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At the touch of my hand to his skin, his eyelids fluttered but did not open. He groaned softly in a spoken word. “Roses.”
“Here I am, warrior,” I whispered to him, leaning close. Wilkie’s room was dark save the flickering light of a fire that had been loaded with wood, to keep the room warm for him. But it was too warm, I thought. He was overheated. I pulled the furs down from his chest, draping them back over his bandaged side, to his waist.
I went to Effie’s tray, which had been left on a table next to his bed, and I poured a goblet of cooled medicinal tea. When I climbed up next to him to try to revive him enough to drink some of the liquid, I was surprised to see that his eyes were open, blazing in their sudden blueness, still bright and slightly bloodshot from his fever. He drank willingly when I offered him the cup. It was only then that I realized I was clad only in my brief underclothing.
I made a move to leave him, to go and cover myself.
His hand clasped my wrist with surprising strength. “Stay,” he said, his voice deep and rasped from lack of use. Not a command, a request. The grasp of his hand loosened almost immediately, his fingers feathering the light downy hairs on my arm.
“Let me go, warrior. I’ll dress. Then I’ll return to you.”
“Stay,” he said again. “I’ll not look at you.” But his eyes were already on me, burning into me.
My thin shift did little to hide my body, but then again this warrior had already seen me, and much more than that. He had, in fact, tasted me, pulling sensuously with his hot mouth, biting with his teeth. The thought sent a hot flush to my cheeks and to my breasts as I remembered the feel of him. I hoped he couldn’t detect my heat in the dim light. Or my secret, rising desire for more of his tantalizing touches.
“I might look at you just a little,” he amended, watching as my body responded to him, as my nipples grew tighter. A hint of a smile played at the corners of his mouth, and his eyes were light against the dark rims of his eyelashes. He’s breathtaking, I thought.
“I’m dreaming,” he said, as though speaking to himself. “She can’t be real.”
“I’m real, warrior,” I said, drawing my finger across the back of his hand to convince him, so he could feel my touch.
“Are you?” he whispered.
“Aye.”
He paused, allowing the reality to settle. “And you’re here, in my chambers with me.” He laughed softly. “My brothers are truly good to me when I’m ill.”
“You fairly insisted on it,” I said gently.
His slow smile offered a brief dazzling flash. “Aye. I remember. I want you as close as you can be. Let me feel you, lass.”
His fingertips drew soft lines up my arm, and he reached to stroke the long strands of my hair, smoothing it carefully against my arms and my breasts, as though disbelieving the solidity of me. His touch was possessive and sure, leaving trails of warmth wherever his fingers had lingered.
“My dreams were so vivid,” he mused. “You appeared to me, a golden angel. I have never seen a beauty equal to yours. You were the sun, burning me with your golden light. Burning me as I’ve never burned. When you left me, all was dark. I followed you for days so I could feel again your voice, your warmth and your fair hair, touching me like a feathery wing.”
I knew Wilkie’s delirium remained; it was clear that he perceived me as a vision, perhaps, or an apparition. I suspected he was associating me with some kind of life force that had led him from the darkness of death and into a healing light. In his weakened state, he was seeing me as his savior.
I didn’t know if his desire to keep me close was real, or just a side effect of Wilkie’s instinct to survive. What I did know, though, was that I wanted to save him. I wanted his attachment to me to last. I knew that this desire was too intense and too quick. That I should feel such wild affection for him, when we had spent so little time together and knew so little about each other, was, perhaps, inappropriate. Yet it didn’t feel inappropriate. It felt important. It felt as if I finally had something to lose.
I leaned closer to him. “I’ll tend to you again, warrior,” I whispered. “Whatever you need.”
His lingering smile speared me with intense awareness. His hand stole back to my hair, which he wrapped around his hands, then let fall in fanning designs, as though spellbound by its texture and the play of the light. It was true I didn’t know Wilkie Mackenzie beyond a heart-pounding chase, a quick but savage fight and two astonishingly beautiful kisses. His presence, his face and the brush of his hair against my skin now felt familiar to me after brief and close-strung embraces against his bare chest. But his subdued, almost-wakeful energy was new to me and unfathomably intriguing. We were strangers whose mouths had touched intimately, yet the thoughts behind his eyes were wild and unknowable.
“You healed me,” he said.
“I sewed up a wound that was inflicted by my own hand,” I reminded him softly.
“And what of your wound, inflicted by my own hand?” He helped himself to an inspection of my bandage.
“’Tis nearly healed already,” I said.
His hand continued its lazy exploration of my body as his eyes held mine.
“Come closer, Roses,” he said. “Breathe on me. Breathe on my mouth. I want to feel your breath on me.”
I wanted to comfort him, to do as he asked of me. And I wanted to grant him his wishes. His wishes felt as if they were my own wishes, as if they were one and the same. I leaned over him. My breasts pressed against his bare chest through the thin fabric of my night clothing. I blew softly onto his lips as he parted them to inhale the air of my lungs. He breathed deeply.
“Ahhh,” he exhaled. “You heal me well, lass. I intend to take of you all your remedies.”
“Which remedies?” I began to sit up. “I can fetch—”
He pulled me back to him, quite forcibly, so I was pressed up against him once more. His body was remarkably hard against my softness. “This remedy,” he said, and he fit his hand around the base of my skull, to pull my face to his as he lifted his head. “A kiss, Roses. Kiss me like you kissed me in my dreams.”
* * *
“AYE, WARRIOR. I’LL KISS YOU. Now be still. You’ll overtax yourself.”
He obeyed, and his body relaxed. I touched my hands to his shoulders, to relax him further. I ran my fingers along his jaw. I touched his hair and smoothed its thick silk layers. I traced one finger across his lips. His breath was hot against my fingers. I leaned farther over him, breathing his breath, and when my hair brushed against his chest, he made a sound, like a soft sigh. I touched my lips to his mouth. That flavor of him, as I’d tasted twice before, was wickedly alluring. Wanting more of it, I licked his top lip, pushing tiny licks into his mouth, as he’d taught me, sucking gently on his lips and the tip of his tongue as I kissed him, savoring the all-tempting essence of him.
“Warrior?” I whispered.
“Aye.”
“Is this kiss remedying you?”
“Nay, lass.”
I stopped. “Nay?”
“My fever is far more acute than it ever was.”
I touched my hand to his forehead again. He smiled at my confusion.
“My innocent Roses. Stay close to me. My fever burns for you and can only be calmed by your body. And I can soothe you, too, sweet Roses. You must let me.”
I wanted to let him. But there was a small reticence in me. “What should I do?” My inexperience was fairly embarrassing at my age. I’d been too preoccupied with work duties to wonder beyond them. Until now. And I was beginning to understand the new fever he spoke of. This warmth, this feeling of heat. Of tingling need. His dark blue eyes were lust-drowsed and hungry for more of my kisses, I could sense this.
“You’re getting better, lass.”
“Better at what?”
“Better at heeding my commands.”
I smiled. “Aye. I get into trouble when I don’t heed your commands.”
“You and I both. Now you’ll do as I tell you.”
I was nervous at what he might command me to do, yet in my heart and my very bones, everything about this close company of Wilkie Mackenzie felt right. To look at him, to touch him, to be touched by him: these were the things that felt most important to me at that moment.
“Roses, my sun, my golden light. I must be careful with you. I’ll not hurt you, nor take you. Not yet.” His words had a strange, thawing effect on me; my skin felt dewy and hypersensitive. “You’ll do as I say.”
The beauty of his face, artfully shadowed and lit from the fading firelight, it fairly stunned me.
“Aye, warrior,” I whispered.
He wrapped his hand around the nape of my neck, pulling my face closer to his. “Kiss me again.”
I did, kissing him gently, exploring his lips with my tongue, pushing just inside his mouth. He returned the kiss, fitting his mouth to mine, tasting, delving into me more insistently, feeding me with his taste and his fire, which seemed to ignite my body with a pleasurable flush.
I felt his hand on the back of my thigh, over the light cloth of my underclothing. He pulled me harder against him, so I was slightly straddling his leg, still clad in the rough leather of his trews. He held me with surprising gentleness, introducing a lazy rhythm as he rubbed me against him, still playing my tongue with the luring pulls of his mouth. Shockingly, the rolling clench of his hand on the barely shielded skin of my backside fed a spiky warmth to the sensitive place between my legs. He took his time, ever so slightly increasing the pressure and the pace. His strength gave him total control, and he continued to work my body with his hands, squeezing and caressing in undulating grasps. I didn’t know what he was doing. Or how he could be doing it. But the building sensation was so needy, so sweet, with its promising, blinding forward momentum, I felt myself rocking ever so slightly against him, melting under his touch. The fever of my body grew in its power until it overwhelmed me, coursing with a compounding swell to surge through my very core, spasming in delightful, nearly unendurable bursts. I coiled and moaned with an almost painful pleasure, unable to quiet myself as the sweet fire pulsed through me.
The waves calmed, and I slumped against him, weakly kissing his lips. My body felt heavy and honey-soaked.
“Warrior.”
“Hush now.”
He drew the furs over us, and I barely registered the warning footsteps, the click and creak of the door opening. I knew I should have hidden myself or fled. To be caught like this, scantily clad in Wilkie’s bed and locked in an inappropriately intimate embrace: the entire scenario should have been mortifying. My reputation—if I even possessed one now—would be even more tattered than it already was. But I was too entranced by him, by what he’d just done to my body. I couldn’t quite summon the shame or even the energy to remove myself from him, not from within this hazed stupor that radiated from my deepest depths. I was floating as though in a wondrous dream where reputations mattered little and the only consideration was the nearness of my warrior.
“Availing yourself to healing remedies, I see, brother.” I recognized Kade Mackenzie’s low voice but had no compunction to open my eyes; they felt as heavy and sated as the rest of me. “Just checking to see that you’re still alive.”
“Aye,” Wilkie said, and the sound of his voice, so deep and comforting, as I lay against his chest, as close as I could be. “Still alive.”
The footsteps retreated as Kade took his leave. He was clearly not as incensed by the possibility of scandal as Laird Mackenzie had been. He paused at the door and asked, “What’s wrong with the lass?” Amusement rang in his words.
“Nothing’s wrong with the lass,” I heard Wilkie’s voice say lazily, his hand still warm and intimately placed. “She’s fine.”
I thought I heard a note of Kade’s soft laughter as the door closed behind him.
I lay with Wilkie for a long time, flitting in and out of a replete half sleep, until I was awakened by his moans and his uneven breaths, from warring dreams or from the pain of his injury I couldn’t be sure. I stroked his hair to ease his unquieted sleep. I ran my fingers along the stubble of his days-old beard, savoring the scratchy feel of it, mesmerized by the rugged beauty of his features. His arm wrapped more tightly around my waist, and the strength of him seemed to buffer me from the uncertainty of my predicament, softening my own unease.
I was becoming accustomed to the insistent embraces of Wilkie Mackenzie. Despite the newness of our familiarity, every aspect of his touch consoled me. It may have been foolish to find such a degree of contentment in a connection that might soon be broken. I knew Wilkie Mackenzie was likely to be a brief, temporary fixture in my life. But he was such a magnificent presence, so unexpected and so very, very beautiful. I wanted only to savor the pleasure of him while I could. I knew that when he finally let me go, I would miss the warmth of him. And the anticipation of his lips touching mine just once more.
When Wilkie’s breathing evened, and the black of night gave way to a purple-hued dawn, I kissed him once more with the lightest touch of my lips to his. Then I slipped from his bed and returned to the antechamber, where Christie lay undisturbed. I crawled back into my bed.
And in the wake of Wilkie’s enlightening caresses, I could not bring myself to fret about the uncertainties that the day would surely introduce. I still felt an echo of a pulse in the core of my body. It was an exquisite feeling, of fruitfulness and warm promise, as though my body had become a quivering vessel. Despite injury, fatigue, soreness, I felt more alive than I had ever been. I slept, thinking only of him.
CHAPTER FIVE
EARLY THE NEXT MORNING, I was summoned by Kade to meet with Laird Mackenzie in the grand hall.
There was a loud knock on the door, which roused both Christie and myself. Christie rose and opened the door to him. He did not enter but stood in the door frame, filling up the space.
He was generous enough to give me several minutes to adjust to my surroundings before he began doling out orders.
“After you dress,” he said to me, “I will take you down to the hall to discuss what has happened and what will happen. The laird is expecting us immediately.” He made no move to leave, to allow me to rise and dress. He seemed temporarily overcome by curiosity.
“What of Wilkie?” asked Christie.
“He sleeps,” he answered, still staring at me.
Whatever leniency I had detected in Kade Mackenzie last night had receded almost entirely; he was as formidable as I had yet seen him. His weapons gleamed brightly in the subdued sunlight that streamed through the small window and brought attention to the glint of the many blades that hung from him, as though they’d been sharpened and polished with care to face the day. I was glad for Christie’s presence then, as she rose and pushed him out the door, so she could make a move to close it, taking no notice of his ferocity. “You don’t expect her to dress while you’re standing there intimidating her with all your swords and knives, now, do you, brother? Wait outside.”
“I wasn’t intending to intimidate anyone,” he said.
“You intimidate everyone, fierce warrior, and you know it. Why else would you carry no less than three swords? Are you expecting to be attacked here in our chambers? You’ve already stripped Roses of her weapons, and I—” she held out her arms as though to prove it to him “—have nothing on me, I swear it.”
Watching the ease of them in each other’s presence, I felt a small pang of emptiness that might have been jealousy. With no siblings, nor family at all, to call my own, I felt fascinated by their playful banter, their natural camaraderie. She was so entirely unruffled by his presence, as only a sister could be. To me, he appeared frighteningly intense. Yet she treated him with all the gentleness of a child, ushering him out the door insistently and taking care to avoid any of his sharper edges.
Once Kade had retreated, I rose, putting on my battered tunic and my oversize trews.
“My dear Roses,” said Christie, surveying my outfit with a critical eye. “We must do something about your clothing. Ailie, you should know, is a talented seamstress. While you’re meeting with Knox and Kade, we’ll make it our quest to find you a more flattering outfit. And when you’re returned to Wilkie, he’ll not believe his eyes.” Her eyes glimmered at the thought. So welcoming, she was, and kind. It was clear from her openhearted manner that Christie had already accepted my placement here, perhaps not at Wilkie’s side, but at least somewhere near it. She appeared excited by the prospect of planning our day together, primping me for her brother’s approval. And as appealing as her intentions sounded, I felt wary of my own secrets: my tattoo and the horrified reaction to it that shadowed my memories. I would have to take every care to make sure it was kept covered.
But I knew there was no guarantee that I would see out the day at Kinloch, nor even the hour.
I wished I could go to Wilkie. I wanted to see him and to touch him before I faced his brothers, in case they cast me out. I felt disconcerted by this separation from him and most of all by the thought that I might not be allowed to see him again, even to bid him farewell.
“What is it, Roses?” Christie asked. “Why do you weep?” She placed a hand on my shoulder.
I wiped the tear away. “’Tis nothing. I’m fine.”
“I’ve never seen him look at anyone the way he looked at you,” she said quietly. “I’ve never heard that kind of longing in his voice, not once.” She spoke with an almost reverential tone, as if the connection she’d witnessed with her own eyes carried weight and power. “Don’t let Knox and Kade frighten you. They have Wilkie’s best interests at heart, always. They will do anything to speed his full recovery. Clearly you will play a part in that recovery. Take heart.”
And I did. Her words calmed me. “I thank you for your kindness, Christie,” I said.
“And I thank you for having the courage to save Wilkie, and to summon help for him. Now go. They’ll not want to be kept waiting.”
She opened the door for me, and Kade motioned for me to follow him, which I did. He led me out of Wilkie’s antechamber, down a hall lit with candles that sat in grooves carved into the stone walls, down a wide, curving set of wooden stairs, to the grand hallway. Having only a hazy memory of the castle’s interior from the night of my arrival, I was agog at the splendor of it. The Mackenzie castle was not, as I’d guessed at my first impression, wildly more prosperous than the Ogilvie manor. Rather, I realized, it was merely much more beautifully maintained. Careful attention had gone into each and every detail of both the land and the manor, administered by a clan who clearly cherished their space and were talented at enhancing all it had to offer. I valued this sentiment and felt even more drawn to this clan by the discovery.
We entered the grand hallway, with its richly colored hanging tapestries, its fine furniture, its highly polished pewter candelabras. I could appreciate that someone had taken special care with these candelabras; I had polished many similar pieces in my time but had never achieved such a rich gleam. Not that I had tried especially diligently, but still. It was admirable.
Laird Mackenzie was pacing in front of the large fireplace. He was the only one in attendance, and the look on his face as we approached him suggested he was tired of waiting, and had other pressing matters to attend to.
He took in, again, my disheveled men’s garb and stared at me coldly. “Sit,” he commanded, signaling to one of several chairs placed near the fire. I obeyed him, and took my place.
Kade sat in another chair, but the laird continued to stand, and his eyes did not waver in their scrutiny. I felt wildly out of place under the laird’s direct gaze. I tried to smooth my long hair, aware that I hadn’t brushed it in quite some time.
“I expect you to answer all of my questions truthfully,” the laird said. “Are you willing to speak to me?”
I was hungry, and sore. I felt chilled and at the same overheated. I wanted to eat and bathe, to sleep and, most of all, to visit Wilkie. But all those things would have to wait. I knew I owed the laird his explanation. “Aye, Laird Mackenzie. I am at your service.” I sat up straight and waited for the inquiry to begin.
“Firstly,” the laird said. “I will thank you for summoning us. For not leaving Wilkie to die.”
This surprised me. I wasn’t used to receiving thanks from anyone, especially a man of Laird Mackenzie’s station. But my small satisfaction at the redress was short-lived. I knew that as soon as he learned that I had been the one to injure Wilkie, the laird’s gratitude would most certainly give way to anger and hostility.
“I could not have left him to die. Not when it was my fault—”
“We’ll get to that in a moment,” the laird said. “Tell me first, where do you hail from?”
