The march across the slippery ship was extremely difficult for a number of reasons. One, the wood was slick and with every step Rosamond felt like she had to lock her legs in order to keep from sailing through the air like she had a few days before, causing another near accident. Two, she wanted to run, and it was an effort to keep her speed slow for safety and propriety’s sake. And thirdly, her face was so hot and she was so embarrassed, and excited, all at once that she was in real danger of bursting into flames.

By the time she reached the stairs, her hands were shaking and she feared getting a splinter from gripping the handrail so hard, and yet, she couldn’t let go, because, if she did, she’d certainly fall.

Once in her room, she leapt up in the air, twirled in a circle, then flung herself face down on the bed, the coverlet flopping up rather violently and smacking her in the cheek.

Aye, this was definitely something she’d seen Loretta do on one particular occasion when Lancaster had gifted her with a rose in the garden and her very first kiss. Flopping and pining and denying.

The conversations that Rosamond and Tierney were having were scandalous to be certain. Her father would flay her, and him, alive if he knew. All of court would banish them both. The queen would shun her. The world would shun her, wag their fingers and admonish her for being the harlot that she was.

But her father, and court, were both far away, and likely she’d not see either of them again for a very long time, if ever, and that was perfectly fine with her.

Staring out to sea, feeling the strength of Tierney at her side, she’d felt invincible, and even the prospect of an uncertain future in Scotland had not seemed so terribly bad. Indeed, she’d felt as though anything bad that came her way would be glanced off a hidden wall of targes surrounding her.

Oh, and jealousy… She flopped over on the bed, flinging her arms over her eyes and feeling the tender ache of her burned wrist. That wound, begotten in one of the worst moments of her life, would forever be a reminder of her time in that cave—and of the man who’d demanded she allow him to save her. A man she wanted to spend more time with.

What a lie she’d told him about being jealous because she’d be bored. Bored—ha!

Nay, the truth of it was, she’d be jealous because she’d want to know exactly what the tart he was with was doing, or urging, and exactly what his response was or wasn’t. For saints, he’d kissed her unprovoked, what would he do if given the invitation by some strumpet? He was a man who’d been imprisoned for ten years, and Rosamond wasn’t naïve—she’d lived at court after all.

Well, she might be far from her sire and court, but she still wasn’t a harlot. Even if she could imagine what the other woman may, or may not be doing. She’d not provoke the man into giving her a kiss… but if he wanted another, she wasn’t going to deny him either.

Oh, heaven help her. There was no other woman. She was the only female on the ship to begin with and he’d asked to join her for the evening meal. She was being silly.

And yet, she couldn’t stop contemplating her time with Tierney up on the deck.

There was something else she’d noticed. The haunted expression that shadowed his eyes, even when he smiled. And the little bit she’d learned about him so far was enough to give reason behind that look. Having been betrayed by his father, and imprisoned, had to have scarred him deeply.

She wanted to soothe him. How she could go about it, she didn’t know, and maybe he wouldn’t even allow her to do so.

Maybe she could try, at dinner, to draw him out of his shell. But how?

Her thoughts were interrupted by the healer who’d come to change her bandages and reapply the salve. She tried to draw more information from him, but he was more close-mouthed than he’d been before.

When he left, she spent the next hour working on plaiting her hair and piling it in an enticing way, and not because she wanted to impress Tierney, at least that’s what she told herself. Logically, she reasoned she was only doing it because she was bored and because she’d had help doing her hair at court and now needed to learn how to do these things on her own. Even still, when her fingers glided over the woven hair, how silky smooth and rippling her locks felt, she wondered what Tierney would think.

Rosamond jumped when the soft wrap of knuckles echoed in her tiny chamber.

He was here already.

So soon.

When her mouth went dry and her belly flipped over and over she couldn’t help but wonder if maybe she should send him away, feign a headache.

Nay. She wanted him to dine with her.

Smoothing out her skirts, she took a deep cleansing breath and approached the door. When she opened it, the sight of Tierney took her breath away. Made her knees wobble a little, too. He was so handsome, so… big. He took up nearly the entire expanse of the doorway, and the way he gazed at her, as though he might just devour her, made her skin prickle all over.

Allowing him to come to dinner was probably a mistake. The idea of the headache returned, and she decided instead of shutting him out, she’d let him in on her slight discomfort by teasing him. “I haven’t yet decided if I’ll let you in,” she said.

“I’m willing to wait.” He crossed his arms over his chest and backed up to lean against the opposite wall. “Let me know when ye’re ready, lass.”

Lass. No Englishman at court called her lass. She liked his Scottish brogue, it made her belly do funny things, caused her skin to heat, like it was some endearment even though she knew it wasn’t. Saints, but she was going mad.

“Oh, do not be silly,” she admonished. “I was only teasing.”

Except she wasn’t. And he didn’t look like he was either.

The heated gaze he flashed at her as he leaned against the far wall was enough to make her want to jump out into the corridor and drag him inside.

As though he could read her thoughts, Tierney pushed off the wall and approached the opening to her chamber at a slow, measure pace. Rosamond cleared her throat when he reached her, the heat of his body, and the clean, salty scent of him rushing over her. She stepped out of the way to allow him entry.

“Someone should be by very soon with our meal,” he murmured as he passed.

“I have no doubt.” Oh, why was it so hard to speak? Her mind was swollen, her tongue thick, her throat dry and her fingers slightly shaking. Licking her lips and forcing herself to figure out how to speak, she managed to choke out, “In the meantime, would you like a drink?”

“Have ye raided my store of uisge-beatha, lass? Sir Samuel had it stocked for me especially in that cabinet.” He pointed behind her.

Rosamond raised a brow. “I’m not certain what that is?”

“Whisky, sweetling.”

The endearment rolled off his tongue and sent a shiver of pleasure coursing over her. “Oh, no I would never. Ladies at court do not drink whisky.”

“They dinna?”

“Nay. Do ladies in Scotland?”

He nodded. “Why should they not?”

“Hmm.” She cocked her head, trying to decipher if he was being serious, and determining that he was. “I suppose if I am going to Scotland then, I ought to give it a try.”

“I like a lass who’s willing to try new things.”

“Do not get your hopes up, my laird, I’m not that adventurous.”

“Oh no?”

“Well…” Her heart leapt. She wanted to be adventurous. But… “You’re incorrigible,” was all she could think to say in response.

“So ye’ve told me. Now about that whisky.” Tierney walked to one of the cabinets and pulled out a jug. “I shared one with my men above. This I saved for emergencies.”

“Why would you need whisky for an emergency?”

His jaw hardened at her question, and he cleared his throat. “I dinna always sleep well.”

“Oh,” she breathed out, imagining that the scars rendered by his imprisonment were enough to keep him awake at night.

“Whisky helps,” he admitted. “Though I’ve tried not to make a habit of it.”

She nodded. “I’m glad you found something.”

“So far. I’ve not had much opportunity until recently,” he chuckled, though the sound was not entirely humorous. Tierney uncorked the jug and took a long swallow. “Your turn.”

Rosamond took the offered skin and tipped it back. The first drop of liquor on her tongue was enough to make her sputter. It burned, it was pungent, and it was hellfire in her mouth and down her throat. She held out her tongue and fanned it. “Goodness!” The words barely left her as she coughed, certain she was breathing fire. “How can you drink it so easily?”

Tierney laughed so hard he doubled over, clutching his middle, which only made Rosamond stomp her foot and put her hands on her hips.

“What is so funny, MacDougall?”

He straightened, the creases from his smile deep. “Ye, love, ye’re what’s so funny. To be sure the first sip is always rough, but I’ve never seen anyone with that kind of reaction to it.”

She harrumphed, then smiled, giggled a little imagining what he’d seen. “I’m glad to have entertained you. For a moment, I was certain I would breathe fire like a dragon.”

He chuckled some more. “The way ye opened your mouth and your eyes bulged, I thought so, too.”

“I shall stick to wine or ale, sir.” She thrust the jug back toward him. “And you can keep your liquid fire.”

His fingers brushed hers as he took it and there was that flip in her belly and the shivers racing over her skin again. “I think that’s a good idea, lass.”

As if waiting for that simple prompt, there came a knock at the door, and Tierney opened it to the swab juggling a tray of food and another jug, which she prayed was wine and not more whisky.

Tierney deftly took both and dismissed the lad. When he set them on the table, he flashed her a wide grin and said, “Your dinner is served, my lady.

That single smile gave her a moment’s pause. He was simply stunning, handsome, and charismatic. There was a jovialness about him that pricked at something deep inside her. When he smiled at her. The pain of her father’s abandonment, the worry over her sister and the fear of what would happen when she landed in Scotland melted away, and she was left with a sense of peace. A desire to smile, to laugh.

Tierney stilled, watching her as she observed him, and there was no sense of hurry, no sense of being uncomfortable, only a mutual regard to something unspoken. She was certain when she disembarked in Scotland, her life would never be the same, and if she never saw him again, she would feel that sense of loss like one of her limbs.

At last, she said, “Why thank you, my laird.”

He settled at the table across from her, and batted her hands away when she tried to serve them each their bowl of stew. “Allow me.”

That was a novelty; no man had ever served her before. She nodded without a word, now feeling a different emotion welling in her chest. “Thank you,” she whispered.

“I must thank ye. I’ve not had a measure of civility in a long time, even if ye count the moments I was brought to court for show.”

Slowly Rosamond shook her head. “Nay. I could never count court as anything other than another form of torture.” At that she reached her hand across the table and grasped his. “I’m so sorry.”

“What have ye to be sorry for, lass? Ye were not on the battlefield, nor were ye my jailer. Ye have made my return to reality all the sweeter.”

She studied the bits of carrot in her stew. “I have to say it all the same.” She chewed her lip. “If I was there…” Heat flushed her face. “I would never have made a spectacle of you.”

His mouth hardened a moment as he glanced out the porthole. But she could tell however long he looked he wasn’t seeing anything there or outside, nor was he upset with her, but rather pieces of his past flitted before his mind’s eye, drawing him into the darkness.

When he turned back around, pain showed clearly in his eyes, and it flashed there, vibrant and vulnerable for several heartbeats before he shuttered it, but still—it had been there, and he was willing to show her, open up to her.

Rosamond’s heart lurched and the desire to reach out to him, to massage away the pain was great. It took every ounce of willpower not to rise and embrace him, to wrap him up in her arms, propriety be damned. Tierney was a man of pride, and having been so long in the throes of hell, she knew he wouldn’t want her pity. He wanted respect, to feel like a man in charge of his faculties, and so she remained where she was.

“Our lives are made up of so many moments. Some that last hours, days, weeks, and some that are fleeting.” He sat forward, poured them each a glass of wine. “It is in those moments that we choose the path we will take. How our lives will be determined. Even if our circumstances feel… unchangeable. When I was in my cell, buried beneath the stench and vileness…” He paused a moment, shaking his head. “Pardon me, my lady I know ye dinna wish to hear—”

Rosamond sat forward, and brushed her fingers over his hand. She stopped herself at the very last second before she fully grasped him. “I am not so fragile that I cannot listen, or understand what you went through, Tierney.” His given name, spoken for the first time in a new whisper, felt beautiful rolling off her tongue.

He seemed just as affected, his eyes widening slightly, his words stilled on his tongue, and then he seemed to shake himself from the shock of it. “Thank ye, lass.”

He took a sip of his wine and a few bites of food. She followed his lead and waited patiently for him to continue.

“When I was in the Tower,” he said, “I could have rotted away. I could have let my mind desert me, lord knows there were plenty of moments when I wanted to, but the thing was, I had to rise above it. I had to believe there was something more for me. I couldna let myself drown. So every morning, when I woke in the dark, windowless cell, I woke with a glad heart, for I was alive. But I also woke with a sense of purpose.” He pressed his lips together. “Even if my purpose was retribution.”

Rosamond had never expected him to open up to her so much, and she found herself both grateful he trusted her and aching for the wounds he revealed. “Sometimes the promise of a reckoning is enough to sustain a person their whole life.” Hadn’t she dreamed of the day she could snub her stepmother? Or lambast her father for being so cold? Alas, she knew that day would never come, and she’d simply have to be satisfied with having left them behind.

“Aye.” His gaze met hers and he smiled softly. “Have ye a desire for a reckoning, lass?”

She smiled, issued a small laugh. “For my father leaving me in that cave, or perhaps for being a gust of wind in my life rather than the air I breathed. He left my sister and I to the tender mercies of our stepmother, which I suppose in retrospect was high living compared to that cave.”

Tierney leaned back in his chair, eyes on her, completely absorbed in her. “And how would ye seek your reprisal?”

Rosamond twirled her goblet as she thought of an answer that wasn’t too shocking. “I’ve never thought of it. Besides as a child wishing the woman would trip on the hem of her skirt, or perhaps imagining throwing a meat pie at her face. But I think what would be the most satisfying was that if my sister and I were both happy and thriving, untouched by her hatred and jealousy. Seeing us that way, she would know that however much she tried to hurt us, break us, she lost and we won.”

“And your father?”

Rosamond glanced up from the goblet on the tabletop. The expression in his eyes was one of empathy rather than pity, and it pleased her. On this, they both seemed to have something in common. Thoughtless, selfish parents who had abandoned them. “I think he is beyond saving. The man is not right in his head. Mad, or simply selfish beyond reasoning, I cannot guess.”

“I wondered the same thing about my father, though I think he was fueled more by greed. Coin and power were more important than anything else. Perhaps he figured others would follow him in agreement.”

“Greed is an evil companion.”

“Aye, sweetling, ’tis.”

Sweetling. The sentiment warmed her, and she found herself suddenly feeling giddy, so she took another sip of wine hoping to quell it, but the drink only seemed to heighten the warmth flowing through her veins. “How is it possible after a decade of torment that you could come out with such a sweet temperament?”

Oh, saints and fire! Had she truly just blurted that out? She felt flames rise up from her chest to her neck and cheeks, and she quickly ducked her gaze.

But Tierney’s chuckle had her glancing back up again. A twinkle had entered his eyes, calming the usual storm there. Lips were quirked in a teasing grin, and she had the sudden urge to reach out and touch him.

“Ye think me sweet, lass?” His voice was low, gravelly and made her think of kissing him.

She chewed her lip, contemplating negating her statement, but why lie? What did it hurt to tell him that he was in fact as she’d stated? With perhaps a couple masculine embellishments. “You are sweet, aye, in a rugged, very gallant sort of way.”

His lip twitched, seeing right into her embellishments. “And, pray tell, my lady, how is that?”

“Well, not every man would climb a cliff side to save a woman he did not know. Nor would he offer up his cabin, dine with her, make her laugh.” She caught his gaze then, drowning in the stormy depths of his eyes. There was a fluttering in her belly, and she felt her face heating. Reluctantly, she pulled her gaze from his to stare at her fingers. “Not every man would dare to share his... troubles.”

There was a length of silence following that, and she wondered if she should not have reminded him that he’d opened up to her.

Tierney reached forward, grasping her hands as she’d wanted to do to him earlier. The skin of his palms was rough, and the breadth of his hands swallowed her own. The warmth of his grasp was inviting. “Nay, not every man, ye’re right on that account. But not every woman is as enchanting as ye are, sweetling. That is why…” He cleared his throat. “Ye should be my wife.”