Текст книги "My Fierce Highlander"

Автор книги: Vonda Sinclair

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Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

Southwick clenched his hands together and glanced about. “I will be sure King James hears of this.”

“’Haps I will scribe a missive and tell him myself.” Keeping the two knaves in his peripheral vision, Alasdair poured himself a dram of sherry and sprawled in the chair behind his desk. Though he wanted nothing more than to slice Southwick limb from limb with his claymore, he held his temper in check and affected nonchalance.

Perhaps Southwick hadn’t heard tell of the Sassenach lordlings who’d been known to disappear without a trace in the Highlands.

***

With a little help from Tessie, Gwyneth put on an outfit from the trunk that held Alasdair’s wife’s clothing. Gwyneth’s thoughts flew and scattered in all directions. Her fingers trembled so badly she couldn’t manage to tie anything. She only noticed the clothing was green and gold and of fine material. It shouldn’t matter what she wore, but she didn’t want Southwick to know she was indeed penniless. It would put her at a disadvantage.

“Will you watch Rory?” Gwyneth asked Tessie.

“Aye, of course.”

Minutes later, her drumming pulse drowned out all other sounds when she knocked at the library door. Finally, Alasdair opened the door for her. She focused on his familiar form for a moment, tall and dark, clothed in a belted plaid. She hoped he would be her calm within the windstorm. And indeed his presence allowed her a small measure of comfort.

Two men, dressed in English hunting clothes, rose when she entered. Her gaze locked on the hateful visage of Maxwell Huntley, marquess of Southwick. What struck her immediately was how much he had aged since she’d seen him last. Though his normally pale skin was bright pink, he appeared sickly, with sunken eyes and hollow cheeks. The malicious gleam in his frigid gray eyes caught her attention. How could she have ever imagined herself in love with this man? Had he changed so much, or had she?

“Lady Gwyneth, I am pleased to see you.” Southwick stepped forward, took her hand and kissed it.

Though she wore gloves, her skin chilled. Genteel manners deserting her, she snatched her hand away. His strong, familiar perfume—a blend of musk, rosewater and civet—mixed with his sweat odor, nauseating her. The last time she’d seen him, to tell him she was carrying his child, he had slapped her down and called her a lying whore.

“Lord Southwick,” she forced herself to say. “Are you well?”

“Indeed, I am.” He sent her a tight-lipped grin, then gave a deep bow. “And I pray that you are.”

Nodding, she studied his eyes and the deceit behind his facade.

“I’m glad you agreed to see me so that we might talk privately.” When no one moved, Southwick cut a brittle glare at Alasdair.

“Laird MacGrath stays,” she said.

“Ah.” Southwick lifted his thin blond brows as if reading something lurid into their association. “Well, if you insist, my lady.” Southwick’s gaze trailed down over her as if she were a woman of ill repute. He stroked his pointed, thinning goatee. “I’ve come to talk to you about my son.”

His son?

“I want to make you a deal,” Southwick continued. “You have taken care of him these last few years alone and with little funds. Now, I would propose to take him off your hands for the duration.”

Chapter Twelve

The walls of the library shrank in on Gwyneth. She could not comprehend the meaning of Southwick’s words. I would propose to take him off your hands for the duration.

He would take Rory away?

She felt as if someone had struck her chest with a hammer. Alasdair grabbed onto her before she realized she’d swayed.

She pulled away from him and steadied herself, called upon some reserve of strength deep within. “Have you gone mad?”

“Hardly.” Southwick lifted a brow. “He is my son, is he not?”

She shook her head, denying he had any right to call Rory his son. Denying Southwick could touch him. Denying….

“I am offering him his heritage. He will one day be the seventh marquess of Southwick and he requires a proper education.”

“But he is illegitimate. He cannot inherit—”

“That is but a formality.” His sharp tone gave her pause.

“Why are you doing this?” she asked, desperate to make sense of it all. “Have you not married?”

“I did marry—the duke of Pembley’s daughter, but she died six months ago, barren.” His expression remained impassive.

“So marry someone else!”

“I think I’ve had enough of marriage. And since I already have a son, I don’t need to marry again. I don’t intend to take him away from you. You may visit him anytime you wish.”

Visit him. Visit? “No!”

“You cannot deny me my son.”

Desperate, Gwyneth grasped at the threads of control. “He is not your son. I visited with another man a few nights after our…meeting.”

“You lying whore!”

“Southwick, you forget yourself,” Alasdair growled and stepped forward. “You will show respect to Lady Gwyneth in my home or you can leave now. Because of your actions, she lost everything.”

Southwick glared at Alasdair. “Pray pardon.”

As if those two insincere words could undo all the damage he had wrecked on her life. And continued to wreck.

“I’m merely trying to get her to see reason,” Southwick continued in a milder tone, but malice still gleamed in his eyes. “If only her small mind can comprehend—”

“’Tis time you were leaving,” Alasdair said in his laird and commander voice. He stood over the two Englishmen and pointed toward the door.

“I will give you money,” Southwick said to Gwyneth.

“How dare you try to buy my son? You are the lowest—”

“Southwick, you are overstaying your welcome.” Alasdair’s voice held an Arctic chill. “Here in the Highlands we don’t take insult lightly.”

Southwick’s face turned crimson, but he remained silent and exited with his cohort.

“I will return.” Alasdair followed them out.

Her trembling legs no longer able to hold her up, she slumped onto a chair in the silent, empty room.

Dear heavens, what am I going to do?

What was Southwick scheming? She would be glad for Rory to be the next marquess of Southwick, but an illegitimate child could not inherit his natural father’s English title. Clearly he had something illegal and nefarious in mind. Either that or he’d turned lunatic.

In any case, she would not hand her son over to the abusive knave at such a young age. Rory was her son, and she would be the one to raise him. She would not want to jeopardize his future, but she couldn’t let him go now. She loved him more than her next breath and must always see that he was safe and happy. Education was not the issue. She was already seeing to that, and he was too young to be sent away to school.

Alasdair returned and slammed the heavy door. “What a vile whoreson he is. I told the guards to keep them off MacGrath land.”

“He’s come to finish destroying my life.” Gwyneth sprang to her feet. “I cannot believe after he’s cast us aside for six years, he now wants Rory when it’s convenient for him. Rory cannot legally inherit his title, can he?”

“Nay. Unless Southwick’s title is Scottish and you marry him.”

“His title is English and I would never marry him.”

“Or he might petition the king. How many people in London know for certain of Rory’s existence?”

“My family.” Suddenly too exhausted from the tension to stand, she dropped to the chair near the hearth. “Father didn’t want word of my disgrace getting out so he sent me away. Because he had three other unmarried daughters at the time, he didn’t want the family name sullied. Since Southwick and I both disappeared, I’m certain people surmised the worst.”

Alasdair nodded and took the chair opposite her.

“What if he doesn’t give up on trying to take Rory? Will the law be on his side?” Gwyneth asked, pressing a hand to her nauseated stomach.

“I don’t ken precisely how the English courts work in this situation, but it doesn’t sound like what he wants to do is legal anyway.”

The jaws of a trap sprang shut on Gwyneth. Her mind struggled for an escape. Men held all the power over women and children, no matter the situation. And even if Rory couldn’t legally inherit a title, Southwick could still take her son on a whim. “Dear lord, what am I going to do? He has a vicious temper when he’s angry. When I—” She pressed her lips closed, shame devouring her composure.

“Go on.”

“When I told him I was with child, he slapped me and I fell.”

Alasdair’s face tightened and the warrior in him emerged. “Why did you not tell me this afore? I would’ve bashed in his head on first sight!”

“You cannot do that.” Although she appreciated his protectiveness, she would not have him assaulting people on her behalf. “I also heard he beats his servants and may have killed one, though no one could prove it. I cannot allow him to take my son.”

“God’s wounds!” Alasdair shoved to his feet and paced to his desk and back. “’Haps if you would marry me and become a countess, you would hold more power in the event Southwick tries to take Rory.”

***

Marry Alasdair? Good lord!

Was that the only alternative?

It had been hours since Alasdair had sprung his latest “proposal,” but Gwyneth could think of nothing else—save the nightmarish Southwick situation.

She stood beside Rory in the shadows and gazed out over the bustling activity in the great hall she’d helped decorate with herb and flower garlands. Their sweet, pungent scents blending with all manner of meat, onion, and bread aromas now sickened her.

Alasdair had forbidden her to return to the kitchen or to help with the final preparations of the feast. Her fidgety hands craved something to do. But she was glad for the time to spend with Rory, simply to watch him play with his small friend. Just to make sure he was safe and still here with her.

She would have no life without her son and could never let him go.

But to marry Alasdair in the hopes his position would hold some sway with English courts didn’t seem the answer. Nor would it be fair to him.

She didn’t know how much influence Alasdair had with King James, but everyone knew the king, though Scottish, held no fondness for these wild and rebellious Highlanders. In all likelihood, if she did marry a Highland laird, the king and courts would have even less sympathy for her plight. Since Southwick was English, they would want Rory raised on English soil.

Gwyneth’s gaze shifted to Alasdair, striding across the great hall, clothed in his finest apparel—a newly woven kilt of blue and black tartan, crisp ivory linen shirt and deep blue doublet.

He approached her through the throng of people that milled about between the two long rows of tables weighted down with food.

Please do not let him propose again.

Alasdair stopped before her and Rory. “M’lady.” He bowed, then stroked an affectionate hand over Rory’s head, but his focus remained on Gwyneth. “Would you do me the honor of sitting with me at high table?”

His clean scent with a trace of lavender reached her, teasing her senses. The dampness of his hair told her he had bathed recently. His eyes were dark seduction, even now. She was tempted to say yes to anything he asked.

“I thank you, but I cannot.” Her gaze dropped to her son and the look of wide-eyed hero-worship he cast up at Alasdair. Why couldn’t Alasdair have been Rory’s natural father, instead of Southwick?

Alasdair let out an impatient breath. “You are a noble guest just as the laird and lady of Clan Grant are.”

“No, Laird MacGrath, I am but your temporary housekeeper. I would not care to explain to them why I am given the honor of sitting at the laird’s table.”

“You’re an English lady, daughter of an earl. That’s the only explanation you need. Besides, ’tis not their concern. I am but providing you and your son protection.”

“I’m sorry.” His guests were sure to assume the worst—and the truth—that she and Alasdair had been lovers. She couldn’t bear any more looks or words of censure this day. Southwick’s visit had been more than sufficient to destroy her composure. Aside from that, she would make a silent dinner companion.

“Very well. I proclaim you are no longer my housekeeper. You’re an honored guest, and you are not to lift another finger to help.”

Was he serious or teasing her? At times his mysterious eyes were impossible to read.

“Then I will be forced to leave.”

“Humph. You are the most vexing woman I have ever dealt with.” His grumpy proclamation was laced with humor.

She noticed a few guests nearby staring their way and grinning.

“I’m sorry not to be more agreeable, my laird,” she said in a low tone.

“As well you should be.”

Why in heaven’s name was he talking so loud? She focused on Rory’s fine hair, wishing to escape this conversation. She didn’t want to draw attention to herself or more specifically, to Alasdair’s interest in her.

His warm fingers underneath her chin, he tipped her face toward him, and a tiny grin formed on his lips. “I swear I shall have you eating at my table afore the year is out.”

He should not touch her thus, with such boldness and possession, before anyone who watched.

“And if you do not?” she asked.

His smile widened. His eyes took on that look he always had just before he coaxed her into something delicious yet shocking. “I’m said to be most stubborn and determined.”

***

“You lied, MacIrwin!” Southwick shouted, his reedy voice echoing off the rock walls of Irwin Castle’s great hall. “You do not have my son as you claimed in your missive. And MacGrath refuses to release him.”

His muscles tense and his hand on his sword hilt, Donald MacIrwin restrained his bloodlust and surveyed his clansmen. Each of them glared at the English whoreson but held their tongues. He must do the same if he wanted the two-hundred pounds.

“Dare you call me a liar, you stinking Sassanach?” And he did reek. His perfume was enough to knock a strong man flat.

Southwick extended his arms, indicating the great hall around them. “I do not see him here in your possession. And yet, you said in your missive that you held him. That you wished me to pay a monstrous and outrageous ransom for my own son.”

“That’s because the bitch Gwyneth took him and fled. When I get my hands on her I’ll…” kill her. But nay, he couldn’t say that now. First, he had to separate Southwick from his gold and silver.

“I don’t care what you do to Gwyneth. I want my son.” Southwick’s tone reminded Donald of a petulant, spoiled bairn.

“I have a proposition,” Donald offered. “I’ll retrieve the wee lad from MacGrath and you pay me the two hundred pounds.”

Southwick’s eyes narrowed as he considered. “I must have my son in hand first. Completely unharmed and healthy. Yes, you go get him, hand him over to me, and I’ll give you the money.”

Triumphant victory burst through Donald. He would have the money soon. “Very well.” Donald stepped forward and extended his hand. Southwick, wearing brown gloves, finally took his hand and shook. Och, what a weak handshake the Sassanach had. Donald and his men could easily overpower Southwick and his lordly friends, kill them, and take the money, but he did not wish to anger King James.

“Now, me and my men must go make plans for the lad’s rescue. Have supper while you wait,” Donald said.

If Gwyneth or any of the MacGraths got in his way, he would not be so careful of his actions.

***

During the Feill-Sheathain feast at Kintalon Castle, Gwyneth sat at a table toward the back with Tessie and some of the lower ranking clan members and children. She had nothing to celebrate and no appetite for the fine foods laid out before her—roast beef, mutton, lamb, fine yellow cheese, leeks, parsnips, cabbage, oat cakes—the list went on. Here sat more food than she’d seen during her entire stay in the Highlands, and Alasdair did not deprive even the lowest servant from partaking.

What if Southwick pursued custody of Rory? That was all she could think about, and nausea replaced her appetite.

“Is all well, then?” Tessie asked beside her.

Gwyneth nodded and forced herself to eat.

“What did the fancy Sassenach want?”

Those sitting closest to Gwyneth cast inquiring glances her way.

“Nothing of importance,” she said for all to hear, then lowered her voice for Tessie’s ears only. “I’ll tell you later.” She didn’t want anyone else to know her connection with Southwick, especially Rory.

After dark, music and dancing commenced around two large bonfires outside the barmkin walls on a hill overlooking the loch, the village and the fields. Gwyneth went only to watch Rory as he joined in, dancing and cavorting with the other children.

Smoke from the wood and peat fires burned her lungs when the wind shifted. She coughed and moved further away.

Small blazes, like torches, in the fields and pastures below caught her attention. Outsiders. Dear lord, was Southwick returning? Donald invading? Strangely, the torches were not moving in their direction but around toward the right in large circles.

“’Tis to bless the crops and cattle, for a fruitful harvest and many calves,” Alasdair said close behind her.

She spun to face him. “In truth? Do you believe that?”

He shrugged. “Aye, why not? Our clan has been prosperous for two hundred years. You cannot argue with success. But I’m not a heathen if that’s what you’re thinking.” His wicked grin and wink had the disturbing effect of negating his words and raising her awareness of him.

What had he meant, anyway? He wasn’t a heathen, yet he believed the heathen rituals worked? In most other ways he appeared to be a Protestant, but the Highlanders held to their superstitions. Besides, something more urgent worried her.

“Are we safe out here?”

“I have posted armed guards all around, very close together. Don’t worry about it. Remember, this is a celebration.” He bowed. “Would you give me the honor of this dance, Lady Gwyneth?”

Heat rushed over her face. “It has been ages since I’ve danced. I’m sure I would make a mess of it.”

“That matters not. Come, m’lady. ’Twill be fun.” Brows lifted with an expectant look, he held out his hand. “You do remember what fun is, aye?”

No, she scarce remembered it at all.

“If not, I’d like to remind you.”

She took his hand. “Oh, very well. But if I tread on your injured toe, you must not blame me.”

“My toe is full recovered and can withstand your wee foot upon it.” He led her toward the other couples already dancing. When they joined in, she was glad to see he had not lied about his toe and seemed light on his feet.

Gwyneth made a misstep and almost toppled sideways. Alasdair caught her and chuckled. Her own laughter surprised her. How long had it been since she’d laughed and danced? More than seven years?

“I have forgotten how to dance,” she confessed.

“Nay. Merely out of practice, I’m thinking. But I ken well how to remedy that.”

A prickle of worry returned. Where was Rory?

She glanced aside and saw him jumping around with the other children, ashes from the bonfire smeared on all their foreheads. She smiled and returned her attention to Alasdair. “Someone has rubbed ash on Rory’s forehead.”

“Aye, ’tis for blessings as well.”

More superstition. Well, what could it hurt?

“’Haps you would like me to smear ashes upon your forehead, m’lady.”

She laughed. “I think I prefer a clean face.”

“You are a lovely lass, but a hundred times more beautiful when you smile and laugh as you are now.”

Such outrageous compliments. And the way he looked at her, with rapt attention. Her face felt as if it glowed fiery red, and not just from the heat of the bonfire.

“Promise me, every day from now on, you will smile at least once, and I must be witness to this action. Laughter is required five times a week.”

Gwyneth snickered. “I can make no such promises. You are naught but a charmer.”

“I have never been accused of such.” His smile was indulgent, full and without restraint, reflecting her own feelings—happiness such as she had not felt during the whole of her life.

In truth, he was a charmer, and how would she resist him this night?

***

After two dances, Gwyneth was both relieved and disappointed when Alasdair bowed, kissed her hand and went to talk with his guests—the other chiefs and their families.

When he led one of the young, unmarried ladies out to dance, jealousy swooped in on Gwyneth.

She focused her attention on Rory and was surprised to find him twirling in circles with a small girl in fine clothing. After a couple of minutes, Rory’s hands slipped off hers. She tumbled onto her rump and turned a backward flip.

“Good heavens!” Gwyneth strode forward. “Rory, you will hurt the little lady. Now, help her up.”

“Pray pardon,” Rory said, reaching his hand down to her.

“My, what a mannerly young sir he is,” said one of the ladies as she dusted off the girl’s skirts. “You are fine, are you not, Millie?”

She nodded emphatically and dragged Rory out for more dancing and horseplay.

“Well, he’s already popular with the lasses.” The short, round woman laughed. “I’m Alice Balfour, Lady Grant.”

“’Tis an honor to meet you, my lady. I am Gwyneth Carswell.”

“Oh, you’re English. ’Tis clear in your speech.”

“Yes.”

“And how did you come to be all the way here, in the Highlands?”

“I was married to a Highlander but am widowed now. At the moment, I am the MacGrath’s housekeeper but I hope to find a position as governess or tutor and go south before winter.”

“Indeed? The long winter nights and deep snows of the Highlands were the hardest thing for me to grow used to. I was born in the Lowlands, you see, some miles from Dunbar.”

Could this be an opportunity? “Would you know anyone in that area who is searching for a governess?”

“My brother just hired someone new for his eldest son, but they have five more, all under seven, one set of twins. I told him to give his poor wife a wee break.” She chuckled. “You’re serious about this, then?”

“Yes, very. Does he live in a peaceful area?”

“Indeed.”

“Laird MacGrath has promised to provide me with a reference.”

“His word is gold. I will send a missive to my brother upon my return home. If you have a letter of reference from Laird MacGrath, I will include that as well.”

“That would be wonderful.”

“The MacGrath’s first wife was my distant cousin, and he is well respected and liked in our family.”

Gwyneth felt like an interloper, even though she herself had asked him if his late wife’s family might be in need of someone.

“Clearly you’re well educated. Are you of noble birth, then?” Alice asked.

Gwyneth usually felt it best not to mention her background, but in this case it might prove helpful. “My father is an English earl.”

Alice’s eyes flew wide. “In truth?”

“Yes, and he provided all of us, including my five sisters and one brother, with proper educations.”

“Goodness, I wish we were in need of a governess. You impress me greatly. Millie is our youngest, and Paula, our eldest.” She smiled toward the twirling couples. “Dancing with the MacGrath as we speak. Oh, wouldn’t they make a lovely pair?” She sighed. “I would give my eye-teeth to have him for a son-in-law.”

Though she did not wish to, Gwyneth turned to follow her gaze. The young Paula, of no more than eighteen years, beamed up at Alasdair. Her long, dark hair flowed down her back. They matched in coloring and her tall height complimented his. He focused on her, to the exclusion of all else, and laughed at something she said.

“I’m thinking he’ll become smitten with her. What do you think?” Alice whispered eagerly. “Look at how he smiles at her.”

“’Tis possible.” Gwyneth looked away. The sight of them hurt her eyes. And her heart. “I thank you for inquiring with your brother. I shall ask Laird MacGrath to write the reference missive before the morrow. Pray pardon me and enjoy the rest of the celebration.”

Lady Alice bid her good evening, and Gwyneth moved toward the shadows to try and soothe her aching heart. Good lord, why had her reaction to seeing Alasdair dancing with the pretty lass struck her so?

Gwyneth couldn’t marry him, so she should want him to find a suitable wife. But some part of her deep inside couldn’t understand the logic of that.

Was it possible that a woman and man could love each other equally and forever? Or was it a fable? The love she’d thought she felt for Southwick years ago was but delusion. Upon much reflection, she’d come to the conclusion that her parents didn’t share love, nor much warmth or fondness.

Of course, Gwyneth had never loved Baigh Shaw. She had come to believe love between a man and a woman didn’t truly exist. Was it a fantasy some poet had dreamed up to mislead people into thinking such lofty love and passion were possible?

The only love that she knew existed between people was that of a parent for a child, and vice versa, along with love between siblings and friends.

But the wondrous emotions that grew and expanded within her for Alasdair were unlike anything she had ever experienced. They near took her breath and her reasoning. She did not trust herself, nor her feelings—which were not warm and comforting, but hot and disturbing. Mayhap the Gaelic words he’d whispered in her ear during their lovemaking had been an incantation that had drawn her under his control. Or mayhap real love could exist between a man and a woman and that’s what she felt for him.

Trying to keep her attention off Alasdair and any female who might be touching him or gazing at him with adoration, she focused on the male clan members who were setting a blaze to a giant cartwheel of straw. Once it was well afire, they rolled it down the hill toward the loch below. When it reached the bottom, still burning, a cheer went up. “A fruitful harvest!”

Did their superstitions know no bounds?

A short time later, a few of the older clan women started rounding up the tired and yawning children.

“’Tis time for stories and bed,” Great Aunt Matilda said.

The children whined and moaned.

“’Haps we will even find some comfits inside.”

The promise of sweets hastened their steps.

“I’ll come with you,” Gwyneth told Matilda, glad for the excuse to avoid watching Alasdair court any more ladies. She helped herd Rory and the other children toward the barmkin and castle.

“You cannot be going in now,” Alasdair said behind her.

Surprised, she stopped and turned.

“You’re not one of the children. And you’re far too lovely to not enjoy a night like this.”

She fought down her unreasonable irritation at him for the attention he’d shown the young lady. “I’ve enjoyed it, but I’m tired.”

“I was hoping for another dance or two, if it would please you.” That wicked gleam in his eye was too charming for her comfort. ’Twas time for her to face reality—nothing could ever exist between them. Nothing but the secret trysts…all in the past.

“As I said, I’m tired, but there is something I wish to speak to you about.”

“Very well.” He watched her with curiosity.

“I’ll return after I make sure Rory is safely inside with the other children.”

He bowed. “I’ll be waiting.”

She expected to find him dancing with another lass when she returned, but he stood alone just outside the barmkin gates.

“I’m glad you came back,” Alasdair murmured.

Glancing around, she noticed that fewer people were present around the bonfires. “Where is everyone?”

“The women are most likely running naked through the heather.” He grinned. “Will you be joining them?”

Naked? Through the heather? “Certainly not!”

He laughed. “Jumping the balefire, then? A wee bit more dangerous, but arguably more effective.”

“Oh, gracious! No.” She stalked toward the barmkin.

He followed. “Are you not wanting to strengthen your fertility?”

No, indeed, she did not want strengthened fertility. Trying to ignore his teasing, she focused on the reason she’d wanted to talk to him. But now that it was time to ask for the letter of recommendation, she hesitated to speak the words that would take her away from him forever.

“’Haps I can do it for you, then,” he said.

“What—”

He smiled like a devil bent on sensual mayhem. No, she didn’t want to know what he’d meant. She turned to go.

He grasped her hand, stopping her. She didn’t even know where she’d been fleeing to. The barmkin was almost empty, though she did see a couple kissing in the shadows.

Before she could determine who they were, Alasdair tipped her face toward him. “I’m hoping you won’t leave me out here alone, Gwyneth. ’Tis too early to go to sleep.” With his fingers, he traced her cheek and chin. Tingles spread in the wake of his touch. “Do you ken, tonight is when fairies roam the earth, looking for mortals to pull mischief on.”

She shook her head, suppressing a grin.

“Don’t tell me you don’t believe in fairies, for I won’t be hearing it.”

“Are you never serious?”

“Aye, ’tis serious I am about wanting to kiss you,” he said in a deep, low tone.

Heavens! Could she not find the strength within herself to resist him? She put her hands before her, to ward him off, but he pressed firmly against her with his hard chest. Her fingers yearned to stroke over him and beneath his clothing, to absorb the feel of his muscles. But she couldn’t.

“What of Paula?” she blurted.

“Who?”

“The young lady you spent so much time dancing with.” And laughing with. Oh, I am daft. I should not have said anything.

He lifted one brow and stared at her for a long, tense moment. “I don’t want to kiss her.”

Did he mean it? She concentrated on his ornate falcon brooch near his shoulder, the blue and red jewels sparkling in the dim light.

“Gwyneth, ’tis glad I am that you’re jealous.”

“I am not jealous!” How mortifying he saw through her words.

“Och, nay. You’re not.” He grinned and held her with one hand around hers, his grip gentle, his thumb rubbing her palm.

She could’ve easily pulled away, but his warmth, the way her whole body and mind focused on the spot where his skin stroked hers, gave her pause.

“Will you not gift me with another kiss in the garden?” He advanced, and she retreated.

She did crave the profane decadence of his mouth upon hers. Her lips burned in anticipation. Her breasts tingled, craving his attention, before the hot excitement slid down through her body.

When her back came up against the garden gate, he unlatched it. She stumbled backward through. With quick reflexes, he caught her against his body, so hard and solid. A buzz of spellbinding need swept through her.