Текст книги "My Fierce Highlander"

Автор книги: Vonda Sinclair

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Текущая страница: 10 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

***

Heaven help me, what have I done?

Gwyneth paced from the window to the cold hearth in her room. She had fallen for a man’s charming seduction yet again. She felt seventeen, just as vulnerable and stricken with panic.

What if someone finds out? What if I’m with child?

Only this time she had no naïve, romantic illusions. She knew there would be no offer for her hand, and she didn’t want one. She rather looked at it like England’s former queen, Elizabeth—Gwyneth would never again subject herself to the whims of a man.

Likely Alasdair would turn his back on her now and treat her like so much gutter rubbish. It was the way of men. Once they had their physical release and their curiosity satisfied, they were off to more interesting, prettier women.

She had not even been able to keep her despicable husband’s attention—which she was heartily glad of. After three times, Baigh Shaw had shunned her and searched out his favorite village whores. She imagined they’d shown far more enthusiasm toward him in bed than she had.

But with Alasdair, she was afraid her enthusiasm had been abundantly clear. How she had wanted him! She could’ve eaten him up like a honey-drenched comfit. Hellish heat burned her cheeks at the memory of her wanton abandon. She’d been possessed of a wicked pleasurable release for several moments. Oh, the noises she’d made. He would think her the most lurid of whores.

Yet, she couldn’t forget the way he’d looked into her eyes as he drove into her over and over, giving her ecstasy so profound she must have imagined it. Unearthly. Magical.

He’d been fully present with her, fully aware it was she whom he was bonding his body with. His attention to her own pleasure demolished all her feeble expectations. He was a man who knew how to make love to a woman. A man who knew how to make said woman daydream about him all day, wondering when she might let herself be seduced again.

I’m a harlot. Not in name only this time, but in truth.

She strode quickly to the village kirk and prayed earnestly for forgiveness, her tear-stained cheeks burning with mortification. Though when she returned to the castle an hour later and saw Alasdair crossing the barmkin with a stranger dressed in the English style, she knew she truly wasn’t sorry for her sin. The temptation of Alasdair gripped her anew and refused to let her go. Her body heated and she craved him.

I’ve gone mad.

Surely she had. What other explanation could there be for repeating the same behavior that had destroyed her life six years ago?

What devastating effects would it have on her life this time? If she already carried Alasdair MacGrath’s babe within her, what would he do? Shun her? Take his child from her and send her away? Would looking at her disgust him? He wouldn’t marry her—that much she knew. He was an earl after all, a peer, though not as stuffy as those who lived in London. A nobleman didn’t take a fallen woman to wife.

Do not even think of it. He will turn his back on you. He will have no respect for you. You are a weak, sinful woman.

***

“My good man, your cook is improving.” Edward Murray, earl of Hennessy, sat to Alasdair’s right during the evening meal. The squat man, a Lowlander who fancied himself English, had attended university with Alasdair in Edinburgh. Edward had holdings in the Highlands and was passing through on his yearly inspection of them.

“I’m glad to hear it.” In truth, Alasdair was so distracted he could hardly hold a coherent conversation, or taste the delicious beef roast Cook had prepared. His encounter earlier in the day with Gwyneth was still impressed like a searing brand on his memory.

The moment she entered the great hall, he knew it, and his eyes followed her with a will of their own. How lovely she was, enigmatic. Innocent-looking, yet with a depth of passion he could hardly fathom. Small and soft and affectionate but with an inner strength of steel.

He yearned for her by his side, now and always, to take her meals with him so that he might enjoy looking into her eyes and talking about nothing in particular. He wanted her close enough that he might touch her anytime he wished. He would make her smile and laugh as she had during their lovemaking. She needed happiness and he would do everything in his power to provide it.

“I say, is that Lady Gwyneth Carswell?” Edward watched her with bulging eyes, his jaw slack. “What is she doing here?”

Alasdair experienced a moment of silent shock. Edward knew who she was? “She is in my employ. Why? What do you ken of her?” He hated the way Edward gaped at her.

The man covered his mouth with a napkin and coughed as if the astonishment of seeing her had near strangled him. He took a long swig of ale.

“I know her family well.”

Alasdair sensed he was about to learn more about Gwyneth than he’d ever expected to. “Is that so?”

“Indeed.” Edward lifted thin brown brows. “I wonder, did she ever marry?”

“Aye, to Baigh Shaw.” The fiendish whoreson.

Edward’s pale eyes rounded. “So she found someone to marry after all. Shocking.”

Alasdair frowned. “Why would it be shocking that she marry?”

“You don’t know?”

“Mayhap you should enlighten me.” Alasdair ground his teeth, his mood growing darker.

Edward leaned forward and lowered his voice to a near whisper. “Well, you see, a few years ago at a masque in London, she placed herself in a most compromising position with a higher up peer, the marquess of Southwick to be precise. He escaped to the continent, and she was left carrying his bastard.” Edward cringed melodramatically.

Numbness settled over Alasdair. It was much better not to think or feel.

“A tragedy really,” Edward went on. “Her father disowned her and sent her, I believe, to live with relatives here in the Highlands. But that would not be you, would it? I had no idea you were related to the earl of Darrow.”

Alasdair barely shook his head, unable to comprehend what all of this meant. Rory was not Baigh Shaw’s son, but some English marquess’s? Of that he was glad, strangely. Why had she not told him? And Gwyneth was the daughter of an earl? He had been right about her noble upbringing, but he hadn’t imagined the rest of it. No-nonsense, uptight Gwyneth, who blushed at a mere glance or a smile…ah, but she was indeed a sensual woman, and tempting to any man. Perhaps a rogue much like himself had seduced her. He couldn’t imagine her as the butt of such a widely known scandal. How painful that must have been for her.

“Alasdair, are you quite well?” Edward glanced over his shoulder. “Do not tell me a specter has passed behind my chair.” He laughed.

Alasdair’s mind worked overtime, trying to put together all the missing links. “I am providing her protection from her cousin, the MacIrwin. He’s trying to kill her because she saved my life. I was wounded in battle on MacIrwin land. She is a healer and came to my rescue.”

“My lord, man. Damned astonishing! Are you fully recovered?”

“Aye. I owe her my life, so I will provide her and her son protection as long as needs be.”

“Her son, yes. Is that him there?” Edward pointed toward the table in the far corner where servants and children sat on benches. Gwyneth placed a bowl of food before Rory.

“Aye. He’s a fine lad, sharp and canny. He’ll be good with a sword one day.”

“’Tis indeed fortunate for her that scandal doesn’t carry this far north.”

“I don’t care what kind of scandal is attached to her name. She is a good woman who saved my life.” Annoyance simmered in his blood.

Edward seemed impervious to his brusque tone. “And you are a good man, Alasdair. A noble man. Would that there were more like you in Scotland. And England.”

Alasdair didn’t know if Edward was being sincere, nevertheless he had to treat him as an honored guest. “How long will you be staying with us, then, Edward?”

“If you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to stay tonight and be on my way in the morn.”

“You’re welcome to stay as long as you like, of course, beyond Midsummer’s Day if you wish it.”

“Highland hospitality is always impressive, especially yours, Alasdair. But I have business in London, and I must hie back as soon as I can. You must come to visit sometime. I daresay you would enjoy London.”

“No offense, but ’tis doubtful.” Alasdair forced a dry smile. There was naught he hated more than the stench and crowds of big cities. The fresh, crisp Highland air and beautiful scenery were what he loved.

Edward laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. “I know—you prefer the rustic life up here in the middle of nowhere.”

“God’s country,” Alasdair corrected.

“True, true! But you must remember, our own king is of Scottish birth, and he much prefers London.”

“Our own king lacks a certain fondness for Highlanders. He would have our Gaelic tongues ripped from our mouths if he had his way.”

“Indeed, but that, my friend, will never happen. Highlanders are far too stubborn to give up something so important as their language. Hell, they will not even give up a dram of whisky.”

“Och, there you’re wrong!” Alasdair grinned. “I’ll give you a hundred drams if that’s what you’re wanting.”

“I could accept one or two.” He nodded eagerly.

Alasdair took Edward to the library, filled him with whisky and pumped him for more information on Gwyneth’s family and the scandal.

“Gwyneth’s father, I tell you, he is the staunchest Protestant you shall ever care to meet.” Edward slumped back on the couch and gulped the whisky as if it were water and his tongue near parched. “He won’t go near anyone who’s been touched by scandal. And he gives the king himself a wide berth. Doesn’t care for his friends and favorites.”

“I don’t care if I ever see London again,” Alasdair said. “One visit ten years ago was enough for me.”

“One visit?” Edward cackled, obviously well on his way to cup-shotten. “You are even worse off than I thought.”

“Tell me more of Southwick,” Alasdair said, ignoring his friend’s ribbing.

“Maxwell Huntley,” Edward pronounced in a haughty tone. “Sixth marquess of Southwick, mind you. As pompous as a prince. Got most of his money from the duke of Watley’s daughter, whom he married shortly after the scandal. She died several months ago. I assume he is sniffing out another heiress to refill his coffers and provide him an heir.”

“Sounds like a right whoreson bastard.”

Edward burst out laughing. “Indeed! Indeed, my good man!”

So what had Gwyneth seen in Southwick? Had she been in love with him? Or was she a light-skirt and he particularly persuasive. He hated thinking of her with a horse’s arse like Southwick. This was almost as bad as imagining her with the murdering Shaw.

He would get to the bottom of her lies and deceptions soon enough. And he would not suffer her to hold anything back from him.

***

The next evening after dark, Alasdair paced before the cold fireplace in his bedchamber. Only a tallow candle on the mantel lit the room to a dim gloom. Before Edward’s revelation, Alasdair had near decided to ask Gwyneth to marry him, or at least hand-fast. No doubt of it, he’d compromised her, and a bairn might be the result. He would protect her and provide for her, and Rory as well. He didn’t truly want to get himself into the position again of having a wife he could come to love and then lose. But, unthinking, he had followed his own instinctive urges. Urges he could not resist when she’d shown she wanted him as much as he’d wanted her. Their attraction was irresistible and spellbinding.

Why had Gwyneth not told him about Rory’s natural father? Was it because she was ashamed of the scandal, or did she not trust Alasdair?

Something else still nagged him in the back of his mind. Her situation with Shaw matched up too conveniently with Alasdair’s father’s murder. What was it? He had a gut feeling something wasn’t right. He must ask her.

He strode out of his chamber and down the corridor toward the room Gwyneth used. He pounded a fist against the door.

After a moment, Tessie opened the door, and her eyes near popped out of her head. “Laird MacGrath!”

“Aye.” He spotted Gwyneth in a wooden bathtub set before the fireplace. “Leave us.” He strode forward, inhaling a whiff of the floral and herb scented steam that arose from her bath.

Gwyneth gasped and started to sit up, but then grabbed her smock and spread it over the water to further shield herself. He didn’t know why. He’d been deep inside her yesterday morn. And he wanted that again. Now. Arousal flooded him, heating his blood.

He glanced back and found Tessie fidgeting in the doorway.

“Tell no one I’m here.”

“Aye, m’laird.” At his stern glare, she scurried out and closed the door with a click.

After locking the door, he dropped the key into his sporran and turned his attention back to Gwyneth. He would not have her leaving before he had his answers.

“Won’t you at least allow me to dry off and dress properly?” She sat, red-faced and huddling beneath the smock.

“No need. I but want a minute of your time.”

Her ice-blue eyes glittered. Good, he liked getting her passions worked up.

Moving closer, he placed his hands upon his hips. “Why did you lead me to believe Baigh Shaw was Rory’s father?”

Her mouth dropped open. “What? How did you—?” Her eyes narrowed. “That Englishman who left this morn, earl of…something.”

“Aye, Hennessy. Edward Murray. He’s a Lowlander.”

“Well, I assume he told you everything, so there’s nothing left for me to say,” she stated in her haughty Sassenach accent. “I shall leave in the morn.”

“What are you blathering on about? You’ll be staying right here.” The mere thought of her departing twisted his gut.

“I will be an embarrassment to your clan.”

“No one knows, save me. And even if they did, what of it? The Highlands are full of bastards. So is England. Some even accused your former queen of illegitimacy, aye?”

Gwyneth’s face reddened. “At least Rory has a name besides mine own,” she said softly.

“Your name would be preferred to Baigh Shaw’s,” Alasdair growled.

“You are a man. You cannot understand what it is like for a woman in my situation.”

“Nay, but I’m not daft. Why Baigh Shaw?” Why not anyone but that outlaw whoreson?

Gwyneth stared down into the water. “He was the only man willing to give my son a name. I didn’t marry him until Rory was three months old.”

“And exactly how old is Rory now?”

“He will be six next month.”

Alasdair did the calculations in his head. If Rory had been born in July, and he was three months old when Gwyneth married Shaw, that would’ve made it October. Shaw had murdered Alasdair’s father that same month.

Shaw was naught but a commoner and an assassin. And he would not have been worthy enough for Gwyneth to wipe her slippers on before she was expelled from her family and social position for her indiscretion. Gwyneth was a beautiful woman. Shaw likely lusted over her and, of course, had no concern for any scandal in faraway London. To marry so far above his station would’ve been an added reward.

“Tell me,” Alasdair began, “how did your marriage to Shaw come about?”

“What do you mean?”

“You needed a name for your son. And what did Shaw need?”

She pressed her eyes closed and clenched her jaw. “What do you think? Someone to…warm his bed, of course.”

The image revolted Alasdair. He couldn’t fathom this woman, whom he craved and dreamed about, in bed with the man he’d hated most in the world. Unable to look at her another moment, he turned away and gripped the back of the chair by the bed. The hard oak wood bit into his palm. He felt as he did when ambushed—he wanted to destroy something.

He pulled in a deep, cooling breath. “And Donald, was he involved in the marriage arrangements?”

“Of course. I was his ruined cousin, and he wanted to get me married off. He didn’t care whom I married. The fact that his friend and most loyal follower wanted me pleased him.”

Alasdair forced himself to look at her again.

Her wide blue eyes were deceptively innocent, her lush lips alluring. Her bare shoulders above the water, and the knowledge she was naked beneath, aroused him fully. He imagined the rosy tips of her breasts, yearned to see them peeking from the water. The urge to yank her from the bath and drape her wet body over his near overpowered him. He hoped she couldn’t see how he trembled from the waning rage and the burgeoning desire. His reaction shamed and alarmed him. No woman took his control. None! He’d come here for answers to his questions, and he would have them.

“Precisely when did the marriage take place?” he asked with considerably more calm than he felt.

“October in the year of our Lord 1612.”

“What day?”

She frowned. “The twenty-fifth. Why?”

God’s bones. This was no coincidence. A cold frisson spiraled down his spine. “A week after my father’s murder. Do you not think it strange that the two events happened so close together?”

“Yes, I do.” She stared down into the bath for a moment, then lifted her open—dare he say trusting?—gaze to him. “You think I was Donald’s payment to Baigh for murdering your father, do you not?”

“Were you?” He managed not to growl the words…just barely.

“Possibly. I heard the two of them talking one night about some kind of bargain. Donald told Baigh he could marry me if he followed through with his end of it. They didn’t say what the task was, but they left the castle and returned two days later. A few days after that, Baigh and I were married. Nothing about the bargain was ever mentioned again.”

“I see.” It was true, then. Everything he’d suspected. Yet, what did it matter? Even if she was payment, Gwyneth was still innocent of any wrongdoing. Baigh was still the murderer… a dead murderer. There wasn’t enough evidence to implicate Donald, even if he did hire someone to kill his enemy and used a woman as payment.

Alasdair’s anger at Gwyneth drained away and left him feeling raw. She had done naught wrong—not to him or his father, only to herself.

“Rory doesn’t know Baigh isn’t his father, and I would appreciate it if no one tells him,” she said in a vulnerable tone.

“Your secret is safe with me. I ken your father is an earl, and that your correct title is indeed ‘lady’. Why do you not use it?”

She shook her head, sadness in her eyes. “’Twould be a mockery.”

His chest ached at the pain and humiliation she must have suffered, all because she’d trusted the wrong man. “Why did your father not force the scoundrel Southwick to marry you?”

Her blush reappeared, and she stared into the flames of the fireplace. “He fled to Spain or France. Besides, I had already told him of my condition, and he wasn’t willing to do the right thing. He wanted someone more beautiful, someone with a much larger dowry.”

Alasdair couldn’t understand a man like that. He’d never seen a woman more beautiful and appealing than Gwyneth. How could a man abandon her when she carried his child? “’Twas utter lunacy,” he muttered. But he was glad for it now. Else the tempting fairy wouldn’t be sitting in his castle, in her bath before him.

Naked.

Time for talking was past.

Chapter Ten

Gwyneth didn’t care for Alasdair’s mood in the least. Pacing by the bath tub, he seemed to be barely suppressing his rage. But he had a right to it if Baigh had murdered his father.

Alasdair’s eyes had been cutting in their intensity while he’d questioned her. Now they darkened and strayed to the water of her bath. Despite the flickering dimness of the firelight, maybe he could actually see through the thin white smock that floated over her. She did not want him to see her naked. Did she?

No, indeed.

On the morrow, the whole of Kintalon Castle would likely be wagging their tongues over what their laird had done, barging in on her bath. They might even surmise what had happened yesterday—a quick shocking tryst in his bedchamber.

“Would you be willing to step outside while I dress? The water is turning cold.”

One corner of Alasdair’s lips lifted, and his eyes turned devilish. “I was hoping you’d invite me to join you.”

“No!”

Clearly, he now thought to make free use of her body any time he chose. He no longer respected her, and why should he?

“I’m in need of a bath.” He unfastened his bronze brooch and let the upper portion of his plaid fall behind him. His hand went to his leather belt. She closed her eyes before he unclasped it. A buckle thudded upon the floor. His linen shirt brushed over his skin in a whisper.

Oh, good lord, I’m trapped, naked.

Covering her front as best she could with the sodden smock, she pushed to her feet in the center of the tub. Water sluiced down her body and from her hair. The cool air sent chills and gooseflesh over her skin.

She snatched a brief glimpse of Alasdair standing nude a few feet away. He was built like a pagan deity and displayed a full erection. Though she’d touched him there before, and had his raw power inside her, that didn’t stop her from wishing the room was dark. Now, she didn’t have the fog of arousal to dull her inhibitions.

Trying not to look at him, as well as keep herself covered, she stepped from the tub. Water drained from her smock onto the carpet.

Alasdair moved toward her. She scuttled away and retreated behind a wooden screen.

Please don’t let him follow.

His brief, low chuckle echoed off the stone walls, and water splashed.

He took supreme delight in her discomfiture, didn’t he? I’m the greatest fool.

She peered around the edge of the screen and found him sitting in the tub. While it had almost swallowed her whole, he fit into it perfectly.

“This water isn’t cold,” he said. “I’m thinking you’ve never bathed in Loch Morlich.”

No, indeed. She didn’t bathe in lochs.

She dressed quickly in a clean, dry smock and dressing gown. Both were too thin for her comfort. Determined not to tempt him or fall for his seductive charms again, she also put on her arisaid and belted the bulky, woolen plaid about her waist.

“M’lady, I wonder, would you be willing to help a man with his bath? I cannot reach my back.”

She stiffened her spine and stepped from behind the screen. I’ll be strong. I won’t let him affect me. That was easy to think, but harder to achieve, she realized once her gaze ran over Alasdair’s powerful shoulders and chest above the water. His predatory gaze tracked her movements, and she gave him a wide berth.

“Who usually washes your back?” She could well imagine any number of female servants enjoying the task.

When he didn’t answer, she slid her gaze to him. He reminded her of an amused scoundrel, wicked and dark. “I’ve had no one in my bed, save you, for a good long while, if that’s what you’re asking,” he said.

Her face flushed and she shrugged, trying to pretend it mattered not. That hadn’t been what she was asking, but the information surprised her, relieved her, though she shouldn’t even care. They had no attachments or bonds between them. Yet she found cutting jealousy edged along her nerves when she imagined him with another woman.

“I won’t bite you, m’lady—” He chuckled. “Well, I would like to, but I promise I will only do so if you ask.”

Heavens! Such outrageous remarks he made—she supposed she deserved it. She had certainly asked for what he’d given her yesterday, and reveled in the wild, thrilling abandon of it. But now, she was not proud of her recklessness.

She should take the key from his sporran, unlock the door and leave, but he’d likely follow. Naked. Another spectacle was the last thing she wanted.

“I have it on good authority that a woman likes a man with a clean body and a dirty mind.”

How ridiculous he was. She bit back a grin. “And who told you that?”

“Lachlan, of course.”

“I wager Lachlan doesn’t know as much about women as he thinks he does.”

“I’m thinking you’re right.” Alasdair smiled. “’Haps even I ken more than he does about women.”

Likely he did. Certainly he appealed to her with his clean, hard-muscled body. As for his mind, she would not call it dirty, though he did know well how to seduce her with his sensual, lascivious words and scorching kisses.

“You don’t wish to help me? Stubborn, aye?” He winked. “’Tis only fitting. You have a fair bit of Scots blood in you.”

Trying to ignore his teasing, she strolled away, searching for something with which to occupy herself. But she slipped secretive glances back at him. Using the soap, he lathered her cloth and stroked it over his powerful chest and sculpted arms. His slow movements were beyond enticing.

She would mend a pair of trews one of the women had given her for Rory. That should take her mind off the tempting man in the tub.

No, it wouldn’t, but she could pretend it did.

With a sloshing sound, Alasdair slid down and dunked his head beneath the water, then sat upright again, water streaming down his face and off his long black hair. He rubbed the chunk of soap over his hair, making a miserable attempt to wash it.

He reminded her of Rory, who couldn’t wash his hair, either. Impatience overcame her. “Here, let me.” She moved in behind Alasdair, then realized she’d have to remove her bulky arisaid to avoid getting it wet. That done, she rolled up the sleeves of her smock and dressing gown and took the mushy soap from him.

“I thank you, m’lady.” His voice was deep and tantalizing.

“You won’t when I’m done with you.” She suppressed a small grin. “Rory always complains when I wash his head.” She lathered Alasdair’s hair and briskly rubbed. She scratched her short, blunt nails against his scalp, careful to avoid the spot where he’d had the injury.

“God’s truth, ’tis the most thorough head-washing I’ve had in all my days.”

“Are you complaining?”

“Nay. Never has anything felt so good.” He released a brief chuckle. “Well, I take that back. One thing does feel better.” He sent her a potent look over his shoulder.

Needing to get away from him, she rose. “There, I think you’re ready to rinse.”

“Would you wash my back first?” He gazed up at her, more innocently this time. “If you please.”

What a manipulating scoundrel he was. “Very well.” She took the soapy cloth and stroked it over his broad back.

Aside from a couple of scars from knife or sword wounds, his back was smooth and sleek, hard with muscle and ribs. He straightened his spine and the muscles rippled. His low back tapered in toward his hips in a most appealing way, drawing her gaze downward.

Wonder struck her again—how could a man be so beautiful? He was a marvel of creation. She found herself recalling all too vividly their encounter yesterday in his room, the dangerous and sensual magic that had drawn her to him against her rational will. She had given herself to him fully. That same magic crept into her bloodstream now, the tingling warmth flowing down toward the V of her thighs. Such delicious sin she craved with him.

She stood abruptly and laid the cloth on his shoulder. “There, it looks clean to me.”

“Many good thanks.” Even his deep murmur threatened to seduce her.

She wiped her hands on her dressing gown and stepped back. Feeling completely bereft, she fought down the treacherous sensations humming through her that urged her to watch him, touch him. Invite him into her bed.

He slid down again, his knees coming up, and dunked his head beneath the water for a rinse. Coward that she was, she shifted her gaze to the fire before she could see whether his position exposed his most masculine parts. When he surfaced, water poured from his hair.

He flung it back from his face, spattering the floor with droplets, took up the rag again and flicked an amused glance her way. “Would you be willing to help me wash something else?”

Good lord. Ignoring his chuckle, she turned her back on him and paced to the opposite side of the room. No wonder he treated her as he did—she’d practically dragged him to his bed yesterday. Clearly she had no shame when Alasdair touched her.

She turned the wooden chair by the bed, sat with her back to him and took up her mending. Anything to keep her mind and eyes off his captivating naked form.

Minutes later, water splashed, and she imagined him standing. Oh, what a sight that would be. Bending, she focused harder on her task. Almost no sound came from behind her for a long, tedious moment. She squeezed her eyes shut and listened. Imagined. Soft, dry linen cloth whispered over wet, bronzed skin.

I hope he will go now. Yes, her conscious mind did, but her body tingled with anticipation.

He padded closer on the Turkish carpet.

“You should dry your hair beside the fire, m’lady.” He burrowed his hand into her long hair. She’d forgotten it was wet. He stroked her neck with his warm, moist fingers.

“’Tis drying.” She prayed he’d go and spare her further temptation.

On one knee, he knelt beside her chair. “Gwyneth,” he murmured in a rough, intimate voice she would dream about.

He’d wrapped the linen cloth low about his hips, so that he was barely decent. His muscled shoulders, chest and arms were just as appealing and arousing as the rest of his body. He should cover himself entirely. Beads of water dripped from his hair onto his chest. She tried not to drink him up with her eyes. But when their gazes met, his dark intensity penetrated her defenses. She knew he saw the truth in her eyes, the truth of how he disturbed her, of how she was vulnerable beneath his touch.

He rose, took the mending from her hands and placed it on the bed. “Come.” When he held out his hand in invitation, no part of her could’ve refused him, even though she was unsure what he intended. His hand warm around hers, he pulled her up. “We shall dry your hair.”

Impulses warred inside her—to flee…or press her face to his chest. Resisting both, she let him lead her to a chair by the fire.

“Do you have a comb?” he asked.

She shook her head, feeling every bit the penniless pauper she was. “I’ll borrow Tessie’s tomorrow.”

He sat in the chair first and startled her by pulling her down onto his lap.

Heavens, he was practically naked. She stiffened and tried to rise again. “No, I should not. It is not…”

“Proper? I ken ’tis the truth. Nothing about us is proper, m’lady.”

And he didn’t care one whit. But she did. No matter her past, she could not be a man’s paramour.

He seated her firmly on his thighs and pulled her hair over the wooden chair arm. “Your hair is very long and beautiful.” He combed his fingers through it, loosening the snarls. Her scalp tingled.