish. Darcy was such a good lad he wouldn’t have even bothered, save for the fact that Anya made some sense. Reluctant though he was to admit it, in his excitement at finding his nephew had claimed a woman, he had neglected to interview her properly. He doubted Anya’s claim that Melanie was a witch, but he did find her strange accent and bold manner suspicious. Mayhap he should have learned more about her before granting her access to his nephew’s home. ’Twas an oversight he would soon correct.

He found Hamish’s room below the kitchen and spoke briefly with his chief guard before climbing the stairs to his bedchamber, passing Ginneleah’s on the way. He paused in front of her door, his body tight with need and his mind craving the peace that came from sating himself in her sweet arms. He’d be within his right to wake her. And the obedient lass would be welcoming. But he didn’t wish to disturb her.

He wished to look on her, though. He didn’t glimpse her in slumber often, but when he did, he fell in love with her all over again. Mayhap just a peek would ease his mind and body.

He pushed open the door as quietly as he could. The room was near black, the only light a scant line of gray coming through the narrow window. His eyes already accustomed to the dark, he stepped up beside the bed and gazed on his treasure.

What blasphemy Anya seethed! His Ginneleah might be barren, but his eyes refused to see her as aught but perfect. He would never put her away, especially no’ for somat beyond her control.

Peaceful as an angel she was in her large bed, and more lovely by far. Her skin, naturally tan like her da’s and even more golden for the afternoons she liked to spend in the garden, gleamed with youth even in the darkness. ’Twas a pity many women shielded their faces from the sun as the fashion was in France. Life came from the sun. Death from shadow. His Ginneleah was life itself. Bonny, sunny life. Her thick hair, burnished gold in color and silky in texture, fanned over her pillow in a temptation he couldn’t resist.

He reached out and smoothed his hand over the soft strands.

“Steafan, is that you?”

Damnation. He hadn’t meant to wake her.

“Hush, lass, back to sleep with ye. I only meant to gaze on ye. I’ll go.”

She breathed a deep sigh, and the linens rustled with her stretch. “Ye dinna have to.”

“I ken it well. But I shall. And curse ye, lass, for sleeping so lightly. I would like the chance to watch ye sleep on occasion. It puts my mind at ease.” He bent to kiss her forehead and turned to go.

“’Twill be a blessing, my light sleeping, when there are bairns down the hall needing me in the night.” Her wistful tone tugged his heart and made him stop with his hand on the latch.

“Aye,” he said, his voice soft, as he only permitted with her. “’Twill be a blessing, indeed.”

“Come to me. Let us try again. It has been nearly a week.”

Ginneleah didn’t like coming together nearly as much as he did, though the sweet lass never complained. He kent himself to be a fine looking man, but he was elder to her da by five years, and he never fooled himself into believing she could ever look on him as aught more than a duty. He should let her rest, especially since ’twas plain to see they weren’t meant to create life together.

“I shouldna,” he said, but his cock was already hard. He was going to let her talk him into staying, and he hated himself for it.

“Of course ye should,” she said, holding out her hand to him. “Ye need an heir, and I want to give ye one. We shouldna let it go a week in between. Have ye been busy? Sometimes when ye have much work, ye dinna come to me as often.”

He returned to her bed and sat heavily on the edge. Predictably, his wife knelt at his back and wrapped her arms around his neck. Her scent of honeysuckle and herbs soothed him.

“Aye. I have been busy,” he said, fingering her soft locks as they fell over his shoulder. “And so have you. Been in the garden today?” He inhaled deeply, letting the scents of innocence and sunshine caress his soul.

She murmured somat in the affirmative as her hands slipped over his collar and into his robe. Her fingers tugged at the laces of his nightshirt.

Utterly defeated, he stood and threw his night clothes aside then crawled on the bed, settling between his wife’s cool thighs. He pulled the vial of rose oil from the drawer in the nightstand, frowning at how light it had become since they’d gotten it as a gift at the first anniversary of their wedding. He’d received a vial shortly after their nuptials, too, accompanied by a missive of congratulations from Laird Wilhelm Murray of Dornoch, a man he’d never met, but whose wealth and standing were regarded throughout Scotia. ’Twas a point of pride that such a great laird kent his name and cultivated his alliance by sending exotic gifts. In the missive, Murray had credited the rare and expensive rose oil for the siring of his six sons, and hoped it would do the same for him. He had hoped so too, but ’twas not why he used the oil with Ginneleah and ’twas not why he looked eagerly forward to the arrival of the next vial, should Murray be so generous again come their anniversary next month. Darcy wasn’t the only man in Ackergill with a sizeable cock, and he didn’t think his wife would find him comfortable without the oil.

He’d had no such ointment for use with Darla, God rest her soul, and she had been far less accommodating than his sweet Ginnie. After Darla had given him his son, she’d claimed her duty as laird’s wife was done and refused to welcome him to her bed. He had commanded her to capitulate a time or two when ’twas either that or lower himself to ease his strain with one of Anya’s ilk, but he found he didn’t like an unwilling woman beneath him.

He would never command Ginneleah to his bed. But then, he didn’t think his wife would ever deny him and tempt him to. If he had to make do without the rose oil, he’d find somat else to make their joining tolerable for her. Surely there were ointments for sale in Inverness or Edinburgh.

But ’twas a problem for another day. At present, there was enough of the blessed nectar left for several couplings. He coated the tips of two fingers with the rose-scented slickness and rubbed her gently.

“You’re a good lass,” he said as he worked himself inside her, inch by slow, tight inch. Her body tensed before he was halfway seated, and he kent she was struggling not to whimper. He stopped his advance and merely stroked her hair and whispered to her. “Lovely as the sunflowers in the garden ye are, my sweet lass. As warm and gentle as the summer breeze. Easy, sweet lady. Relax, and it willna bother ye so much.”

“It doesna bother me,” she said in a strained voice that betrayed the lie. “Go on with it.”

He afforded her a moment before proceeding, disliking this part despite the blinding pleasure of sinking into her oiled warmth. Thankfully, it always became more comfortable for her once he began moving. And tonight was no exception. She relaxed for him in stages, her body changing from a clenched fist to a perfect, welcoming sheath. Her face smoothed. She even favored him with a tender smile.

He made love to her slowly and gently, basking in the sounds of her quickened breaths as his heart sped and he neared the end; he always made it as quick for her as he could. As he finished, he held her tightly and praised her for her sweetness and willingness.

Leaving her to her privacy, he went back to his own bedchamber. He felt worlds better for his wife’s soft embrace. He could think again, and this night had given him much to think on.

God help Darcy if the lad had truly helped his wife run away. God help Melanie if she was a witch. God help Anya if he found out she had roused him from his sleep for a hoax.

Morning would tell who was in need of divine assistance.

Chapter 9

Melanie woke up in a large, unfamiliar bedroom. The furnishings were simple and suited to a well-to-do merchant’s home in sixteenth-century Europe. Fraineach. She groaned at the now irrefutable evidence that she was stranded in the past.

“And married to Darcy, let’s not forget,” she muttered as she kicked off layers of cozy quilts. She’d said it with as much sarcasm as she could muster, but the tone didn’t match the soothing effect the words had on her. “Married to Darcy,” she repeated, and her lips curled into a lopsided smile.

Damn the honorable Highland warrior for making her care about him. That very care might be keeping her here against her will. She had to figure out a way home. If the box refused to help her, maybe she could find the maker. Surely this MacLeod, whoever he was, would know how to manipulate whatever crazy magic the box contained. Although, whether the maker was established or not twenty-five years before he’d made the box was anyone’s guess. Maybe she could talk Darcy into taking her to Inverness to investigate.

Encouraged by her new plan, she slid from the soft, clean bed. She still had on Darcy’s mother’s dress, which made sense since she didn’t remember getting undressed last night. Or crawling into bed. Come to think of it, she didn’t remember much of anything since collapsing by that standing stone and crying her eyes out all over Darcy’s shirt. She must have fallen asleep during the ride back to Ackergill. Which meant Darcy had carried her up to bed without waking her.

And she’d thought him utterly lacking in chivalry. Marveling at how thoroughly she’d been proven wrong, she removed Fran’s pins from her hair, ran her fingers through it, then set off in search of a place to relieve herself.

Fraineach’s outer walls of stone and mortar and inner walls of painted wood slats marked it as a nicer than average home for the period. Had garderobes had come into fashion by 1517 and if so, had Darcy’s family been well off enough to have one? Searching along the upper hall, she peeked in the first doorway she came to. It opened into a spacious room cluttered with stored items and furniture draped with sheets. Amidst the clutter, she spotted a wire rack for sewing dresses, a stick topped with a carved horse’s head, complete with leather reins, and a bassinette with chipped paint. Had Darcy’s mother placed him in that bassinette when he’d been a cuddly little baby? Had the wooden horse served as Darcy’s childhood steed as he chased Edmund around the windmills, pretending he was leading a skirmish?