Caught in the Act
Shona had to force her aunt out of Kendric’s chamber, and not only because she was reluctant to go. The woman was obviously about to keel over from exhaustion. “Ye’re tired. Go to bed. I’ll stay until the steward comes to keep vigil.”
“Goodnight, then,” Jeannie muttered in yawning agreement.
As she closed the door, Shona worried her aunt might not make it safely to her chamber, but she couldn’t leave Kendric alone. He’d been restless since the meager meal an hour or so ago and she hoped the steward would remember to bring more of the opium potion in case it was needed during the night. The necessity of staying away from the hall and the other busy parts of the castle was becoming a nuisance. The ruse was turning her into a prisoner in her own home. How much simpler life would be if the appealing Ewan had turned out to be her intended.
Donald arrived a short time later, brandishing the vial of laudanum. “How fares The Camron?” he asked.
“He woke earlier and managed to sip a few spoonfuls of broth, but he’s been restless since.”
Donald peered at his master. “No sign of fever though?”
Shona swallowed back a yawn. “That’s a blessing.”
He pulled the chair closer to the bedside. “Go, my lady. I’ll send for ye if needs be.”
Donald had served as Creag’s steward for nigh on twenty years and Shona knew she could depend on him. She pecked a kiss on her uncle’s forehead. “Goodnight,” she whispered.
After opening the door, she looked left and right before stepping out into the drafty hallway. Her chamber was a short distance away, but she’d walked only a few paces when she heard the familiar click of claws on stone. With his usual uncanny timing, Ruadh knew she was about to retire. His wet nose nuzzled her hand. “Clever dog,” she said softly, turning to pat his head.
Gooseflesh swarmed over every inch of her body when she realized Ewan Mackinloch stood behind Ruadh, arms folded across his chest. An enigmatic half-smile hinted he knew something she didn’t. His presence caused a peculiar but pleasant clenching in her nether regions, though an alarm sounded in her head.
“The hound seemed lost,” Ewan suggested, “so I thought I’d best follow to see if I could find his master.”
Fearing her trembling legs might not sustain her, she knelt beside Ruadh, hanging on to his neck like a shipwreck survivor clings to driftwood. “He’s lazy and good for nothing; however, he’s my hound and I love him.”
Her heart raced when Ewan put his warm hand beneath her forearm. “Ye’re obviously a tender-hearted lass, Lady Jeannie,” he replied. “Ye look tired. I assume the laird is sleeping? Will Ruadh object if I escort ye to yer chamber?”
When her mouth refused to form a coherent reply, she allowed him to help her stand, silently thankful when he held her steady.
Tongue lolling, Ruadh eyed him before trotting off down the hallway in the direction of her chamber.
“Yer dog seems not to mind,” Ewan jested.
“He just wants to curl up in bed with me,” she replied.
Gooseflesh turned to a liquid fire of embarrassment when she realized what she’d said. A betrothed woman didn’t discuss sleeping arrangements with strange noblemen. But then, Ewan wasn’t a nobleman, despite his bearing, and he didn’t know she was the MacCarron bride. “I mean…”
“Dinna fash,” he whispered closer to her ear than was proper. “I must seek my bed soon too.”
She inhaled the aroma of leather and some elusive heady spice she couldn’t name.
Ruadh gave them an expectant look when they reached her door.
Ewan laughed heartily. “He’s a character.”
The sound of his laughter did strange things to her insides. “Aye. Er…I trust ye were treated with hospitality in the hall…I mean ye and yer laird…Fynn, I meant…did ye get enough to eat? I apologize we…”
His kiss silenced her and stole away what little breath remained in her lungs. His lips brushed hers like a whispered caress.
She put a hand on his chest lest she sway into him. Disappointment surged when he stepped away and traced his finger down her nose. “Goodnight, Lady Jeannie. Ye’re too tempting. I’ll nay doot see ye on the morrow.”
He reached down to turn the handle and push open the door. Ruadh trotted inside, jumped up onto her bed and sprawled across it. She teetered on the threshold, aware of nothing but the warm breath on her nape of the desirable man standing behind her.
“He keeps ye warm,” he murmured.
She felt the heat of his hand on the small of her back and her wanton heart raced—he intended to follow her into the chamber.
A doleful whine from Ruadh dragged her back to her senses. She was promised to another.
She turned to face him, perturbed once again by the strange smile. “Goodnight, Ewan Mackinloch,” she said firmly.
He bowed. “Sleep well, my lady,” he replied. “With yer hound.”
Safely inside the chamber, she leaned her forehead against the wood, listening to his footsteps receding down the hallway, trembling with the effort it took not to yank open the door and call him back.
*
As he made his way to Fynn’s chamber, Ewan cursed his foolishness. Why hadn’t he simply told Shona he knew who she was? His rock-hard tarse was of the mind he should have confessed his true identity.
His heart and loins insisted she was the woman for him. There was an alchemy between them he was certain she felt too.
Perhaps she was just a wanton woman who might surrender to lustful longings for any man she found attractive. What if he married her only to discover she was promiscuous? The prospect made him sick to his stomach. He’d be tempted to kill any man who even thought to touch her.
By rights, the chamber inside the castle was his, so he marched in on Fynn without knocking, then immediately wished he hadn’t. His kinsman perched on the end of the bed, britches round his ankles, cock in his good hand. His embarrassment at being caught in the act flushed through the grey stubble on his face as he bent hurriedly to pull up his trews. “I was…”
Ewan looked up into the rafters, willing away the image of Fynn’s impressive manhood. For all he was getting on in years…
His unannounced arrival had left the man in dire straits. “I dinna censure ye for it. I’ll leave so ye can…er…continue.”
“Nay. I apologize, my laird,” Fynn muttered with uncharacteristic humility, sitting back down on the bed. “I dinna ken what’s come o’er me since I set eyes on Lady Shona, I mean Lady Jeannie. I can think o’ naught but bedding her.”
Ewan had never considered lust could smite a tough Highlander like Fynn. “The eye doesna bother ye?” he asked.
His kinsman held up his stump. “Do ye really need to pose that question? She’s a beautiful woman, though I get the feeling men make her nervous.”
It was astonishing. Ewan had paid scant attention to Jeannie, repulsed by her one physical defect, yet Fynn the farmer had looked beyond that. “Mayhap she had a bad experience. Get David to ask his new lady friend.”
Evidently uncomfortable, Fynn stood and paced. “But what good will it do to find out more? Jeannie’s nay yer betrothed, but I canna woo her if ye dinna mean to honor the troth to Lady Shona.”
At the mention of his true intended, Ewan’s shaft swelled again. “Dinna fash about that. I plan to pursue the blonde, but I’ve a mind to play with her first in revenge for her ruse.”
Fynn stopped pacing and looked him in the eye. “Have a care. She’s nay the only one playing tricks.”
More preoccupied with thoughts of Shona curled up with Ruadh, he paid little heed to the warning. “Aye, weel, let’s go find David in the stables and see what he’s learned.”
*
Lying abed, Shona touched her fingertips to her lips, daydreaming of Ewan’s kiss. She remembered the texture of the woollen plaid draped across his solid form; the quality of the weave struck her as odd for a fleeting moment, but she quickly dismissed the notion.
She’d been kissed before, usually on the cheek, but had never experienced the thrill of longing sparked by the taste of Ewan’s warm lips.
Only Mungo Morley had once dared plant a wet smooch on her mouth. The stink of whisky on his breath had been nauseating. Her darling father had warned him off, but Beathan MacCarron was dead and gone. She bit down on her knuckle, swamped by the pain of his loss.
Ruadh whimpered, then lifted his head when a soft tap at the door heralded Moira’s return.
Shona blinked back the welling tears and sat up as her red-faced maid hurried to plump up the bolster behind her. “I sense excitement. What did ye find out?”
Moira stood beside the bed, hands clasped as if in prayer, eyes on Ruadh. “He’s a bonnie lad, yon David.”
Shona frowned. “I sent ye to spy on them. I trust ye didna give away our secret.”
Moira’s eyes widened. “Nay, my lady, I was discreet, but he seemed to enjoy talking wi’ me. Hardly a stammer at all. And he has a lovely singing voice that could make a lass…”
She stopped abruptly and glanced briefly at Shona before returning her gaze to Ruadh, who cocked his head, seemingly as puzzled as his mistress by the revelation David could sing. “What I mean is, he sang a ballad about Jenny Shaw and let slip he was of that family.”
“He’s a Shaw? I thought he was a Mackinloch.”
“The only time he stammered badly was when he struggled to explain why Ewan had told him to say he was a Mackinloch.”
“Ewan?”
“Aye. He talked on and on about the mon. Scarcely a mention o’ the fella who’s yer intended. I got the feeling he hardly kens Fynn at all.”
The temptation to giggle rose in Shona’s throat as a suspicion planted itself in her mind. “There’s more to this Ewan than we think.”
Moira eyed her curiously. “And it sounds like ye wouldna have any objection if he turned out to be the Mackinloch.”
Shona let the giggle fly free. “Ye ken me too weel, Moira Macgill.”
Ruadh woofed softly in agreement.