Temptation in a Kilt (5 page)

“Ciaran—”

Again, he held up his hand. “And when they do… She is the one who decided to run. ’Tisnae our fight, brother.”

Aiden closed his eyes and shook his head downward. Unfortunately, it was at the same moment Ciaran heard someone else gasp from behind him. He spun around as Rosalia turned on her heel.

Aiden slapped him on the shoulder. “Verra tactful.”

“God’s teeth!” Ciaran moaned, rubbing his hand over his face.

“And I wish ye luck with that, brother.”

Rosalia stood next to her horse, patting him on his muscular neck. She would not look at Ciaran, and considering the words that had escaped his mouth, he did not blame her. He placed his hand on Noonie’s head and rubbed his ears. “He is magnificent.”

She glanced down, her faint smile holding a touch of sadness. “Aye.”

“Rosalia…”

“Please donna speak of it, my laird. I am fine. If ye wish to take your leave, please donna feel ye must chaperone me. I am one and twenty, and I assure ye that I donna need a chaperone or a
champion.
” Tears welled within her eyes.

Ciaran drew his lips in thoughtfully. “Lass, we have been riding for well over a fortnight and—”

Rosalia set her chin in a stubborn line. “Please, my laird, nay apologies. I am ready to ride. How far to the village?” she asked, her eyebrows rising inquiringly.

“Half a day’s ride from here,” he sighed. “Rosalia, I didnae mean—”

She pulled on Noonie’s mane so he would kneel. “Come, my laird. Ye are wasting precious light.” She grunted as she tugged herself onto Noonie’s back.

Staring at her, Ciaran stood motionless. Her face was black, she was battered and bruised from head to toe, frightened of something or someone, and he’d told her she was not worth the trouble she brought. Shaking his head, he realized he could be such a dolt.

Aiden brought over his brother’s horse and nudged his shoulder. “Take your mount before ye look even more the daft fool.”

“Aye, there is that.” Before Ciaran mounted, he pulled out the wine sack from his bundle and handed it to Rosalia. “’Tis the ale. Take at least two swigs for the pain.”

He could see her weighing her options. After a brief hesitation, she took the ale and drank two healthy gulps, choking both times. She handed the sack back and turned her head away from him.

He was an arse.

“It appears only one room remains. We will sleep in the stable, and ye and your
wife
will be sharing a room,” said Aiden, masking a smile. When Ciaran’s men pulled Aiden aside as soon as they crossed the threshold of the small inn and then bolted out the door, Rosalia knew something was amiss. This, however, was not what she had expected.

“
What
?” Ciaran and Rosalia spoke at the same time.

Aiden shrugged his shoulders with indifference. “There arenae enough rooms. Donaidh and Seumas thought ye would rather stay with the lass than have any of us stay with her. Besides, Aisling would have my—” he paused, looking down at his manhood, “er…
head
if I stayed with her. They go to seek the healer now, and it was easier to explain if the lass was posing as your wife.”

Silence grew tight with tension. Rosalia did not like this—at all. His commitment was to take her to the village. It was not to be sharing a room and pretending to be man and wife. He was asking too much of her. “Nay, I willnae share a room. Ye have done enough, my laird. I will see the healer and then be on my way. ’Tis what we spoke of. Ye and your men have my thanks.” She spoke with a faint thread of agitation in her voice.

An unwelcome tension stretched even tighter between them.

Ciaran placed his hand gently on her shoulder. “Rosalia, ye can barely ride and need to rest in a bed. And ye
will
spend the night in a bed. How do ye expect to heal if ye donna take care?”

His hand remained on her shoulder for a moment too long. She felt a shiver run through her body and pulled her eyes away from him. Ciaran placed his fingers under her chin. “Look at me, lass. Ye know there is nay need to fear me. I will sleep upon the floor.” She tried to protest, but he left no room for debate. “My men are right. ’Tis less to explain if ye are posing as my wife.”

Clearly having no voice in the matter, Rosalia sought her room while Ciaran and his men headed to the tavern. She climbed the stairs, step after miserable step, and could feel a growing pain in her arse that was not from her injuries. Frustration consumed her. She was stuck with these men for another night. And now she had to maintain the pretense that she was his
wife?
The way he barked orders at her—God’s teeth! She could not even run away to Glengarry without things running awry. Opening the door to her room, Rosalia felt the scent of fresh-cut flowers tickle her nose. She closed the door and found the space was small with only a bed, a table, and two chairs, but at least it appeared clean. As she sat down on the bed, she noticed the cut flowers bundled on the pillow beside her.

There was a knock at the door and three burly men carried in a tub, followed by a couple of lads with steaming buckets of water. A maid entered, ushering the men out. Rosalia was speechless and needed a moment to gather her wits.

“Your husband ordered a bath for ye, my lady. My apologies ye lost your trunk in the accident. I know ’tisnae much, but I have a worn day dress ye may have. ’Tis at least clean,” the maid said, holding up the dress.

Pulling at her tunic, Rosalia muttered the first words that came to mind, “Aye, my gown was badly torn. Ye have my thanks.” She accepted the dress from the maid, then panicked because she was unsure how to answer if the maid questioned her cut tresses. Rosalia simply prayed that she would not ask.

“May I assist ye with your clothes, my lady? Your husband says ye are injured from when ye fell from your mount.”

Rosalia could not let pride stand in the way of a warm bath. It would definitely soothe her sore and aching bones. How very thoughtful of her
husband
to order it for her! Once she was in the tub, she immediately dismissed the maid. The water felt positively delightful on her bruised skin. She moaned, letting the hot water work its magic. She had not felt this peaceful in days. Closing her eyes, she enjoyed the warmth that surrounded her.

Someone pounded on the door, and for a moment, Rosalia forgot her surroundings. She must have fallen asleep. “My lady, the healer is here for ye,” called the maid through the door.

“Just a moment.” Grabbing the edge of the tub, Rosalia pulled herself from the tepid water, not so gracefully exiting her bath. The room was tiny, so the washtub made it more difficult to maneuver. Needing to dress quickly, she dried herself and donned a fresh tunic. “Come.”

The maid entered with an elderly man and shut the door.

“My lady,” said the gentleman, giving her a quick bow. He placed his bag upon the bed and gently pushed her shoulder to lie down. He examined her bruises and his eyes narrowed. “That must have been some fall. Ye have several cuts and swelling in the face. Are ye light-headed?”

“Only when I stand too quickly,” she offered. As he applied pressure to her arms, ribs, and legs to check for broken bones, she closed her eyes to abate the sharp pain.

The healer murmured to himself and then smiled as he covered Rosalia with a blanket. “I donna think ye have broken bones, but I would advise ye to accept a treatment of bleeding.”

“Bleeding?” she squeaked. Rosalia was too startled by his suggestion to offer any objection.

“Aye, I donna know if ye have inside injuries, and I find bleeding will prevent fever and infection from setting in.”

The door opened and Ciaran simply walked in. It was getting a bit too crowded in the small room. “And how does she fare?” His eyes caught and held hers.

The healer cleared his throat. “I was explaining to your wife that I donna think there are broken bones. I donna know if she has injuries inside so I will bleed her.”

“Bleed her?” The lines of attentiveness deepened along Ciaran’s brows and under his eyes.

“Aye. I find bleeding will prevent fever and infection from setting.”

“Ye willnae bleed my wife,” Ciaran said smoothly. His expression was a mask of stone. He reached into his pouch and handed the healer some coin. “For your time.”

The healer shrugged indifferently. “As ye will. I will leave a salve for her bruises,” he said, searching through his bag.

“Nay, ye have done more than enough. I will care for her.” Ciaran ushered the man out the door and then turned toward the maid. “Have the tub removed and inquire on the tray I asked for my wife,” he ordered.

“Aye, my laird,” she said, bobbing a small curtsy and scampering out the door.

Ciaran stood frozen in the doorway. He would not look at Rosalia, and he surely was not speaking to her—again. He placed his hands on the wall and tapped impatiently. Running his hand through his hair, he stepped aside as the men came back to remove the tub. When they left, he closed the door and his eyes.

***

When the healer said he would bleed Rosalia, Ciaran had tried to rein his anger. He had needed to remove the man from his sight and quickly. Unfortunately, throwing him through the door was not an option. What was the lass going to do when he and his men departed on the morrow? She had no one to look after her. If he was not here and the man had attempted to bleed her… The thought tore at his insides.

“My laird?” Rosalia said softly, her eyes narrowing.

A muscle quivered at his jaw. “Ciaran,” he simply stated.

“Ciaran?” There was a gentle softness in her voice.

“What kind of healer is that?” he bellowed. “Ye have nay reason to be bled.” He paced the floor of the tiny room. “I have seen men with injury worse than ye and still they arenae bled. He doesnae know what he speaks.”

She sighed. Tossing off the blankets, Rosalia rose from the bed and approached him. Her fingers rested upon his arm. “Ciaran, I am well enough. My cuts and bruises will heal with time. Ye have spoken as much.” He stared at her hand upon his arm as there was another knock at the door.

“Come,” he said curtly. A maid entered with a trencher of meat, bread, and cheese. “Place it upon the table.”

The maid lowered the tray and, as she turned, brushed her breasts against Ciaran chest to pass. The woman hesitated briefly and gave him a pointed look. “Close quarters. If ye need anything, anything at all, please ask for Eilidh,” she spoke in a silky voice.

Rosalia brought up her hand to stifle her giggles.

“Thank ye, but ’tis all my
wife
and I need,” Ciaran said, ushering the maid out the door. When the door closed, he turned and scowled. “And what do ye find so amusing?”

“She obviously found ye too tempting to pass.”

He clenched his mouth tight and pulled out a chair for her to sit at the table. When she sat in the chair, his eyes roamed over her and he discreetly adjusted the front of his trews. “Rosalia, will ye don something other than only a tunic?” Slowly, she stood and grabbed her trews, and he turned around.

“Ciaran, I must thank ye for the food, and the bath was welcome.” She grunted as she pulled on her trews. “Ye may turn.” She spoke with an air of ease as if she was not almost bare in front of him.

He nodded for her to take her seat. “Please eat.” He paused for a moment. “May I ask a small boon?”

“Aye,” Rosalia said, stirring uneasily in the chair.

“Ye donna need to thank me for everything constantly. ’Tis something most men would have done had they been in my place.” His words seemed to amuse her.

“Hmm… That, my laird, hasnae been my experience.” Something flickered in the back of her eyes. “I have a feeling ye arenae like most men.” Reaching out, she grabbed a piece of bread and cheese. “Please, ye are going to join me?”

Ciaran nodded and sat down. Breaking off a piece of bread, he placed a morsel into his mouth.

“I donna know if ye brought the ale, but might I have some?” she asked, rubbing her side.

“Of course.” He wiped his hands on his trews and rose. Pulling out the ale from his sack by the door, he handed it to her. “Drink a fair amount this eve since we donna travel. It will help ye rest.”

“My thanks.”

He raised his eyebrow when she insisted on thanking him again, and she returned his look with a sheepish smile.

***

Taking another swig of ale, Rosalia noticed how his chestnut hair hung low on his shoulders. She wondered how pushing it back behind his ear would feel. As if he read her mind, he took a strand of hair and placed it behind his ear. She studied his hands. Ciaran had such strong hands. They were rough and worn, but she could not believe how gentle they were when he touched her. She took another sip of ale, and her throat did not appear to burn as it had before. Why was it warm in here? Was he warm?

Ciaran caught her staring and cleared his throat, and Rosalia promptly glanced down at her hands. He obviously did not want to be tied with her, but he did portray a tremendous amount of honor.
Honor
. She wondered if he was from the Highlands. It occurred to her that she had never asked him.

“Ye spoke of Glenorchy,” she said as he looked up from the trencher. “Is it located in the Highlands?”

“Aye.”

“Is your wife waiting for ye there?” She caught herself too late. Why the hell would she ask him that? She could not believe she had spoken so freely. He must think her daft.

His gaze traveled over her face and seemed to search her eyes before he responded. “I am nae wed. We travel with haste because Aiden’s wife is with child. Court took longer than expected and my men are anxious to return home.”

“As are ye.”

He studied her thoughtfully for a moment. “Rosalia, my apologies for what ye heard. I meant naught. My men are tired and only want to return home—and aye, as do I.” His tone was apologetic.

She waved him off. “There is nay need for apologies, my laird. I have sought the healer, and ye have delivered me safely to the village. Ye and your men will be traveling on the morrow. I only hope I havenae delayed your journey too long.”

His eyes were gentle, understanding. “Rosalia—”

“Will ye tell me of your home?”

“What?” Ciaran stared at her, confounded.

“Will ye tell me of your home? I wish to hear of it,” she said, taking another swig of ale. Her reaction seemed to amuse him.

“What do ye want to know?”

Rosalia handed him the wine sack and he took a healthy drink. “Howbeit we make a compromise?” he asked, handing it back. “I will answer what ye ask, and in return, ye have to answer what I ask.”

He waited for her response as she took another sip. “’Tis a deal as long as ye donna attempt to keep me further from
my
journey. Ye appear to be a man of your word. I will have it—your word.”

Ciaran nodded his head in consent. “Agreed. Ye have my word.”

“Good. Now tell me of Glenorchy.”

He chuckled as if he was sincerely amused. Leisurely, he stretched his long legs. “Glenorchy stands at the northeast end of Loch Awe. The northwest side is where the River Orchy enters the loch. The land around Glenorchy forms an island on which sits my home. And where is your home?”

She lounged casually in the chair. “My home is in Scotland but verra near to England’s border.”

He wiggled his fingers for her to take another drink. “Is that where your horse was trained?”

“Noonie? Aye. Ye forget it was my turn to question,” she scolded him.

“Aye.” He held up his hands in mock defense and then held out his palm for her to continue.

“If your home is on an island, how do ye get there? Surely ye donna swim,” she blurted out as she laughed—actually laughed. She could not remember the last time she had laughed. Why was she so warm?

“Ye can get to my home by boat or by
cabhsair
.”

“Can ye view the loch from all sides of your home?” Rosalia put her elbow on the table and rested her chin in her hand.

“Aye, but ye see the mountains on all sides as well.”

She sighed. “It sounds beautiful.”

“’Tis. And your home? What loch is it near?”

“My home doesnae sit on the loch. ’Tisnae far to travel to it, though. I enjoy watching it and hearing the water.”

“Aye. Peaceful,” he agreed.

She took another drink and handed him the wine sack. “Is it my turn or yours?”

“Your turn to ask,” Ciaran said, handing it back.