Robert stretched out his leg until his foot touched the wall. Odd, a stone about the size of a cannonball shifted.
“’Tis your turn,” said Janet. The wee vixen had taken to the game of hazard like a bird to flight. Thus far Robert was the only one divulging any secrets.
“A moment.” He crawled to the loose stone and examined it. Sure enough, the wall had been hollowed out and concealed a cranny. It took only a flick of his fingers to roll the stone away and peer inside.
“What is it?” Janet asked.
“Mayhap my luck has changed for the better.” He chuckled. “It appears our shepherds have a taste for spirit.” Wrapping his fingers around the neck of a bottle, he pulled it out. Indeed, it was a full flagon of whisky sealed with cork and wax. He handed it to Janet and, before he rolled the stone back into place, he slid a guinea into the cranny—more than double the price of a bottle of fine whisky, but well worth it.
“’Tis nice of you to pay.”
“It is only fair. Though I venture to guess the man who left this will bring along a replacement.” He uncorked the bottle and poured two cups—half for the lass and full for himself. “This will help ease your pain, but be careful not to overindulge, else you’ll suffer from a sore head come morn.”
She raised her cup. “Whisky is so potent, I doubt I could drink more than a wee dram, though it does help numb the awful throbbing.”
Robert tapped her cup in toast, then sipped. It wasn’t the smoothest drink he’d ever had, but it was a mite better than water. He picked up the dice. “My turn to call the main, did you say?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“I’ll call it five.”
“Only five?” she asked as if she were an expert, following her words with a healthy drink. Evidently Janet was a quick learner at more than the game of hazard.
“Oh ye of little faith.” He shook the dice in his hands and tossed them onto the floor. A two and a three.
“I’ll be. Nicks on the first throw.” Her cheeks turned a lovely shade of rose while her round eyes sparkled in the firelight.
Robert waggled his eyebrows teasingly. After a few sips of whisky, the game had suddenly grown more interesting. “Tell me a secret, lass.”
The flutter of her lashes spoke of bashfulness and something else. Perhaps a bit of pride? “If you must know,” she said with a flip of her hair, “I wear trews.”
“You what?”
“Trews. On occasion…when Da and the lads are away, of course.”
Why on earth would a lass as bonny as Janet Cameron think about donning a pair of breeches? The woman filled out a gown far more fetchingly than perhaps any in Christendom. Robert’s jaw dropped. “Aaaand you enjoy the feel of them?”
She shrugged. “’Tis more for practicality.”
“I suppose. If you are running a footrace.”
“Or riding a horse astride.”
“Ah.” Now he understood. He wouldn’t ride sidesaddle for his life. “You prefer to sit a horse like a man, do you?”
“When I’m trying to attain maximum speed, aye.” Janet’s words were spoken with such confidence, Robert had to purse his lips to stanch his laughter—not at her but at the picture he conjured in his mind. Miss Janet wearing a pair of plaid trews, standing in the stirrups with her heart-shaped behind in the air while her horse galloped around a racetrack. Now that would be a sight he’d love to witness.
He took another drink of whisky before he spoke. “I hope you will be able to give me a demonstration after your arm heals.”
“In trews or riding astride?”
“Ha!” Och aye, hazard was growing more enjoyable by the moment. Unable to stop his grin, he replied, “Why, both, of course.”
He lost the next roll of the dice. “I never wanted to inherit the lairdship,” he confessed.
“Honestly? But you’re such a commanding man, everyone respects you.”
“Not everyone.” He drummed his fingers. “Your father comes to mind.”
“Hmm. What would you have done had you not inherited?”
“When I was a lad I wanted to be the master of my own ship—sail to the Americas and find my fortune.”
“Sailing across the sea can lead to a man’s end.”
“True—though the lucky, I hear, find riches we only dream of in the Highlands.”
“Now that you are a laird, do you ever dream of sailing off on an adventure?”
“Only when I face misfortune—such as losing half my herd of yearlings to tinkers and thieves. But I could never leave my clan and kin. They mean the world to me.”
“My da would say the same.”
“Your father wanted to be an adventurer?”
“I do not ken about that, but clan and kin come before queen and country.”
“Well, I’ll be damned. Cameron and I agree on something.”
“If you’d sit down with him, you’d likely find you have more in common than you think.” She held out her cup. “I believe I might withstand another dram…just a dollop, mind you.”
“Very well, but after this I’m calling an end to your drinking.”
“And yours, sir.”
Though she was right, he scowled and gave her a slanted leer as he poured, helping himself to a bit extra. “Are you planning to roll the dice, or shall I have another go?” No use having the mitten knitter think she can outdo me.
Then he bloody lost the next round. He’d already told her everything he dared reveal to anyone, let alone the daughter of Sir Ewen Cameron.
The vixen sat taller, her eyes becoming heavy-lidded and a bit glazed. Now dry, her hair hung to her waist in waves like the mane of a lion. Moreover, the innocent lass had no idea how tempting she looked. She leaned closer, the motion giving him a delicious view of her cleavage as ample breasts strained against a bodice too frilly for a bothy in the wild.
“Do you have any more secrets, Mr. Grant?” Damn, her eyes met his with a moment of sizzling apprehension.
He took a lock of her hair and wound it around his finger. For all his days, he would never forget of the silken feel of it. “I enjoyed combing your tresses…” Drawing the lock to his nose, he inhaled her unique scent. “Ever so much,” he whispered.
The intensity of their unwavering gazes grew tenfold. She seemed to be aware of the mounting awkwardness and dispelled it with a smile. “I do believe you are flirting with me.”
“Never.” He scooped up the dice. “But I need another secret from you, lass. I’ve revealed far too much.”
“Very well. I call nines as main.”
“Nines?”
“Nines.” She threw the dice and rolled two fives.
“Outs.” He grinned at her from behind his cup. “I’m listening.”
“Ugh.” Slapping her hand through the air, she huffed. “Two years ago, I kissed Malcolm MacGowan at the gathering in Inverness. There.” She picked up the dice and pushed them into Robert’s palm. “I’ve had enough of this game. It will end in nothing but trouble, I ken it right down to my bones.”
He slipped the dice into his sporran. “I’ll not utter a word, I give you my oath, as long as you pledge to keep my confidence.”
“Of course I will.” The lass raised her chin, looking innocent yet worldly, composed yet disheveled.
Without thinking of the consequence, he smoothed his fingers along her cheek. When her lips parted, his finger ventured to trace her bottom lip. “Satiny smooth.”
He half expected her to slap him or at least shove him away, but instead she reached up and swirled her fingers around his uninjured cheek. Wonder glistened in her eyes. “Your beard is softer than I imagined.”
He cleared his throat. “I should shave on the morrow.”
A wee smile played on her lips as she studied him. “I think you are quite braw with a dark shadow. Perhaps you look like a sea captain.”
His errant hand threaded through the hair at her nape. “Did you say braw?” he asked, his voice deep and gravelly.
“Mm-hmm.” Those rosy lips turned up, bow shaped, pert, trembling a little, and looking exceedingly delicious.
Robert gulped while he lowered his chin. “And you kissed MacGowan two years ago?”
“I did.”
“Anyone else since?”
“Nay.”
“Then it has been far too long since a lass as bonny as you has been showered with such affection.”
As their lips met, he ached to lift her onto his lap and explore her mouth with toe-curling determination. But this was no alehouse wench. This was a jewel as precious as a diamond. She needed a man who was gentle, understanding, and most of all patient. As Janet sighed against his lips, her breath shuddered. Unable to resist, he slipped his tongue into her mouth like a man who had been craving her taste for days. The lass stiffened, and Robert forced himself to ease away. Carefully he brushed her tongue with his, caressing it, showing her how sweet a kiss could actually be.
He hadn’t asked, but by her response, he figured MacGowan had been about as experienced as a mackerel. Cradling her in his arms, he plied her with light, teasing kisses, just enough to still her resistance. And when she slackened in his arms, he returned for more, holding her firmly yet reverently, and deepened his kiss, showing her the potency of the fire coursing through his blood.
* * *
Malcolm MacGowan turned out to have been a complete nincompoop when it came to kissing. There was no question of the validity of Janet’s conviction. She turned to molten honey as Robert’s kiss spilled through her. At first she startled at his forwardness, but as soon as he slowed the pace and showed her how to kiss open mouthed, he aroused an intense yearning in her core—and that was a secret she would carry to her grave.
Under no circumstances should she ever have such a carnal reaction, especially when kissing the forbidden lips of the chieftain of Clan Grant. But he was rugged and braw. Powerful and tender at the same time. His taste shocked her with an unexpected wildness. In a rush, recklessness and hunger thrummed thorough her blood. Without realizing what she was doing, she slid her hand up the wall of his chest and teased a nipple through his shirt.
The friction brought a moan rumbling from the recesses of his throat and renewed fervor to the swirling of his tongue. Janet threw her head back when he pushed her hair aside, bared her neck, and scattered delicious kisses along her throat.
Sighing, she arched her back and gave in to his wiles. Until she leaned on her injured arm. Hot, searing pain made her jolt. “Owww!” She cradled the limb against her waist. “Goodness, goodness, goodness!”
“Jesus, I am a dolt. What can I do to help?”
She ran a hand across her lips, a combination of pain and guilt making her rue the kisses they’d just shared. “Perhaps we shouldn’t imbibe whisky and play hazard in the future. ’Tis dangerous for what remains of my virtue.”
With a shake of his head, the corners of his mouth drew downward. “Nay, ’tis my fault. I never should have allowed myself to lower my guard.” He stood and began stirring the pottage with his back to her.
Janet stared at him. His guard? What did he mean? Had the kiss meant nothing to him? How on earth could he impart such passion without feeling?