Temptation in a Kilt (15 page)

Ciaran shook his head regretfully. “I must take my leave, but I will see ye later,” he said to Rosalia, his eyes sending her a private message.

“Of course.” Somewhat disappointed, she understood Ciaran’s duty and all that it entailed. Simply, his clan and his people would always come before his own wants or needs. After all, he was laird.

“Donna worry. I will see to your mount
and
Rosalia,” said Declan, his mouth twitching in amusement.

“Declan,” Ciaran warned.

Declan waved him off. “Get your kilt untwisted, your greatness. I only want to take Rosalia upon the parapet.”

Something clicked in her mind. “The parapet?” she squeaked. “Why?” Her memory of Ciaran was pure and clear. She would never forget a single detail of his face or his touch. The idea of sharing the same place with Ciaran’s brother gave her sourness in the pit of her stomach. “Umm… I donna really want to go to the parapet, but I could use a walk if ye wouldnae mind escorting me,” she offered.

Declan was disheartened by her hesitation, but thankfully agreed while Ciaran took his leave to see to the villagers. She led Noonie into his stall and Declan saw to Ciaran’s mount. She would never pretend to understand the relationship between brothers. Declan was an ever-changing mystery to her.

The stable was quiet except for an occasional whinny and pawing hooves. She was enjoying the peace of no one arguing when Declan’s voice spoke in a soothing tone.

“Why are ye the only one that loves me, Aiden?” he asked in a childlike voice.

Rosalia poked her head out of the stall to see that Declan had his head placed to Aiden’s and was scratching the horse behind the ears. Looking up, Declan gave her a roguish grin. “I know what ye are thinking. Donna laugh. Aiden is the only one who doesnae cause me grief and understands me. Aye, Aiden?” he asked in the same childlike voice.

She walked down to Aiden’s stall and rubbed his muscular neck. “He is a beautiful beast. I told Aisling that I have ne’er seen such perfect white markings as are upon his feet.”

Declan nodded his head in agreement. “Now speak the truth and tell me why ye donna want me to take ye upon the parapet, lass.” He abruptly changed the subject.

He’d caught her off guard and Rosalia swallowed hard, trying to manage a feeble answer.

Aware of her discomfort, Declan chuckled. Standing a bit too close, he gave her a wolfish grin. “Donna ye trust yourself alone with me? I donna bite.” His silky voice held a challenge and his eyes clung to hers, analyzing her reaction.

It was much like having a conversation with James. If she did not put him in his place now, he would continually torment her until she traveled to Glengarry. Of this, she had no doubt. She reached down, holding his eyes the entire time. “Did ye ever think
why
Aiden is the only one that understands ye? Mayhap ’tis because ye can both relate to being a horse’s arse,” she said, her voice unwavering.

Startled, Declan glanced down to find a very sharp dirk pointed at his heart. He stood there blank, amazed, and stunned.

“Aye, I ne’er leave without it. If ye cease thinking with your…” she gestured to his manhood, “ye would have seen me reach for my dirk and wouldnae have been taken by a mere lass.”

He stepped away from her. “Now ’tis clearly where ye are mistaken, Lady Rosalia. Ye see… I donna mind being taken by a mere lass.”

Sheathing her dirk, she let out a frustrated grunt. “I yield, but I give ye fair warning. I will be here until your brother takes me to Glengarry. I donna want to do battle, but I willnae let ye speak to me as if I toss my skirts. Will ye be a gentleman and escort me on my walk or nae?” she asked, placing both of her hands upon her hips.

“Och, ye are so much as Aisling.” Placing his arm around her shoulders, he led her out of the stables. “Ye have my word as a gentleman. A walk would be fine.”

***

Finally exhausted, Rosalia sought the comfort of her bedchamber. Fatigue settled in pockets under her eyes. Perhaps she would sleep this eve. Weariness enveloped her as she crawled into bed. Her mind kept turning to Ciaran and his comforting embrace.

“Rosalia, what have you done?” her mother bellowed.

She
turned
around
and
stiffened. How she had come to despise that tone! Of course she knew she had done something wrong. She always did something wrong. Considering what she could have missed, she felt her thoughts escape her.

“Look at the dirt! I thought you scrubbed this table!” screamed her mother, pointing to the table.

Rosalia
gasped, realizing a shiver of panic. “I did scrub the table. I am still cleaning.” She grabbed the cloth and started to wipe the table. It was coming. She knew it was coming. Sheer black fright swept through her.

“Look underneath the table, Rosalia. You did not scrub under the table!” With one quick movement, her mother reached her. She pulled her daughter by the hair and slammed her head down on the table. “Look, Rosalia! You did not scrub under the table!” Yanking her up by the hair, her mother again slammed her head into the table with a loud crack.

“Donna touch me!” Rosalia screamed.
“Mo mhallachd ort!”

“Rosalia, ’tis Ciaran. Ye are safe. No one will hurt ye,” he whispered. “Ye are safe.”

A hot tear trickled down her cheek. “Ciaran?” she asked, disoriented and raising her hand to his cheek. She closed her eyes, reliving the pain of that final scene. The memory was like an old wound that ached on a rainy day. The picture froze in her mind until she heard Ciaran again call her name.

He watched her open her tear-stained eyes, his eyes darkening with emotion. She drank in the comfort of his nearness. He was a vision that pulled her out of the darkness. He was her light. He was her… savior. His body was partially covering hers and he was whispering soothingly into her ear as she tried to recover from another round of painful memories.

He kissed her hand. “Ye had a nightmare is all.” Ciaran rubbed his hand over her tresses, and his eyes brimmed with tenderness and passion. Suddenly, he clenched his jaw and his eyes slightly narrowed. He moved to rise, but she stilled him.

“Please stay with me,” she begged. “I donna want to be alone.” Rosalia pulled him into a tight embrace. The harder she tried to ignore the truth, the more it persisted. Whether she wanted to admit it or not, there was something special about him.

“Rosalia…” said Ciaran huskily, pulling her arms off him and springing to his feet.

“Ciaran! Ye have nay clothing!” she squeaked. Sitting up quickly, she pulled the blanket tighter around herself. Her heart jolted and her pulse pounded. She could not help but stare at him intently—all of him. His vitality captivated her. She gave him an involuntary examination and found his closeness so male.

She could not tear her gaze away from him. The glimpses of his strong body made her heart beat more rapidly, and a delicious shudder heated through her. For a long moment, she felt as though she were floating. She glanced up at him and her heart lurched madly. At that moment, she began to recognize her own needs.

Realizing she was still gaping, she lowered her gaze. She had only seen James once before when he was in his cups and she helped him undress.

Turning his back to her, Ciaran mumbled an apology and she stuttered through her nervousness.

He stole a glance at her over his shoulder. “I heard ye scream, and I didnae think to grab my clothing. Besides, from the way your eyes were looking at me, I didnae think ye minded,” he chuckled. “I will—”

She whipped her pillow at his back. “Go put on your—”

“Kilt?” he asked with a raised brow, seeming to enjoy the gentle sparring.

Seeing the amusement in his eyes, she laughed. “Nay!”

He cocked his head at her outburst and turned up his smile a notch. “Nay?”

“Mayhap trews,” she suggested.

Ciaran walked back to his chamber. “And I suggest ye do the same,” he called over his shoulder.

***

Donning his kilt with no tunic, Ciaran returned to Rosalia’s chamber with ale. Thankfully, she had also donned her trews and a tunic and sat peacefully before the fire. The glowing embers cast her in a serene light. He simply enjoyed watching her.

Taking a seat in the opposite chair, he poured her some ale. “’Tis the ale.” He held out a tankard. “It will help ye to sleep.”

“My thanks.” She reached out and took the tankard.

“My apologies I didnae get to speak with ye again. The men from the village took longer than expected.” When she was getting ready to question him further, he quickly added, “’Tis naught ye should be concerned about.” He did a double take and chuckled, noticing something very familiar. “Is that
my
tunic, lass?”

Rosalia’s eyes widened and she started to mumble something he could not understand.

“Ye actually wear my tunic… to bed?” He found that fact very satisfying.

“Leave off, MacGregor,” she threatened.

“Have ye always had nightmares?” he asked softly. She took another swig of ale and gazed at her hands. “Do ye remember them when ye awaken?” He paused. “Rosalia, do ye trust me?” Lifting his tankard, he took a swig and glanced at her over the rim.

She looked up at him with curiosity. “Of course I do. Why would ye ask that of me?”

He could not help but notice how bonny she looked in the glow of the firelight. He would have to be a blind fool not to notice. He remembered how beautiful she was at court but would never tell her so. She would be embarrassed. He could not believe he was here with her now. “Every time ye become nervous or donna want to answer something ye stare down at your hands.”

Instinctively, she glanced down. “’Tis habit. When I become uncomfortable, I know I do that. Mother used to tell me frequently. My apologies.”

“Rosalia, there is naught to apologize for. I merely…” He made another attempt. “Do ye remember your nightmares?”

Looking him dead in the eye, she held up her tankard in mock salute. “Aye, every last one of them,” she said, taking another swig of ale.

“How long have ye had them?”

“For as long as I can remember.”

Ciaran was surprised by her response. She had been through so much as of late that he’d assumed her nightmares were a result of all the events that had recently occurred. Reaching over, he squeezed her hand. “Was it that unpleasant for ye, lass?”

“Aye,” she simply stated.

He waited for her to continue. As far as he was concerned, he had all eve.

She huffed. “Ciaran, ye donna want to hear my woes…”

“’Tis where ye are wrong, sweeting. I want to know all about ye,” he said softly. He could tell his use of the endearment took her aback, but it was how he felt. Why not speak it? She sighed and he knew she was eventually going to relent.

“Mother and Father ne’er paid me much attention unless it suited them. I was always lonely, but I kept a few of those close to my heart such as James; Duncan, our stable hand; and Ealasaid, our cook.” Gazing into the flames of the fire, she began to speak as if she were in some faraway place in the corner of her mind.

“What I didnae tell ye before was that Father is a Highland laird. After he married my English mother, they lived in Liddesdale. I donna know much about their past or their families, but it wasnae for lack of trying. When I would ask, the subject would always be changed.

“My
seanmhair
, Father’s mother in Glengarry, would send a messenger on occasion. He would always seek me alone outside of Mangerton’s walls and deliver messages or packages. It seemed my
seanmhair
did want to see me or I was ne’er far from her thoughts, but I was ne’er permitted to travel to the Highlands. I heard Mother once say that she didnae have a choice but to wed Father, but ’tis all I know. Do ye wish to know more, my laird?” Her eyes never left the flames.

He squeezed her hand. “Ye may speak to me about anything, sweeting.” She smiled into the flickering light and he continued to hold her hand for reassurance.

“Mother has a verra bad ire. Ye cannae imagine. Everything must be done her way. If it wasnae, everyone around her paid a price—mainly me. Those close to us knew of her ire. To others, she would portray the doting wife and mother. Father has experienced her wrath as well. He does everything in his power to ensure peace, even sacrificing my future to keep her joyful.

“He gave her everything without question. Mangerton was decorated with the finest of wares, tapestries, anything worth a lot of coin. He provided her with the finest gowns and the finest of everything. The coffers are now empty and all servants, except a handful, have been dismissed. In order to replenish the coin, I was to be forced to wed the English beast—Lord Dunnehl. I refused. I paid the price.”

She sighed and took another swig of ale. “My entire existence has been spent wondering how Mother felt from one day to the next. I ne’er mattered. In fact, in her eyes I did not exist. Would I be beaten because I gave her a look? Would I be slapped because I didnae act proper? Would my tresses be pulled out because I didnae kiss her in greeting?

“Every move I made was under constant scrutiny. I couldnae think for myself. I couldnae speak for myself. Every moment of time was planned for me, and I was always told what to do and when to do it. At times I couldnae even breathe. I didnae even know who I was. When I was ordered to do something, it was because I was ungrateful or unappreciative. I have been told this my entire score and one. I donna know any different.”

She paused, rubbing the rim of her tankard. “When James found us, I was tempted to return to Mangerton. He shouldnae have to suffer because of me. I know marriages are arranged for coin, land, or title, but I ne’er cared about such things. I was foolish enough to think I could find a love match. I only wanted to find happiness. I didnae want to think only of myself, but I knew in my heart I could ne’er return. I would rather die by my own hand than live another moment there. Now ye know, my laird. I am weak and I am a coward.” She spoke with bitterness.