Temptation in a Kilt (10 page)

She closed her eyes and moaned.

This would be torture. Not only would he be bathing in the room next to hers, but he would also be sleeping in the room next to hers. She wondered if his bed was big. It had to be big. He was big. She could not do this. As soon as she finished her bath, she would tell him so. Why would Ciaran give her a chamber so close to his own? Another thought came to mind and a lump caught in the back of her throat. He placed her in the lady of the castle’s chamber. For what purpose? If he believed for one moment that she was going to be his mistress…

Finishing her bath, she blocked out all mental images of Laird MacGregor—with or without clothing. She tried on the dresses and praised the saints when a couple of them fit. Donning her chemise, she picked up a dress of deep blue. Perhaps it was not the best choice since it would match the bruising on her cheeks, but she would not be able to hide her injuries, no matter what she wore. It would have to do.

Rosalia slipped on the silk slippers, and even though she found much more comfort in her boots, she would dress as a lady. She had to admit that she grew tired of wearing trews and tunics. Besides, her dagger was rubbing and beginning to make marks upon her leg. She stood and noticed a mirror on the stand next to the bed. Should she dare? She had second thoughts about picking it up, but curiosity got the best of her.

The face looking back at her was shocking. Her tresses were butchered and her visage was several different shades of purples and yellows. She had not realized how bad she looked. Running her hand over her tresses, she shook her head. There was nothing she could do now. She wished she could hide in this chamber, but that wouldn’t work. Someone would eventually search for her.

Gathering her courage, Rosalia opened the door and poked her head out. Observing no one in the hall, she walked out quietly and shut the door behind her. She reached the top of the stone staircase and admired the painted-glass window. A golden bejeweled crown with matching adorned claymores surrounded a rose-hued cross as though securing it in a protective embrace. She loved how the bright colors reflected off the wall.

“Beautiful. Is it nae?”

Rosalia jumped as Declan walked toward her. “Aye,” she said, placing her hand over her chest.

Stepping in front of her, he gave her a slight bow. “Pray allow me to start anew. I am Declan MacGregor, Laird MacGregor’s youngest brother. I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”

She smiled at his effort to make amends. Giving him a slight curtsy, she extended her hand. “And I am Lady Rosalia Armstrong. I am honored to make your acquaintance, sir.”

Declan brushed a kiss on the top of her hand and promptly released it. Extending his arm, he waited. “May I escort ye to the hall, my lady?”

Placing her hand on his arm, she smiled. “Only if ye call me Rosalia.” She paused, waiting for him to respond.

“Rosalia? ’Tis a name of great beauty for such a bonny—”

She rolled her eyes. “Only if ye donna start being foolish.”

He patted her hand. “Aye. I will call ye Rosalia if ye call me Declan.” He hesitated and cast a wolfish grin like she was the main course for the noon meal.

“By all the saints,” she huffed. “I see we are to have these conversations constantly,” she said as they descended the stairs. “I donna mind sparring with ye, but ’tis
all
it will ever be… sparring,” she said curtly. Rosalia knew that he only sought to get a response from her, but she was annoyed.

Declan gave her a look that would make most women weak in the knees and leaned in close—very close. “We shall see,” he whispered. Then he left her… standing in the middle of the great hall, probably to seek out some other willing lass. Her eyes darted around the room nervously, not seeing any familiar faces. To make matters worse, people were starting to stare. Trying to look occupied, Rosalia showed an interest in the servants as they placed food on the tables. After all, she did not want to appear to have been abandoned in the middle of the great hall. She finally spotted Calum and Seumas. Upon her approach, both men stood and smiled.

“My lady,” they said at the same time.

“Rosalia,” she chided both of them—again. “May I sit with ye? I donna find any faces that are familiar.”

Both men looked uncomfortable. “I believe our laird would request ye sit with him at the high table,” whispered Calum.

She waved them off. “Donna be ridiculous. I am nae family. Now does someone sit here or nae?” She raised her brow and waited.

Calum relented and waved his hand for her to sit. She sat on the bench next to him and could not help but feel out of place. Rosalia was thankful when Seumas handed her a tankard of mulled wine. Glancing around the hall, she saw that everyone was conversing. They all seemed… close. Maybe that was how a family was supposed to be. The Armstrongs were never so jovial and everything with them seemed forced.

A sudden shout rang through the hall and she jumped.

“Three cheers for our laird’s return!” yelled a man.

Standing at the entrance to the great hall were the three MacGregor brothers in full Highland regalia. She had never seen so many beautiful men. They stood well over six feet and were very muscular with broad shoulders. But, there was only one she felt drawn to.

Ciaran’s chestnut hair was still wet from his bath and touched his shoulders. He was dressed in the same tartan of red and green, which she now gathered were the MacGregor clan colors. He wore a white, flowing tunic and a MacGregor plaid over his left shoulder. A small bag which looked to be made from the skin of a rabbit grazed his hips and rested on top of his… Rosalia heard herself swallow. The flashes on his stockings were the same color as his kilt, and he wore white hose that clung to his muscular legs. His doeskin boots were low enough that she could tell how very muscular those legs were. Her heart turned over at the vision that appeared before her. The sights of Glenorchy were indeed exhilarating.

***

Ciaran spotted Rosalia as soon as he entered the great hall, noticing she wore one of Aisling’s dresses. He hoped she was pleased with her bedchamber. He wanted to make her as comfortable as possible. The lass had been through much.

What was she doing sitting with Calum and Seumas?

He was taken aback by her sudden aloofness. She was not looking at him—at all. In fact, her eyes were to the floor. He did not understand what was amiss and was unnerved by her sudden change in demeanor. “Are ye unwell?”

“I am fine. My thanks,” Rosalia said with an air of indifference. She looked away swiftly at the sight of his scowl.

Ciaran hesitated, blinking with confusion. Bending over behind her, he whispered in her ear. “What are ye doing?”

“Taking my place for the midday meal,” she answered, whispering in a rush of words.

He was momentarily speechless in his surprise. Was she daft? Why would she think to sit with his men? Standing to his full height, he held out his hand. “Your place is with me. Come.” When the lass did not move, he cocked his head to the side and raised his brow. Why did she have to be so stubborn?

“Oh, verra well,” she relented, placing her hand in his and standing.

He escorted Rosalia to the high table, and his smile was without humor. “What were ye thinking?”

“I was thinking I took my place for the noon meal. Isnae this table for family?” she asked, barely lifting her voice above a whisper.

“Family and guests. Ye are my guest, are ye nae?” he asked, his tone patient. They reached the table, and he pulled out her chair for her. It just so happened to be the chair next to his. If she thought to sit with his men and their families, she was mistaken. He did not understand her reasoning. Why did she have to be so difficult? Perhaps he should speak with Aiden to see if he had any ideas. After all, his brother was an expert. He had Aisling.

Aiden and Declan took their seats and the entire hall went quiet as Ciaran stood, demanding their attention. “As ye know, King James continues to be pleased with our support in the Highlands. I thank ye all for your efforts while we were at court. Upon my return, I discovered there is a new MacGregor among us. Everyone raise your tankards to my brother, Aiden, and give thanks to the gods for delivering him a healthy son. To Teàrlach!” he said proudly, raising his tankard.

“To Teàrlach!” the men shouted in return.

“Ye may also notice a new face among us,” he said, holding out his hand for Rosalia to stand. “This is Lady Rosalia, and she will be our guest. I want ye to make her feel as she is one of us.”

“To Lady Rosalia!” one of the men yelled.

Ciaran gave her a mock salute with his tankard, his eyes never leaving hers.

***

They took their seats and Ciaran filled her trencher. There were several different types of meat, breads, and cheeses. Everything looked and smelled delightful. Rosalia could not wait to taste the fresh biscuits. Maybe they would even be as good as her cook’s.

Ciaran peered at her intently, making her nervous, so she turned to Aiden for a much needed distraction. “And how is Teàrlach?” she asked, taking a bite of biscuit.

“He sleeps. He wakes up to feed or because he is wet, and then he sleeps and sleeps again. ’Tis good now since it gives Aisling a reprieve,” he said, pausing to drink from his tankard.

“Aye,” she chuckled. “I must thank your lady wife for the dresses. Do ye think she will be well enough to speak with me after the meal?”

“Aye. She asked me to escort ye after we finish.”

Nodding her head in agreement, Rosalia focused on her trencher because when she thought of Ciaran sitting next to her, her heart turned over in response. His nearness was overwhelming. She could smell his spicy scent, and it did not help when his leg brushed against her thigh. Her mind burned with the memory of his lips upon hers. This could not bode well for her. How was she supposed to keep her wits about her when he was dressed in a kilt and distracted her in ways that she did not understand?

“How do ye fare, Rosalia?” asked Ciaran, leaning back and taking a drink from his tankard.

“The food is delightful,” she said, turning her attention back to her trencher.

“If ye want for anything, ye need only ask.”

She studied her tankard, playing with the rim. “My thanks, but ye have been much too accommodating already, my laird.”

Ciaran leaned close. “I cannae help but ask. Is something amiss?”

“My laird, I am grateful for all ye have done, but I must insist ye change my bedchamber,” she spoke firmly.

Pulling back, he gave her a curious look. “Change your bedchamber? Why would I do that? What is wrong with your chamber?”

“What is wrong with Rosalia’s chamber?” asked Declan, leaning across Ciaran.

Shaking her head, she closed her eyes. Now the rogue was involved in the conversation as well. Could she at least have one conversation where she was not embarrassed? She was thankful when Ciaran took him by the reins. “Since when do ye call her by her given name?” he huffed.

“Since the lady asked me to,
my
laird,
” said Declan with a smug look upon his face.

Inclining his head toward Rosalia, Ciaran looked for confirmation. She gave a forced smile and a tense nod of consent. “Aye, ’tis true. I had but a momentary weakness.”

“What is wrong with your chamber, lass? We have several to—”

“There is naught wrong with her chamber, Declan,” Ciaran bit out.

Rosalia reached out and clutched Ciaran’s arm, immediately realizing her mistake. He felt like a rock underneath his tunic. She became aware of his strength and the warmth of his flesh. She lowered her gaze, but when she looked down, his kilt was parted and showed part of his muscular thigh. It was torture and the room was getting so warm.

Carried away by her own response, she failed to notice that he was still looking at her, waiting. She tingled as he spoke her name. Tenderly, his eyes melted into hers. She could not find her voice. She could barely breathe, and she hungered from the memory of his mouth upon hers. Praise the saints. What was the matter with her?

He leaned in close and whispered in her ear. “Lass, your eyes show me what ye are clearly thinking. I suggest ye remove your hand from my arm and your eyes from my kilt.”

Mortified that he’d spoken to her so directly, Rosalia hastily withdrew her hand—but not before her eyes betrayed her by darting to his kilt one last time to see it was clearly tented. She cleared her throat, pretending not to be affected.

“What chamber did ye give her?” asked Declan. Ciaran answered, but she was unable to hear his response. “Truly?” he asked surprised. “Mother’s? Ye know what statement ye make by placing her in that chamber then?”

“Enough, Declan,” responded Ciaran, clenching his jaw.

“They will assume she is to be your—”

“Enough!” he said sternly.

Declan’s eyes narrowed. “Aye,
my
liege
,” he said with heavy sarcasm. “Ah, look… here comes your… Beathag, how are ye?”

The woman approaching Ciaran had long, brown curly hair and wore a very form-fitting dress. Her bosom seemed sure to burst out of the gown with any sudden movement. Rosalia could never imagine herself wearing such clothing, but it worked well on this woman. She was slender and beautiful—clearly, everything Rosalia was not.

Moving behind Ciaran, the woman placed her hands on his shoulders. She bent down and kissed him on the cheek. “My laird, how I have missed ye so,” she purred, placing her hands underneath his tunic. The woman was clearly running her hands all over his chest.

He stilled her hands. “Beathag, ’tis good to see ye,” he choked out, patting her hands. She gave him a wanton smile and actually had the nerve to run her hands down the front of Ciaran’s kilt and touch him—there.

“Ye did miss me, Ciaran,” she said with female satisfaction.

Mixed feelings surged through Rosalia—shock and anger and a touch of sadness. She knew Ciaran would never truly desire her. Why would he when he had Beathag? She was such a fool, she thought, and mentally kicked herself. He was her escort to Glengarry and nothing more. She tucked away the thought by squeezing her tankard until her knuckles turned white.