Chapter 34
Morgan figured Bethac’s interruption had been for the best.
Jenefer was right. He’d never take a woman against her will. But given enough temptation, he might take a willing woman against his better judgment.
So, with as little comment as possible, he left her to her breakfast and headed to the practice field, hoping to work off his frustrations with a claymore.
There was still no sign of Rivenloch, though he kept his archers posted on the wall and his knights armed and ready for war.
By midday, he was dusty from bouts and dripping with sweat. But he was no closer to forgetting the winsome wench who’d fired his blood this morn.
He couldn’t stop thinking about her irresistible scent. Her lush curls and silky skin. Her glazed and sparkling eyes. The evocative pressure of her lips. Her supple, voluptuous breasts. The feral, feminine sounds she made as she helped herself to his body.
Even now, the memory made him grow hard.
Raising his claymore, he hacked at the stuffed dummy in the midst of the practice field until he chopped it into bits of straw.
He wished he could beat his emotions into submission so easily.
But visions of Jenefer kept intruding.
And to his shame, he kept comparing her to his wife.
They were worlds apart.
Alicia had been sweet and reserved. Too timid to hold his hand or kiss him in front of the clan, she’d blushed if he so much as whispered in her ear. Because she was modest, their swiving had been done in the dark and under the coverlet. She’d never gasped or cried out, but merely endured his fondling and thrashing in compliant silence. Never would she have dreamed of initiating lovemaking.
He smiled as he recalled Jenefer climbing atop him with brazen command, pinning him to the bed with voracious kisses.
Then he sighed.
Surely that was his long forced chastity speaking and not reason.
It was only that he missed trysting. That was all. Jenefer was like a brimming cup of ale to a thirsty traveler.
Still, he couldn’t forget how flattering her bold advances were. How unabashed she’d been at being discovered by the maid. And most touching, the way she’d attempted to salvage his honor.
He’d never imagined he’d grow fond of another woman. He’d thought himself incapable of ever loving again. And it still felt wrong to feel tenderness toward Jenefer, as if he were somehow being disloyal to Alicia.
If Colban were here, he would tell Morgan that he was being ridiculous. Alicia was gone.
In his head, Morgan knew that. But in his heart? His heart wasn’t so easy to convince.
“What’s wrong, Jen? Don’t you want some of this?” Feiyan asked in disbelief.
From the window, Jenefer glanced briefly over her shoulder. The guard had brought in a platter of smoked haddock, hard cheese, bread, and ale. But it didn’t look half as appetizing as what was charging across the practice field below.
“In a bit,” she replied, returning to gaze out the window.
Even at this distance, she was drawn to Morgan like iron to a lodestone. The mere sight of him made her burn.
What devilry affected her, she didn’t know. But her heart throbbed as she watched him wield his claymore with passion and power. The violent ring of steel on steel as he faced his challengers, defeating them with a roar of victory, called to her warrior’s blood. And the memory of lying atop his magnificent body, feasting on his lips while his fingers swept with gentle restraint across her flesh, left her breathless.
She wished she had swived him while she had the chance. Maybe then she wouldn’t be tormented by imagining what it would have been like.
But that opportunity wouldn’t arise again. Not before the Rivenloch knights arrived to banish Morgan Mor mac Giric and his clan to the Highlands.
She narrowed her eyes at the laird sparring with his men below, studying him as sparks flew from his great blade. She’d been watching for nearly an hour when a crafty, devious idea began to coil its way into her brain.
What if she didn’t banish him?
She bit the corner of her lip as she watched him destroy the stuffed dummy in the midst of the field.
What if she refused to let him go back?
What if she forced him to stay…as her husband?
Her heart skittered as she considered the rash possibility.
It made practical sense.
Marrying him would eliminate the conflict over the possession of Creagor. No matter what the missive from the king declared or what her parents reported, the holding would remain in her hands. At least half of it would remain anyway.
If they wedded, she wouldn’t have to bother with stealing Miles or convincing Bethac to stay on to care for the babe, since Jenefer would perforce become his mother.
Best of all, there would be no war or siege. Morgan’s fighting force of Highland giants would make the combined armies of Rivenloch and Creagor undefeatable. The Scots border would be impenetrable.
Of course, what made her pulse race at the idea of marrying Morgan was far more primal. It was desire.
As mad as it was, she was attracted to the wild Highlander, like a bee to a thistle. Not only to his magnificent body and inspiring prowess, but also to his good heart, his clan loyalty, his sense of honor.
Whether Morgan was attracted to her, she didn’t much consider. Marriage among nobles was a matter of political alliance, not sentiment.
Besides, how could he say nay? Once he glimpsed the might of the Rivenloch knights, his choice would be simple. Either wed her and remain at Creagor or refuse her and be banished to the Highlands forever.
Bethac pinched her nose between her thumb and finger as she accompanied Morgan through the great hall after supper.
“I insist, m’laird,” she chided under her breath.
Morgan didn’t think he smelled that bad. But he had worked up a sweat on the field today. He’d also taken several strategic dives into the dirt.
“I’ll fill a tub for ye upstairs,” she said, refusing to take nay for an answer.
“Fine.” Then, remembering who was in his bedchamber, he added, “I’ll bathe in the nursery.”
She seemed disappointed. “The nursery?”
“I’m not goin’ to feed the gossipmongers by bathin’ with the two lasses in my bedchamber.”
Offended, Bethac gave him a pout. “No one’s mongerin’ any gossip.”
“And I want to keep it that way.”
She sighed. “Very well. I’ll send Cicilia up to feed the bairn and put him down for a wee nap while I have your bath prepared.”
As she bobbed in farewell and scurried off, Morgan shook his head. Why would the old maidservant care how he smelled? She hadn’t reminded him to bathe since he was a young lad. Maybe, now that he was a laird in his own right, she thought he should answer to a higher standard of cleanliness.
Whatever her purpose, he was glad enough of a good soak a half-hour later when Bethac had him summoned to the nursery.
His son was asleep in his cradle near the hearth. The wooden tub, which he’d had built specially to accommodate the larger men of his clan, stood in the middle of the chamber.
But instead of his usual tepid water with a few rags thrown in for scrubbing, the tub was carefully lined with cushioning linens, surrounded by candles, and half-filled with steaming water into which Bethac was sprinkling some sort of dried herb.
“What the devil?”
Casting a quick glance toward the bairn, she hushed Morgan with a frown and a finger to her lips. Then she explained in a whisper, “The hot water will ease your achin’ muscles and bruised bones.”
He whispered back, “And the…what are those? Leaves?”
“Woodruff. ’Twill make ye smell sweet.”
He scowled. He wasn’t sure he wanted to smell sweet. And all those candles seemed like a waste of beeswax.
But once he undressed and slipped into the warm and fragrant water, he closed his eyes and felt his tensions begin to melt away.
Bethac gathered up his discarded clothes.
“I’ll be back anon with fresh trews and hose and a clean leine.” She clucked her tongue as she held up his filthy cotun. “I’ll see if I can find a servant lad to beat the dust from this.”
“What about the bairn?” He was uneasy about being left in charge of a creature about which he knew nothing.
“Oh, he’s sleepin’.” She gave him a twinkly smile before she left. “Take your time, and enjoy your bath, m’laird.”
He did enjoy it. The water was soothing. The flickering candles calmed him. And there was something about the scent of the woodruff…
Jenefer.
His eyes flashed open.
It was Jenefer’s scent. Sweet. Spicy. Musky.
He inhaled the fragrant steam, and when he closed his eyes again, he saw her. Her cascading tawny hair. Her glittering emerald eyes. Her soft, rosy, delicious lips.
Beneath the water, he stirred to life. Since he was alone, he didn’t bother to hide his arousal.
Instead, he sank further into the water, resting his neck on the padded edge of the tub, and dreamed of an impossible future.
A future where he could begin again. Forget about the love he’d lost. Move past the memory of his beloved, departed wife.