The Highlander (7 page)

She glanced down at the gown she was wearing, and he did not miss that she had wrapped his plaid around most of it. "I was wondering if your sister might have something here that I could borrow to wear."

"While you are bathing, I will go above stairs to see what I can find."

"It will be heavenly to have a real dress to wear—and a clean one. It is not easy to keep everything covered with a bolt of cloth.
Mon dieu,
I don't know how you do it."

"It bothers you more than it does me. As far as my taste is concerned, I would find it far more pleasing to the eye to have you going about in nothing at all. I find myself hoping that might happen."

"I fear I shall dash all your expectations then, for that is highly unlikely."

' 'I will remind you of that one day, lass. Have no doubt about that."

It was obvious she made a great effort to ignore both him and his comment, and he was unable to read what she was thinking in the smooth contours of her lovely face.

He said nothing more as he filled the large kettle with water and pushed the hook so the pot was centered over the hottest part of the flames. While the water heated, he set about making a simple breakfast of ham and oatmeal.

The food was ready before the water was hot enough, so he placed a bowl of oatmeal on the table, with a side dish of ham next to it. He made her a cup of tea. "Do you take honey in your tea?"

"Yes...
merci,
but I truly would like to bathe before I eat."

"You should eat first so you don't lose what little strength you have when you step into that warm water."

He offered her his hand and helped her to her feet. He led her to the table, for it was obvious she was still a bit light-headed, and he wondered at the wisdom of letting her in a tub of warm water, but he doubted he would have much luck with talking her out of it.

Once she was seated, he took the seat opposite her and ate his oatmeal. After a few minutes, he sat back to observe her while he drank his tea. She was a dainty eater, and well mannered. She knew the proper way to use a utensil, and he noticed how she never put her elbows on the table. If she was a maid, he decided it had to be in the service of a woman with a title—someone with breeding and a thorough knowledge of social graces.

"How is your memory this morning?" he asked.

"My m-memory?"

He did not miss the shocked, uncomfortable expression that moved rapidly across her lovely features, to be replaced by one of outward calm when she caught the meaning of his question. "Oh, you mean my
lack
of memory?"

"Your inability to retail past experiences would be one way of putting it. The Greeks have a word,
amnestia,
which means forgetfulness."

"Which comes from
amnestos,
which means not remembered."

"Interesting that you can recall that," he said. "You are in possession of an unusually good knowledge of languages for a maid, wouldn't you say?"

"Perhaps, but who knows? I might have been a lady's companion, or a governess. I really do not have a firm recollection of that part of my life. As I told you, it is only a feeling I have that I was in some type of service to a lady...one of high regard, I think."

A sardonic smile came and went quickly, and he doubted she had even noticed, but she surprised him.

"The name for your smile,
monsieur,
has come via my own language—the French word
sardonique,
which ironically comes from the Greek word
sardanios,
which means..."

"Scornful, which originally meant Sardinian."

"Ah, yes, like the Sardinian plant, which if eaten makes terrible contortions on the face. Is that what you had for breakfast, milord?"

She had a fine mind, and he enjoyed playing these word games with her. She was his equal in that. He wondered in what other areas she would be a good match for him. "I would cast my lot with governess," he said. '"Tis more than obvious that you are no common maid."

"My oatmeal grows cold," she said, and began to eat.

He cleared away his dishes and dipped a finger into the kettle to check the temperature. He yanked it back quickly. "Your water is hot. While you finish eating, I will fill the tub."

He knew he made an inordinate amount of noise, banging the large copper tub about, but this was not the sort of thing the Earl of Mon-leigh usually did. However, by the time she finished eating he had the tub filled, with a drying cloth and a slice of soap sitting nearby. "Need you any help?" he asked, almost leering at her and feeling his teasing her like this was becoming a regular habit and something, he had to admit, he rather enjoyed.

Something akin to amusement danced in her eyes. "Thank you, no. I have been bathing myself for some time."

"Perhaps I should wait here, to make certain you haven't fainted once you are in the water."

"There is one way to find out, isn't there?" And with that, she stood and went to the tub, and dropped the plaid before she stepped in.

"You aren't going to remove your sleeping gown?"

"I will once you have left the room. It needs washing, anyway."

All Jamie could think about was her sitting in that bathtub a few minutes from, now, bare and beautiful, with her soft skin shimmering with all the richness of the finest pearls. He called to memory the image of her the night before, when she lay completely nude in her bed, eyes closed, while he pulled his sister's gown over her head and buttoned it.

That had taken a mountain of will, for it had not been easy to resist the temptation to put his mouth over her breast and to try his own method of warming her.

"I will leave you and go in search of something suitable for you to wear," he said at last.

He did not have to turn back to look at her to know she was watching him. He could feel it. He smiled. He was never one to disappoint a hopeful lass, so he gave her something to look at when he let his plaid slip as he went around the door.

_Five

When Love's delirium haunts the glowing mind,

Limping Decorum lingers far behind. —Lord Byron (1788-1824), English poet.
Answer to Some Elegant Verses Sent by a Friend

She might be a maiden and untouched by human hands, but one would have to be a blithering idiot not to know that she had just been given a good look at the Earl of Monleigh's well-muscled buttocks, and just a glimpse, mind you, of that part of his anatomy that lay on the opposite side.

That in itself was shocking enough (although she would never admit that she enjoyed it immensely), but the worst part of it was, she knew he had done it on purpose, just to shock her and see her reaction.

Shocked she was, but she would not give him the satisfaction of letting him know she had even noticed.

Truthfully, she was wishing by this point in time that he had walked a little slower. After all, if he was going to give her a look at his privates, why not give her a good look?

She knew he was doing his best to seduce her, by giving her a glimpse of what exactly he had to offer. Dangling his wares before her as he had, she was reminded of the fisherman who baited his hook to catch the big fish.

Only she was not biting.

By the time he returned with a dress slung over his shoulder, a slow-spreading smile on his sensual lips, Sophie was out of the tub and wrapped in his plaid. She was leaning toward the fire, fluffing her hair to dry it. He crossed the room and placed the dress, undergarments and a pair of slippers on a chair, before he thrust a comb in front of her face. Then he said, "I thought you might need this."

"A comb!
Oh! Merci...merci beaucoup.
I was finding it quite impossible to get the tangles out with my fingers."

He took her hand and pulled her to her feet. Without releasing her, he sat down in the chair and pulled her into his lap. Before she had a chance to squeal her dissatisfaction with the arrangement, he began to comb her hair.

"Just to conserve your strength," he said.

Sophie could only manage a muffled ' 'Hmm..." as she closed her eyes and let herself be completely seduced by the warmth of the fire, the nearness of him, and the luxury of having a man who looked as good, and smelled as fine, as he did, comb her hair.

She had no idea how long his hand had been there when she opened her eyes and realized his hand was cupping her breast. Her heart began to hammer so furiously she thought for a moment it had sprouted wings and would fly right out of her chest. Her first thought was she had fallen too quickly into a comfortable place with him, and now he had closed the gate and locked it, trapping her inside.

She turned her head to tell him in so many words to remove his hand from her breast, but when she whipped her head around, her lips collided with his. The next thing she knew his hot tongue was inside her mouth, and he was kissing her as if a ban on kissing was going into effect tomorrow.

There was no knowledge of the exact moment he slipped the plaid from her shoulders, only the memory of a cool draft upon her skin, and the feel of his arms lifting her and carrying her down with him, to lie on the hearth rug before the fire.

How he managed to unwrap miles of plaid so deftly, she would never know. He had to be part sorcerer—a descendant of one of those mystical beings that roamed the moors centuries ago, casting spells hither and yon, bewitching the unsuspecting.

He dug his fingers into her hair, telling her how beautiful she was and how much he had wanted to do this since the moment he first saw her, half-naked and in his brother's arms.

All of a sudden, none of it seemed to matter to her.

She did not care that his hand was on her breast, or that his tongue was in her mouth, or that he had peeled away the layers of his plaid until she lay completely bare before him, warmed only by the heat from the fire, and the heat that was even more intense that came from Jamie himself.

He had the hands of a magician, for he knew just where to touch her and how to make her want him with a deep yearning—with a fierceness she had never known before.

From somewhere deep within her she felt the first stirrings of a sweeping response for which she was totally unprepared—a naked awareness of intimacy that called to her like beckoning fingers, urging her to follow his lead. She was slowly being consumed by a lazy awakening of desire that urged her to turn her back on caution and go with him, only to have him leave her trembling at the entrance to a new world of yearning and delight that yawned wickedly before her.

Her only fear was that it would completely engulf her and leave her bound as tightly as a slave to him.

Out of the impassioned blur, his face began to take form above her, like a vision, and she remembered her days in the convent when she was taught the devil could take many forms.

Oh, my, was that she who was making that whimpering sound?

She decided it must have been, for he stroked the sensitive lobe of her ear with his teeth and whispered, "Don't be afraid. I would never hurt you, lass. Never."

Her first impulse was to fling her arms and legs to the four winds and let him have his way with her, but her uncertainty about exactly what all
his way
involved, she allowed her more chaste thoughts to overrule her melting-hot impulses.

He kissed her deeply, and caressed her until she was close to tossing her chaste thoughts out the nearest window.

What was that digging into her hipbone?

When sudden understanding came to her, she wondered why women used the word
prick
as a term of endearment, for she could find nothing endearing about the knowledge of just what part of him was rudely pressed against her hip.

His tone was comforting, his hands gentle, his words soothing, and soon she forgot about the discomfort to her hip, or rather she found that some things can walk a fine line between pain and pleasure, for now the knowledge she had previously shunned was giving her a feeling of power, and it washed over her warmly. She learned, too, that there is no aphrodisiac like power.