Highland Hope by Julie Johnstone

Nine

The next morning, with his vow to himself renewed to control his reaction to Abigail.

Royce entered the courtyard from his early-morning training session with his men and stopped short at the sight of Abigail wearing the nun habit that Danaria had given her when Abigail had first arrived. She was bent over and muttering to herself with one of her shoes in her hand. How in God’s name the woman could make the drab nun habit look alluring made little sense, but nothing about the reactions this woman caused in him made sense.

He stood on the other side of the courtyard, struggling to fight the urge to go to her when she suddenly looked up from what she was doing, spotted him, and stood straight. She grasped the sides of her skirt, pulled them out, and curtsied, while still holding her one slipper. “Nothing to see here, Laird,” she called from across the way. “Just keeping the order so you may move along.”

Behind him came a snicker, and he turned to find his sister there. “What are ye laughing at?” he demanded.

“Ye,” Elena said. “I’m laughing at ye. ’Tis good to see yer precious order tested.”

“Abigail spoke to ye?” he asked, surprised.

“Nay. I inquired why she was wearing the habit this morning, and she simply said that ye did nae find her other gown pleasing. I took it to mean ye found her too bonny in it.”

His neck grew warm with his sister’s keen insight of him, which elicited yet another chuckle from her. “What happened with her shoe?” he asked in a bid to change the subject.

“Yer daughters,” she said, her tone dry. “They filled her shoes with mud this morning.”

“I’ll talk to—”

“Nay,” Elena said. “She can handle them, Royce. Give her—and them—a chance.”

He looked back toward Abigail, and his mouth thinned. On the other side of the courtyard, she was surrounded by three warriors, two of whom were holding her shoes and looked to be cleaning them out.

“Quit yer scowling, Brother,” Elena said, patting him on the arm. “Ye may nae want her, but all yer unwed men seem to.”

“She causes disorder,” he muttered for lack of a better thing to say.

Elena arched her brow. “There’s a simple fix for that, ye know.”

“Is there now?” he asked, sensing he was being baited.

“Oh, aye,” his sister said. “Claim the lass as yer own.”

His sister’s words stayed with him the following days as he found himself at the window in his solar every day, whenever he chanced to hear Elena in the courtyard with the girls. He told himself it was to ensure that Abigail was gaining control of the twins, but he knew it wasn’t as simple as that. She did bring disorder each day, but he was more amused by it than anything else. His girls, though they continued to try to drive her away—they had put frogs down her dress twice, which they’d gone to bed without supper for—Abigail had taken it all in stride, even if the stride had included her dancing around the courtyard tugging on her bodice trying to get the frogs out. It had been a sight to behold, and he’d found himself imagining that if they were wed, he’d simply go down to the courtyard and slip a hand down her gown to aid her in removing them. That thought sent him to the loch yet again.

In fact, he was at the loch several times a day, and he’d taken to swimming directly after supper, which he generally spent staring at Abigail. So when she did not appear for supper a full fortnight after she’d arrived at the castle, he became worried and went hunting for the woman he’d vowed to keep at a distance. And he certainly found her…

Royce stood on the seagate stairs, and his entire body went hard, throbbing with desire as Abigail swam in the loch bathed in moonlight. He was at the bottom of the stairs, and the moon was high and bright, so he was afforded a clear view of her, and it was the most magnificent sight he’d ever seen. Her hair was slicked back from her face, and he could clearly see the outline of her fine bones. And the léine she wore clung to her, giving him a full view of her high and firm breasts, her waist small, and her hips lush. His fingers curled toward his palms with the desire to place them on her body and tug her to him. He wanted to feel all those soft curves pressed to his hardness. He wanted to inhale the tantalizing scent of lemon and lavender that always lingered around her. He wanted to taste her. Touch her. Enter her and feel her heat.

He groaned and started to turn around to make his way back up the stairs and give her peace and privacy, when he spotted Clyde crouched on the rocks. He was hidden from Abigail’s view by the tall grass that grew up between the jagged boulders, and he was gawking at Abigail, invading her privacy in a way the man had no right to.

Logically, Royce knew he’d been doing the same thing, albeit unintentionally, but logic didn’t stop Royce’s temper from exploding. Fury coursed through him, propelling him over the rock and toward Clyde before the guard even realized Royce was upon him. Clyde jerked up as Royce closed the last bit of distance between them. “What the devil are ye doing out here, Clyde?”

“Staring at the lass, of course,” Clyde said, grinning like a clot-heid. “She’s the comeliest wench I’ve ever seen.”

Abigail being referred to as a wench snapped the thin thread Royce’s restraint had been tethered to. He reared back his fist and punched Clyde straight in the nose. Bone crunched satisfyingly upon contact.

To Clyde’s credit, he took the hit with no more than a grunt, and then the man lifted his hands to his face to stop the blood that had already started flowing. “What was that for, Laird?” Clyde’s tone was respectful, but his dark eyes were narrowed like daggers upon Royce.

Royce didn’t give a damn at the moment. He’d never hit one of his warriors, but this was different somehow. This was man to man, not laird to subordinate. “That was for staring at the lass without her permission.” It was hypocritical. He knew it well, but he didn’t recant. Yes, he’d stared, but he knew he would die before doing Abigail harm. He couldn’t say the same for Clyde, who was known as Brus was—for tumbling a different lass in the castle nearly every night.

“I beg forgiveness, Laird,” Clyde said, swiping a hand across his already swelling nose. The man’s lips were pressed into a hard, thin line, and Royce sensed his anger. He’d known Clyde since they were both lads, as Clyde’s father had held the position of head of archers for Royce’s father. He’d trained with Clyde since the time they both had found sturdy legs. They’d learned to shoot bows together, fight with swords together, and chase lasses together before Royce had wed Lara. “I didn’t realize ye’d claimed the lass.”

Royce frowned, then shoved a hand through his hair. “I haven’t.” As the words hung between him and the man he’d called friend until he’d just punched him, he realized he had not said he wouldn’t claim her. He should say that, but something held him back. Likely the simple need to protect her until he was certain she could protect herself from the likes of Clyde. He was harmless enough for a lass who understood he didn’t want commitment of any sort, but Abigail would not know that yet.

“I understand ye, Laird. Ye may claim her in the future so none of us are allowed to touch what’s yers. ’Tis all yers here as laird.”

“It may seem that way to ye,” Royce said, his temper cooling slightly and his control returning, “but ’tis nae the true way of it, nor how I think, and I’d hope ye know that. The lass is under my care as laird. Once she knows ye, knows how ye like a different lass in yer bed every night, if she then welcomes ye staring at her when she’s half-naked in the loch, ye may do so. Until then, do nae come down here and stare at her or ye’ll find yerself demoted.”

“As ye wish, Laird,” Clyde said, his tone tight. “May I return to the castle now?”

“Aye.”

Clyde departed with a stiff incline of his head, and Royce turned to follow, driven by a strong protectiveness over Abigail, one he knew he had no right to feel, and yet, there it was, uncontainable. And he’d just severed an old friendship for it. He’d work on soothing Clyde’s injured pride tomorrow, but not so much so that the man forgot Royce’s warning. It stood, unreasonable or not, because apparently reason did not go along with what Abigail stirred in him.

Sweat dripped down Eve’s back, between her breasts, and at the nape of her neck. The nun habit was hotter than a normal gown, but she donned it every day in a show of what she knew was childish defiance. She was surprised by her own actions and the bravery they meant she’d rediscovered, but she was even more surprised that Royce allowed her to openly defy him. The man was unlike any she’d ever known. He was gruff, yet kind. Warm, yet distant. Honorable through and through. Seemingly inflexible, yet not truly inflexible at all. He’d told her to keep order, and she’d tried—honestly, she had—but disorder seemed to follow her. And she was still here, not banished.

“What are ye doing, Abigail?”

Eve looked down as Elena’s voice rang in her ear and frowned at the mess she’d made at the table. In her distraction with Royce, she’d spilled beans everywhere. She had to do better! Her heart thudded a loud, fast beat in her ears and joined the cacophony of the healing room so that Eve found it almost impossible to concentrate. She’d been at the castle one month now and spent nearly three weeks in the healing room, feigning knowledge she did not possess. It was a miracle from God she’d not been discovered. Or made someone worse with her ignorance, or—God above. Her hand trembled over the stone bowl where she was supposed to be grinding the beans for the tincture for Anne Marie, who had milk stuck in her very enlarged, very hard breasts.

Anne Marie sat under the stained glass window, her gown tight across said breasts, one side pulled down and her babe crying at that same breast, waving his tiny hands frantically in the air. Anne Marie wailed, her heart-shaped face was red, and her blond hair was matted and stuck to her neck. Eve didn’t blame her for the tears. Eve wanted to wail, too. Her lies were mounting, and she didn’t like it one bit, but she didn’t see any other choice but to continue.

She glanced around the room, and the knots in her stomach grew tighter. The only reason she’d been able to sustain the ruse of being a healer this long was because hardly anyone had come to the healing room, and when they had, Elena had mostly taken care of them, having learned the healing arts herself when she was young. But Elena had made it clear she had no intention of staying at Dunvegan Castle so a new healer was in order. The woman wanted to go to the king’s court.

Eve’s gaze wandered over the MacLeod clansmen and women who’d come to the healing room since this morning. A sheepherder who’d been bitten by a snake sat on a black stool near the edge of a table that held rows and rows of jars filled with powders, potions, and plants, all presumably for Eve to mix to heal people. Hysteria rose in her throat and formed a large, hard knot. She’d made the potion for the sheepherder, Brock, to drink but only because Elena had made the same one two days prior and Eve had watched her do so and committed the process to memory. By Brock sat a warrior Darwin, who’d taken ill after breaking his fast. He had a cloth on his forehead, and the man was reclined against a tall, dusty cabinet that was lined on every shelf with similarly dusty green jars. Elena had mixed a tincture for Darwin, and Eve thought it must be working because he only groaned loudly every four breaths now instead of every two.

To the right of Darwin, near a large spice-and-herb table, was Martha, the head of the cooks. She’d burned her hand on a pot and now held a poultice that Elena had made to the burn. Eve needed to check on it. To the left of Martha was Danaria. When Eve looked at the young, red-haired beauty, the woman’s green gaze landed on Eve and narrowed with obvious suspicion. Danaria had twisted her ankle in a fall down the stairs, and Eve was supposed to make her a tincture for pain after she made the one for Anne Marie’s stubborn milk.

The healing room was small on a normal day, but today it felt positively stifling. The air was not moving, and everyone was complaining at once.

“If ye take any longer to finish Anne Marie’s tincture, her bairn will be dead and I’ll likely be passed out from pain,” Danaria snapped, smacking a hand down on the table beside her for emphasis.

“I’m sorry,” Eve rushed out, wishing for the hundredth time today that she’d not agreed to let the twins go with their uncle Brus for a ride and swim instead of Eve watching them. But day after day of their antics was wearing her temper thin, and she needed a respite. She’d foolishly thought the healing room might provide that, given how quiet it had been, but she’d been wrong. She stared down at the black stone bowl with the crushed beans in it, and try as she might, she could not recall what else was supposed to go in there.

Suddenly, Elena looked up from what she was doing again, blew a strand of dangling red hair out of her eyes, and her gaze met Eve’s. She offered Eve an understanding smile and wove her way across the small space, between all the people waiting for their help. She came to stand on the opposite side of the table where Eve was working, and Elena set her palms flat on the dark surface, her gaze seeming to delve into Eve’s. “’Tis egg yolks,” she said, handily picking up an egg off the counter with one hand, cracking it, and releasing the yolk over the beans Eve had just crushed.

Eve’s cheeks heated with the shame of her ruse. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

“Do nae be,” Elena whispered back while leaning across the expanse of the table that divided them until they were no more than a hairsbreadth from each other. “Ye are doing exceptionally well for nae really knowing the healing arts.”

Eve’s lips parted. “How did you know?”

The woman smiled. “Because ye did nae know basic things. But ye’re a quick learner. I want to know one thing, though, afore I agree to keep yer secret.”

Eve’s heart was pounding so hard her ears were ringing. “What is it?”

“Why lie?”

Eve swallowed. She wanted to give as much of the truth as she could. This woman deserved that for her kindness. “I needed to escape so I needed this position, and it said knowledge of the healing arts was required.”

“Elena!” Danaria bellowed. “There are some of us waiting for the two of ye to assist us!”

“Quit yer complaining!” Elena snapped, without turning to glance at Danaria. “There is nae anyone dying, so ye can wait.” Elena’s gaze was unwavering on Eve. “Were ye running from a man who wanted to wed ye after yer first husband passed?”

Eve nodded and prayed Elena would not ask her further questions. She did not want to lie more than was absolutely necessary.

Elena nodded. “Men are clot-heids, and mostly I’ve nae any use for them—except my brother.”

“Which brother?” Eve asked.

Elena snorted. “Why Royce, of course. He’s a wee bit of a clot-heid, too, but in the most harmless sense.” She picked up another egg, cracked it, and let that yolk spread over the crushed beans, as well. “His actions mainly hurt himself. Now Brus… Brus is a different matter altogether. His heart was broken, but instead of mending it in an appropriate manner, he has left a trail of his own broken hearts. Och.” She waved a hand, picked up the black bowl, stirred the mixture, then said, “I still have hope for Brus, but I’d nae wish him on a woman right now. But Royce…” She smiled slowly. “I’d wish him on a woman who would love him well and be true. What do ye think of that?”

Heaven above! Elena was attempting to match Eve and Royce! Eve’s heart leaped, then dropped faster than a shooting star. The realization of how much the idea appealed to her sent a wave of sadness washing over her. How could she reply without lying? She’d not mind one bit being courted by Royce.

If only…

She despised those two words. In a flash, they’d come to represent everything she could never have. She opened and closed her mouth, struggling to find an appropriate response while watching helplessly as Elena’s smile faded, her brow dipped into a frown, and a dark look settled on her face.

“Ye do nae like my brother?”

“No!” Eve gasped.

Elena set her hands on her hips, still holding the stubborn-milk tincture, and cocked her head. “Nay ye do nae like my brother or nae I’ve misunderstood ye?”

The door slung open with a bang and in strode a bare-chested Royce, lips pressed into a grim line and blood dripping down his chest from a nasty gash across the top of it. Eve gasped and rushed to him, nearly tripping over her own feet in her haste. She stopped so close to him that the heat emanating off his body enveloped her.

“Whatever happened?” she cried, grabbing his arm and tugging him past the other occupants of the room, who at once seemed to erupt into a multitude of questions aimed at their laird. She motioned to the lone empty chair near Danaria, who pulled up her skirts nearly to her thighs as Royce sat down.

“I’ve hurt my ankle, Royce,” Danaria said.

“Laird,” Royce said absently to the woman while looking around the room before his gaze met Eve’s.

Something rippled through her. It was a strange awareness of everything about him. The dark slash of his jaw. His long lashes. The defined line of his jawbone. The dark stubble on his chin and cheeks. The way his muscles rounded his arms, even in rest. His towering height. A dizzying current started to race through her, and she pushed it down as best she could, but his dark-blue eyes held an intensity that made her gut clench. She was helpless to control it. Had his eyes been so deeply blue before? She frowned, trying to remember. She’d not been this close to him in a fortnight. She’d seen him coming and going from a distance, and caught his gaze a few times, but he’d seemed in a hurry or preoccupied every time she did catch a glimpse of him.

“I’ll come back later,” he said to her surprise. “There are many in here who need ye and Elena more.”

When he moved as if to step by her, she grabbed his arm. “No, you don’t. That’s a terrible cut, and you need my care.” She then said a silent prayer of thanks that she’d watched Elena tend to a similar-looking wound yesterday.

They stood side by side, facing opposite directions, her shoulder to midway up his upper arm. Slowly, he arched his brows at her, and she could see him struggling not to smile, but he sighed, as if giving in to the smile that tugged his lips upward. “Did ye just command me to stay?”

“I did,” she said, grinning like a fool. “And now I’m commanding you to sit.”

His smile twisted into a smirk. “Like a hound?”

He was teasing her. She recalled her similar words of being ordered about like a dog before, and from the laughter that now crinkled the corners of his eyes, he did, too.

“Well ye do oftentimes growl like a hound…” she said, realizing as the words left her mouth that she was flirting. She bit hard on her lip, reminding herself she had no right and motioned to the empty seat beside Danaria, who was glaring at her. Clearly, the woman had her sights set on Royce, and no wonder! There was something about him that was compelling, reassuring, and well, that made her heart beat too fast and her breath come a little too ragged.

He let out a chuckle, then sat, stretching his long legs out in front of him and crossing them at the ankles. Even his legs were perfectly shaped, devil take the man. She turned away from him, her entire body awash in heat, and skirted past several clansmen toward the table where a bucket for cleansing and honey for preventing infection sat, but Elena stepped in front of her, stopping Eve’s progress, and thrust a green bottle at her. “Pour this over his wound,” she said, grinning.

“What are ye giving her?” Royce called from behind Eve.

“Just a wee bit of Warrior’s Reckoning,” Elena said, her voice sweet and singsong.

A collective gasp went up around the room, which seemed to stop the rest of the noise, right down to the babe’s wailing.

“What’s Warrior’s Reckoning?” Eve asked, taking the bottle in her grip.

“’Tis a healing potion made from fire by the fae themselves,” came a voice from the doorway. Elena looked toward it to find Magnus standing there. The man was tall like Royce and took up nearly the entire door, but whereas Royce had dark hair and bright eyes, Magnus had flaming-red hair and dark-green eyes. He also had a perpetual smirk on his face. “The trick is ye can only use it on a man who has a pure heart. Use it on a man with sin in his heart, and the potion will burn off the flesh.”

“What utter nonsense,” Eve exclaimed, and the comment caused a round of protests to erupt from every direction.

“’Tis nae!” Danaria said. “I’ve seen Warrior’s Reckoning take the skin off a man’s face!”

“And I’ve seen every warrior it’s ever been used on weep at the contact of it, even if it did nae take his skin,” Magnus said, his gaze moving from Eve to behind her.

Eve glanced over her shoulder to see who he was looking at, and she was certain by the direction of his gaze that it was Royce, who looked utterly unworried about her using Warrior’s Reckoning on him.

“Why would I use this to cleanse your brother’s wound and not the water and honey we’ve been using?” she asked Elena.

“Because if ye use this, ’tis certain that there will nae be any infection.”

“Then why not use it on everyone?”

“Warrior’s Reckoning can only be used on direct descendants of MacLeod lairds and on the women who love them,” Elena said. “It will kill anyone else. That much I vow to ye. We had a MacPherson break in here and use it on himself when his wound was festering, and it killed him straightaway. He did nae even get out the door. The fae made it as a gift to my father for a service he did them. This bottle—” she pointed to what Eve held in her hand “—is all there is left. When it’s gone, ’tis it.”

“That’s why ye’ll nae be using it on me now,” Royce said, his voice floating to Eve from behind her. She turned to glance at him, and her stomach tightened again. Still bare chested with the lines of blood dripping down his chest, he looked primitive and invincible, as if no mere cut from a—

She frowned. “How did you get that wound?”

“He was distracted when sparring with Clyde, and Clyde got Royce straight across the chest with his sword,” said Magnus.

Another collective gasp went up in the room, and Royce’s eyes narrowed upon Magnus, who was standing beside Eve now. “Ye talk too much, Magnus,” Royce growled.

“Distracted?” Elena said. “That’s unlike ye. I kinnae say I’ve ever known ye to be distracted while training or battling afore. Pray tell, what distracted ye?”

Royce’s eyes narrowed further to slits, and his lips became one hard thin line. His gaze flickered to Eve for a moment, making her pulse spike, before it settled back on his sister. “I was distracted by thoughts of who I’ll wed ye to if ye do nae learn to mind yer own business.”

“Bah,” Elena said. “Ye would nae—”

“Do ye care to test what I would and would nae do, Sister?”

The room went utterly silent, and Eve could see why. Royce’s tone was colder than ice.

“Nae today,” Elena said, her own tone flippant, as if her brother’s surly mood didn’t bother her. Still, she immediately plucked the bottle from Eve’s hands in silent obeyance of Royce’s words of moments ago. Elena waved a negligent hand toward the crackling fire in the grate. “Heat a poker, Abigail, and after ye wash the wound thoroughly, sear it shut.”

“But that will be excruciating!” Eve exclaimed.

“Aye,” Elena said, “but it will ensure he does nae get an infection.”

“Some healer ye are,” came Danaria’s voice from behind Eve.

Eve turned to look at the woman just as Danaria put her hand on Royce’s arm. An alarming wave of jealousy washed over Eve, followed by a ripple of relief when Royce flinched under Danaria’s touch. This wasn’t good at all. Eve could not allow jealousy, relief, or desire for heaven’s sake when it came to Royce.

“I trust Abigail,” Royce said, his gaze holding hers. Fire simmered in the blue depths of his eyes. It was hot and sinful and made her knees go weak. She inhaled a sharp breath and locked them in place. The way he was looking at her made her feel as if he could see through her habit, and the fact that it thrilled her made heat suffuse her face.

“Come, Abigail,” Royce said, his voice sliding over her like silk. “Heal me.”

The tightness in her belly became an ache between her legs that made her lips part with the pleasure of the feeling. Never had she experienced anything like the effect his voice and gaze had on her. It was as if invisible threads rapidly formed between them and pulled her to him. She was aware of the silence in the room, the many eyes upon her, her racing heart, and the coolness of the air as she breathed. She gathered the bucket and the rag to cleanse his gash, and as she started toward him, the only sound was the water sloshing in the bucket as she walked and her soft footfalls upon the rushes and wood.

“Quit yer gawking!” Elena bellowed just as Eve came to stand directly in front of Royce.

Even sitting, even wounded, he was the most compelling man she’d ever met in her life. He was raw power and intensity, and when he looked up at her, she could have sworn the air between them crackled. She tried kneeling beside him, his eyes tracking her as she did so, setting her body aflame, but she realized right away that she could not easily clean his wound if she was kneeling beside him. She bit her lip as his own lips tugged into a grin, and it was almost devastating how handsome his humor made him. She knew the best way to clean his cut would be to stand between his thighs, but she could not bring herself to ask for such a thing. Instead, she stared helplessly from his eyes to his chest to his legs, extended in front of him, as the room grew hotter and her awareness of him gained a level that made her feel dizzy.

The blush that had pinked Abigail’s face and chest made Royce want to discover if that same blush pinked her breasts. He didn’t want to desire to know, but not wanting to desire the lass was not preventing his ever-present yearning for her. Ignoring her was not working as well as he’d hoped, either. Even when she wasn’t around him, she was in his thoughts, which was how he’d ended up with this cut from sparring with Clyde.

He watched Abigail as she came to the same realization that he already had: the best way for her to reach the entire length of his wound would be to come at it from between his thighs. God’s blood, his cock twitched at the thought of having her soft, lush body so close to his manhood, having her properly trapped between his legs. He should just let her awkwardly try to cleanse him. That would be the wise thing to do. But in this moment, he didn’t want to be wise. He wanted to be close to her. He wanted to smell her. Feel her heat. Feel her hands on his body. Memorize the myriad colors that danced in her eyes. And here in this room, surrounded by his clanspeople it was safe, so he drew his legs in and opened them, his pulse spiking, his body hardening almost painfully.

He held up his hand, and motioned her toward him. “Ye can cleanse me properly from here.”

Her bright eyes widened. Her pink lips parted, and her tongue darted out to wet those lips. He had to use every ounce of will he possessed not to grab her, yank her to him, and cover her mouth with his.

That would be dangerous. That would be madness. That would be an action from which there would be no turning back. Every instinct he possessed told him that if he ever kissed Abigail, it would be a kiss of claiming, pure and simple, and no force on Earth would stop him from having her, then. Except her, of course.

She started to rise, the water bucket in one hand, and nearly lost her balance. She teetered to the left, and her open palm landed on his thigh to steady her, but her touch unsteadied him. Lust shot through his veins, searing them as it moved through.

“I’m so sorry,” she said, standing fully upright and removing her hand from his body. But the feel of her remained, softness upon hardness, lightness to heaviness, woman to man.

He couldn’t respond because if he did, his sister, who was staring at him, and Magnus, who was looking as well, would hear the unbridled desire in his tone. They knew him too damned well to miss it, and he didn’t want to have to quarrel with them as to why he should or should not pursue the lass. Abigail moved between his legs, and his fingers twitched with the need to set his hands on her hips, lift her, and settle her on his lap. God’s blood, he hadn’t been so heated for a lass, well…ever.

His desire for Lara had been a slow build after he’d agreed to wed her so their clans could ally. She’d been bonny, but she’d known it and used it on men. She’d attempted to do so on him in the beginning, and it had cooled his own attraction to her until they were wed.

“Is it all right if I touch you?” Abigail asked.

God’s blood, the lass would drive him to his knees—or possibly mad—if she asked such innocent questions as that. He jerked his head in acknowledgment, and she dipped the rag and began to cleanse the blood off his chest. With each stroke of her hand down his body, he imagined what her hand would feel like stroking other places, and by the time she was done, he thought he might welcome the searing of the wound, just to drag his thoughts off her. She rose and made her way to the fire to get the poker. Despite the fact that he was normally a man of iron control, he could not seem to drag his gaze from her backside and the way her hips swayed with each step she took. And when she bent to get the fire poker, he conjured other ways she might bend, the mewling sounds of pleasure that might come from deep in her throat, the ecstasy that might light her face.

“Och,” his sister whispered in his ear, making him jerk in surprise. He yanked his attention to Elena, who was standing beside him, grinning down at him with a knowing look. Elena leaned toward him and in a low voice said, “Quit fighting it, ye daft fool. She’s nae Lara. Nae every woman is liar and a betrayer.”

His nostrils flared that his sister could know the thoughts in his head. “I dunnae want her,” he said, making certain to keep his voice low.

Elena rose and shook her head. “Do ye truly believe yer own nonsense?”

One breath and one glimpse of Abigail as she turned to him, face full of concern, and he knew the answer. “Damnation,” he swore. He couldn’t keep avoiding her, and he could tell himself he didn’t want her, but it was a lie. The quandary now was what to do: take a chance or send the lass away?