Overhead, a luminous moon lighted their way back to the Thistle and Thorn. When Eleanor left the castle, it was in a state of numb shock. Her heart ached at the sight of her father, and her determination to free him burned in her veins.
The farther they went, however, the more the shock of what they’d done wore off, giving way to a giddy sense of triumph. Of elation. The shaking in her body calmed, and soon she began to feel like she could run through the night, laughing and cackling like a madwoman.
They’d done it. They’d broken into the castle, delivered their beacon of hope to her father, and escaped undetected. Perhaps their cause did have a chance of success after all.
The heat from Dougall’s strong, solid body was warm against her side, the memory of his lips on hers still warm in her belly. She relived his kiss over and again as they walked, the gentle caress of his tongue, the taste of him. The way her heart had caught in her throat and the world had pulsed with all the colors of the heavens.
Had it been that way for him, too?
Whatever was causing the giddiness inside her seemed to be affecting her companions as well. The three of them walked in unison, a shared bounce in their step. Even Roisin was elated, which was odd for Roisin, for she rarely allowed herself to become elated about anything.
The tavern was starkly quiet when they returned. No raucous laughter went on inside, no patrons came in or out of the door.
“That’s odd,” Roisin noted.
Beside her, Dougall stiffened, put on guard by the unusual quiet. He let go of the lasses’ arms and unsheathed his dirk. Putting himself in front of the ladies lest there be danger within, he pushed the door open cautiously.
Inside, the entire collection of Douglas men and women who had met in the valley of Cnò-Daraich was gathered. As soon as the door opened, they looked up as one with anxious faces. Eleanor stepped through the door after Dougall, followed by Roisin. Dougall closed the door behind them.
“Well?” Angus Beag stood from the trestle table on top of which he’d been sitting.
The three looked to one another, before Roisin stepped forward. “’Tis done,” she said gravely. Then, throwing her hands in the air and breaking into a wide smile, she cried, “And wi’ great success!”
The Douglases cheered, sending up a rousing whooping and hollering that nearly shook the floorboards.
“I canna believe it,” Angus Beag exclaimed. He charged for Roisin, scooping her up in a big hug and twirling her in the air. “I canna believe the three of ye did it. We thought for sure ye’d be caught.”
“Speak for yerself,” declared MacRae, the former advisor to the late Earl of Ormonde. “I never doubted for a moment. Dougall MacFadyen, I am in yer debt, sir.”
He clapped Dougall approvingly on the back. Bowing low to Eleanor, he said, “My Lady, words canna describe how grateful we are for yer sacrifice.”
A reverent hush fell over the men, as all eyes turned to her. Eleanor began to fidget, uncomfortable with the attention. She was grateful when Dougall intervened.
“Stand up straight, man. Our Nolie doesna need yer flattery, she needs a drink.”
“A drink. Of course,” Angus Beag exclaimed. “Every man to the bar. And put yer purses away. The drinks are on the house tonight.”
Another cheer went up amongst the men.
“That were generous of him,” Dougall noted.
Roisin glanced sideways at him, mirth shining in her eyes. “Generous, oh aye. That’s our Angus. So generous that he’s only got two casks of ale lined up behind the bar, when normally there are four. And no whiskey. Ye’d best hurry. If these men are as thirsty as they look, the ale will be gone before ye’ve had any.”
With that, she was off, elbowing her way through the crowd to the ale.
Eleanor looked hesitantly at Dougall. “Shall we?”
“We shall,” Dougall stated enthusiastically. “We’ve earned it. We’re the guests of honor for the night, I’d reckon.”
They were treated as such all night. They’d not even reached the front of the throng of men before a cup of ale was pressed into each of their hands. And they’d not drunk all of that before another one was pressed upon them. After weeks of tension and uncertainty, the Douglases had come prepared to celebrate their latest success. Their largest success. Shortly after the first cask was drained, someone pulled out a set of smallpipes, and someone else pulled out a bhodrun. And when the second was drained, Angus Beag relented, and pulled out more casks of ale.
For the entire night, a raucous string of music filled the inside of the tavern, accompanied by dancing of the most uncoordinated sort. With very few women to be had as partners, the Douglas men took to swinging each other around—which became less ridiculous the drunker they got. Curious would-be patrons, drawn in by the merriment, were promptly ushered back out, for the celebration was a Douglas-only affair. It was not a great hardship for those turned away, however, for the taverns surrounding the Thistle and Thorn benefitted from the music, which could be heard clearly in all directions in the streets.
Only halfway into her second cup, Eleanor was swept into the dancing. Each dance was followed by another, none of them any that she’d been taught the steps to as a young lady; rather they were a combination of wild swinging and galloping and skipping and laughing. It was all so haphazard, but never had dancing been more fun. No sooner had one man released her than another was begging a turn. She danced with Thomas and Manus, Gabhan and Angus Beag and MacRae, and countless others whose names she’d never learned.
And Dougall. She danced with Dougall the most, relishing the abandon with which she could press her body close to his. She felt so reckless, so free. Why had she not escaped the bonds of nobility sooner? If only she’d understood before now that life could be like this, that the life she’d once known was not a life truly lived.
Somewhere in the back of her mind, Eleanor knew the ale had something to do with her newfound release. She’d drunk so much she’d lost track of just how many cups had been pressed into her hands. The frenzied thrum of the bhodrun made it worse—or a thousand times better, depending on one’s perspective. It invaded her body, pulsing beneath her skin with its primal rhythm.
The tension of their expedition into the castle had broken, replaced by a rush of adrenaline. Everyone felt it, it seemed. Through a growing haze of drink, Eleanor began to understand that her entire, fragmented clan had been pinning its hopes on her, and the men had been under nearly as much strain as she had. The relief she felt, the relief they all felt, was intoxicating.
Speaking of intoxicating, Dougall MacFadyen was more that than anything. This wild abandon come over her was causing a surge of suppressed desires to run rampant in the most exhilarating way.
My, but that man was handsome! It was no wonder the lasses of Moray young and old swooned over him. Even as a girl, which was the last time she’d seen the great Dougall MacFadyen, Eleanor understood that he was handsome, even though he was older and she had not yet reached the point of being interested in the lads. Dougall was different. Singular. He was captain of the guard for a reason. It was not only his skill with a sword or his shrewdness or his loyalty. It was more—the man exuded authority by his very presence. He moved, spoke, looked as though he never doubted, never questioned, never made a misstep…failure to recognize his target when he stumbled upon her in a tavern notwithstanding.
There was a kindness to him, too. A gentleness. Here was a man who would uphold the justice dispensed by his master without question, but one who felt empathy for those upon whom justice was delivered. All in all, a man unparalleled.
They way this unparalleled man was looking at her all night made Eleanor’s knees go weak as surely as the drink made her bold.
No, not bold. Bold was an understatement. Brazen was more like it. If the drink weren’t interfering with her sensibilities so completely, it might occur to her to be ashamed by the seductive movements she’d made just for him. Only brazen lassies swung their hips the way she was now. Only brazen lassies lifted their skirts to the knee and spoke a language with their eyes that all men understood innately.
Eleanor Douglas, you are behaving like a strumpet, argued a voice at the back of her brain that sounded a little too much like her mother.
The voice was right, she was behaving badly. And by the hand of heaven, she loved it.
Dawn was not far off by the time Roisin slipped in to put an end to Eleanor’s celebrating.
“Good Lord’s bones, Sir Dougall, get this lass home before she overturns an ankle and canna work for a month!”
Amazingly, over the uproar Angus Beag heard Roisin from across the room. “What? Nolie no’ working?” he shouted. “Aye, lad, get her home quick. She brings a lot of money into my est-establishment.” An inebriated hiccup interrupted his last word.
“Ye’re drinking yer establishment dry, Angus,” one of the men laughed.
“Oh, give over,” Eleanor protested. “I’m fine. Leave me be.” But it was obvious she was not when she spun around to dance again—and nearly pitched sideways into a table.
“Easy there, young one,” Dougall said laughingly, catching her in his arms.
“Nay, nay, I’m fine. But thanks for yer concern.” Teasing him, she placed a sloppy wet kiss on his cheek.
Inadvertently (or was it on purpose?) her kiss caught the edge of his mouth. A swarm of butterflies kicked up in her stomach, intensifying when his arms tightened around her.
“Ye’re no’ fine,” Roisin insisted. “Dougall, she’s in yer hands now. I’m holding ye responsible for her immediate welfare.”
Eleanor grinned at her friend, and tottered over to give her a hug.
“I ken what ye’re doing, ye wee minx,” she slurred into Roisin’s ear.
“Ye can thank me later,” was her answer. With a pat to the bum, she sent Eleanor on her way. “And mind that gown, will ye, Dougall?” she called after them. “’Tis no’ mine. I have to give it back on the morrow.”
Eleanor gaped at the suggestion as the Douglases within earshot guffawed at the jape. Thankfully, Dougall didn’t seem to take offense at the comment. He gave a gallant salute to the crowd before ushering Eleanor out the door with his hand low on her back. Very low.
Improperly low.
Thrillingly low.
“I’m so sorry about that,” Eleanor drawled when the door shut behind them. “Roisin is just being typical Roisin, ye ken.”
Dougall leaned down to speak into her ear, his hand still planted firmly on her lower back. “’Tis no bother. I’m flattered, in fact, that she’d think I’d stand a chance wi’ a lady as beautiful as ye.”
Oh my, he was definitely flirting. His breath tickled her neck, and she could not help but giggle. Then she stumbled on a divot in the lane.
“Easy,” Dougall laughed, and put his arm all the way around her to steady her. “Ye’ve really enjoyed yerself tonight, I’d say.”
Eleanor made a pfft sound through her lips and waved a hand in the air. “Well, if drunkenness is a measure of the fun one’s had, then I’m inclined to think ye havena had any. Ye’re as sober as a priest on Sunday.”
“Ye couldna be more wrong, lass. I havena been this far in my cups in a long time. I’m just better at hiding it than ye, it seems. Of course I had fun tonight, by the bye. I danced wi’ the loveliest lass in the place more than any other man.”
A daft grin spread across her face. “Dougall MacFadyen, ye bold, bold man. The nerve.” She bumped a hip into him playfully, edging him a step sideways. In response, he tightened his grip around her waist, pulling her closer into him.
“Aye, ’twas bold of me. Perhaps I’m hoping to be punished.”
He dug his fingers into her ribs, tickling her. Eleanor released a shrill laugh, and struggled. But not truly, not seriously. When he stopped tickling her, she leaned her head against his chest and slipped her arm around his waist.
Perhaps that’s what he’d anticipated would happen. Perhaps she’d been all too eager to let it happen.
“Oh, I feel like I could fly,” she sighed. “D’ye feel like that? I feel like we could do anything.”
“’Tis the drink.”
“Perhaps some. But ’tis more what we did. Dougall, d’ye realize what we did?”
“Aye, I realize it. But there’s no need to be telling others, now, so keep yer wee voice down.”
“Oh, right. Nay, we mustna tell others,” she whispered, then shouted, “especially no’ old Fiery Face,” and burst into a fit of giggles.
Laughing, Dougall put a hand over her mouth, planting a kiss into her crown for good measure. “Ye’ll be the death of us yet, Nolie.”
She smiled privately at the teasing use of the nickname as she reflected on the night’s events. Oh, what they’d done. They’d snuck into the towerhouse gaol of Stirling Castle. She’d seen her father and given him a message of hope. And they’d come out again, alive and well to share the tale.
There was more to it than that, though. It was more than what they’d done, it was what she’d done. She’d found a place in Stirling amongst some of the dregs of society, and had learned to not be afraid of them. Had learned, even, to love many of them. She was carrying secret missives and attending secret meetings. She had survived a brutal attack by enemies of her clan, and when given the chance to flee to safety like a frightened animal, she’d turned her back on it.
And she’d survived an attack of another kind. Ranald MacNaughton had tried to lead her off and force himself on her. He may even have had it in his head to kill her when the ugly deed was done. But he hadn’t. She’d survived that, too.
She was here; she was alive. Life, she now knew, was a precious gift not to be wasted behind noble manners and harps, fine gowns and mothers who preached chastity and virtue. Death might come at any time, and Eleanor meant to taste all life had to offer while she still could.
More to the point, Eleanor meant to experience carnal pleasure. And Dougall MacFadyen was a fine and willing man to experience it with.
Roisin, of course, had known what Eleanor had on her mind, and Eleanor had every expectation that her friend would not come home this night. Which meant that she and Dougall would have the chamber—nay, the bed—all to themselves.
He certainly seemed a willing participant. In their walk home, he’d nuzzled her neck once or twice, called her “sweetling” and “beautiful” several more times, and had had kept an arm around her the whole way.
She was so confident in the outcome of this night, and Dougall’s willingness to participate, that when they reached the burgage and she once again tripped up the stairs, she purposely wrapped her arms around his neck when he moved to help her. Her momentum pulled him down on top of her. Without any pretense, and right there on the staircase, she kissed him full on. He expected it, it appeared, for he melted into her with a delicious groan and without hesitation. All the flirting, all the closeness of the evening, every last touch and glance and inappropriate innuendo, they had been leading to this. Dougall kissed her back with the same need, the same intense desire that she felt—and the same ale-fueled urgency, come to that.
Together they navigated the stairs, half crawling, half pulling each other along, hands gripping and clutching at each other, lips seeking but never finding.
At the top of the stairs, Eleanor fished the key out of her bodice and jammed it into the lock. The door swung open, and Dougall ushered her through it, kicking it closed behind him.
They collapsed on the bed together in a tangle of limbs. Oh yes, he definitely wanted her as much as she wanted him. Dougall’s hand traveled up her stomach, following the concave curve of her belly, which trembled with excitement. Then up over her ribs, tracing the faint line of each ridge. And finally to the satin-draped breast. When he touched her there, her entire body responded with a tender ache. It was more than desire, something deeper than lust. It was intimacy, so private and so perfect that surely no one in the world could ever have felt as Eleanor felt now.
He pulled the satin aside, and gasped softly. His fingers caressed the delicate flesh for a heartbeat before the tip of his tongue dared a hesitant taste. God’s bones, but he was skilled in all things. The care with which he handled her, and the awe, made her feel not only beautiful but revered. Surely he knew what he was doing, knew just how to make a woman feel like the only woman in the world.
Perhaps it was the ale, or perhaps not. But Eleanor didn’t even care how many women he’d made feel like this before her. She was alive and she was young. All that mattered right now was him. Was them.
She wanted to give him the same pleasure he was giving her. Following his lead, her hands roved over his body, skimming the bold lines of shoulders and back and neck. When his plaid became a nuisance, she tugged impatiently at it until it came undone to his waist. And when she yanked his tunic up, he raised himself so she could slip it over his head and off his arms.
His skin was warm and smooth, silk stretched over granite planes of muscle. It was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen. Finer than any of the linens and satins her mother bought from the merchant ships that traveled to the far reaches of the earth. Giddy with drink and with her newfound brazenness, she brushed her lips along the soft skin of his neck, just under his ear. Then she drew her tongue down to his collarbone and across his shoulder, teasing him with a kiss and even—just once, just softly—with the edge of her teeth. This drew an uncontrolled shudder from him, which rewarded and encouraged her.
Somewhere in the back of her mind, Eleanor wondered if the other women he’d bedded had evoked the same reaction in him. By the talk throughout Moray, there had been enough women that at least some probably had. Yet still she wasn’t jealous. If anything, she was glad that Dougall MacFadyen would be her first, like this, here. In a bed, in a chamber, where their privacy was unlikely to be disturbed. Where once the frenzy of first passion was exhausted, she would be able to take her time exploring him in greater detail, learning the intimacies that existed between man and woman in the hush of night that she’d only heard whispers of amongst the ladies of Glen Craggan.
It could have happened any number of ways before now. There had been a lad in the village when she was fourteen—what had his name been? She might have sneaked off and met him in the barn like he’d wanted her to. With straw, and the stench of animals, and the rats with their ungodly fleas. Or it might have been one of the servants, or one of the eligible nobles that came to Glen Craggan on occasion, or one of their servants. Her first time might have been spent pressed into an alcove or huddled in an unused room, time of the essence to finish the deed at the risk of being discovered.
It might have been Ranald MacNaughton, alone in the woods with her face shoved into the dirt followed by a slice to her throat.
Driven by a need to take what was given, Eleanor squirmed out of her gown without a care for the fine garment or Roisin’s warning to take care of it. She managed to get the ill-fitting bodice down as far as her waist before Dougall’s hands sought the soft flesh of her breasts.
Oh, what a wanton, wanton strumpet she was!
She urged him to lie down by pressing against his chest with her palms, and when he did, she fumbled with the buckle of his belt. She was so focused on what she was doing, so intent on getting rid of that damned belt, that it took her completely by surprise when…he suddenly resisted.
“Wait—Nolie, wait, lass.” He held her hands, trapping them against his stomach so that she could not complete her task.
His actions confused her, but she remained undeterred. Playfully, she straddled him, settling down over his thighs. He was rock hard beneath his kilt. Grinning wickedly, she wiggled her hips, causing him to gasp with pleasure.
“What? Ye dinna want this?” Then she brought his hands to her breasts. “Ye dinna want these?”
“Nay—I mean, aye. ’Tis no’ that I—I dinna want them,” he stammered. The colossal struggle to resist her was evident in the tension of his features.
What was the problem? Why was he resisting the one thing they both clearly wanted? Frustrated, Eleanor stopped trying to pull her hands from underneath his. Her brows knit together, and she stared at him with pursed lips.
“God’s bones, Dougall MacFadyen. Dinna tell me yer conscience is suddenly protesting about the protection of my noble virtue, or some such ballocks as that.”
“Well, yes, yer virtue—” he began, but she cut him off.
“Listen to me. In too short a time to even consider, we’ll be helping my father escape the executioner’s axe. ’Tis a fate I may very well meet myself. And I dinna intend to meet it wi’ my purity intact.”
“Yer purity is a concern—”
Ignoring him, her hands went to his belt.
“I am concerned for my purity as well, lass,” he blurted.
Eleanor’s hands stilled. At first, she didn’t comprehend what he was telling her. She raised her eyes to meet his, which were wary, unsure of her reaction to such an admission.
“Oh,” she said. Then, “Oh.” She slipped off his lap and onto the mattress beside him, her gown still puddled around her waist.
“I’m sorry if that disappoints ye,” he hedged when she didn’t say anything else.
Baffled, Eleanor shook her head. “But—but the lasses in Moray… They’ve said… Well they’ve implied…”
He shrugged. “’Tis no’ true.”
“Oh.”
Still stunned by his revelation, Eleanor reached for her shift, which was slung over the foot of the bed, and pulled it over herself. Then she wriggled out of the gown, and kicked it onto the floor along with her shoes. The heels hit the wooden boards with a thud that seemed to emphasize the dawning embarrassment that was slowly settling over her. She felt Dougall watching her, assessing her response as he raised himself onto his elbows. She moved to lean her back against the wall, and rested her legs straight in front, crossing one bare ankle over the other. Then she glanced warily at him from beneath her lashes. She couldn’t quite believe it. A man as fine as he hadn’t known the pleasures of any lass?
“I may be too drunk to ken yer meaning, here. But are ye telling me that what everyone says about ye—?”
“And what is it they say, exactly?” he put in quickly, a teasing note finding its way into his voice.
“Well—’tis no’ exactly what they say, so much as what they believe.”
“What do they believe, then?”
She studied Dougall for half a heartbeat. He, too, was embarrassed, and from that, she took some comfort.
“I suppose ’tis more of an assumption, then,” she admitted sheepishly. “Ye’re one of the best-looking men in the Highlands. Ye’re known for making women’s hearts throb and their knees go weak. I suppose people assume ye’ve never tried to resist the temptation.”
Dougall chuckled quietly at her account of his reputation. “They assumed wrong.”
Eleanor folded her hands in her lap. Well isna this awkward, she thought, as the flame of intense, passionate desire ebbed away. For a moment, she didn’t know what to say. She stared at her bare feet, wondering, through the haze of drink, if she might wake tomorrow morning to extreme mortification. She hoped she hadn’t ruined the friendship they’d established in her haste to dirty up her purity.
“Perhaps we should get some sleep,” she said tentatively.
She reluctantly expected him to move off the bed to unroll his pallet—and was glad when he didn’t. He stayed where he was, watching her intently, as if he was waiting on her to decide what she wanted.
She did not want him to leave the bed. Her mind was no longer on carnal activity, but Eleanor still craved the closeness of him. Crawling to him, she lay beside him and rested her head on his chest. His answer to her unspoken decision was to put his arms around her, and to bury his face in her hair.
She splayed her fingers over his stomach, marveling at the satiny skin and the contours of his muscles and ribs. He breathed in, enjoying her touch.
“Where do we go from here?” she asked after a while.
Dougall hesitated before answering. “We could pretend nothing happened on the morrow, if that’s what you want.”
Did she want that? Did she want to halt this new direction their friendship had taken? This direction which, if she were being honest with herself, she’d wanted their friendship to take for a while now?
“Nay, I dinna want that,” she admitted.
She could not see his face but sensed, nevertheless, that he was smiling.
“Neither do I.”
***
The celebration in the tavern was still going strong by the time dawn broke. There had been little good news and even fewer victories since Arkinholm, so the Stirling Douglases held on to this one victory as tightly as they could.
It had been a long time since Roisin had enjoyed herself this much. She danced and drank and sang, sharing in the victory she’d helped secure.
To her relief, Will had made his way back to the tavern from the castle safely, arriving shortly after she had with Eleanor and Dougall. It appeared that no one even realized he was gone. He spent the next two hours bent over a mug of ale, avoiding everyone’s eyes. Roisin tried to catch his attention several times with no success. He seemed even more determined to avoid her than usual.
When MacLellan’s shift finished at dawn, he came straight to the tavern. From the look of murderous rage on his face, it was clear he was still angry with Will for his carelessness.
“Where is he?” MacLellan demanded, bursting through the door. Laying eyes on Will, he stormed across the tavern, shoving drunken men out of his way as he went.
“Ye goddamn fool! What were ye thinking? Ye could have ruined the whole thing and gotten us all killed in the process. Are ye a bloody amadan, man?”
Will looked miserable. He did not even raise his head to acknowledge the accusation.
“What’s this now?” MacRae demanded, coming up behind MacLellan.
“This fool’s only gone and burst into the gaol, felling Frazer in the process.”
Most could not hear the uproar over the raucous celebration, but those immediately surrounding the area did. An inebriated cry of protest rose up around them.
Will did not try to defend himself. He only glared into his cup, shoulders hunched.
“What were ye bloody thinking?” demanded MacRae, towering over Will. “Ye could have lost us our cause. Was it sabotage? Is that it—are ye one of Fire Cheek’s cursed spies? Speak, man!”
Alarmed, Roisin marched over and put a hand on MacRae’s arm. When MacRae glanced over his shoulder at her, Will used the momentary reprieve to shove himself up from the table and storm out of the tavern. Several of the men looked as though they wanted to follow after him.
“Let him go,” Roisin insisted. “’Twas no’ sabotage. ’Twas misguided, perhaps, but no’ sabotage. William Douglas is a good man. What he did, he did wi’ honorable intentions.”
MacRae eyed the lass for a moment. “And how do we ken we can trust ye in all this, lass? Ye’re no’ really a part of this. Ye’re no’ a Douglas.”
“Ye’ll be taking Roisin’s word as truth, else ye’ll be having me to answer to.”
MacRae twisted slowly to find Angus Beag glaring down at him from behind Roisin with his one good eye. He was taller by nearly a head, and his arms were folded across his chest. He looked positively menacing. If Roisin didn’t know him so well, she might tremble to see him this way.
MacRae considered Angus Beag for a brief moment, before backing down. “Aye. All right, Angus. If ye say she’s a trustworthy lass, then that’s all the assurance I need.”
Satisfied that there would be no immediate repercussions for Will, Roisin did not wait around to find out what the fallout of this little altercation would be. She dashed out of the tavern after her unexpected savior.
Since he had a head start on her, she didn’t find him in any direction immediately outside the Thistle and Thorn. If she ran one way it might be the wrong way, and she might not find him at all. Making a quick decision, she went left, toward the quieter laneways that would lead to the city’s edge, rather than right, which would take her toward the castle, and early morning market-goers.
She guessed correctly. He was not far away in a deserted laneway, arms huddled against the cold, trudging heavily away from her. Roisin’s heart clutched for him—a most unusual experience for the likes of her.
“Will,” she called.
He stopped walking but did not turn. Undaunted, Roisin approached and stood directly in front of him. She wrapped her arms around herself as he did, for the air outside was quite cold compared to the warmth of the tavern.
Will lifted his eyes briefly to meet hers, and then he looked down again.
“Why did ye do that?” she asked.
He lifted his shoulders flippantly. “Ye needed help. That man, Frazer, he…well, he… Ye needed help.”
“Nay, I mean, why did ye break into the towerhouse in the first place? Ye didna ken I would need help, no’ then. Why?” He did not answer, so she tilted her head and ducked into his downcast line of sight. “Will?”
When he spoke, she almost couldn’t make out what he was saying—almost.
“I just couldna let ye…defile yerself that way. No’ for us. No’ ye.”
Roisin was stunned. She could not answer for a moment. This man had risked his life…for her? She’d thought Sir Dougall MacFadyen daft when he suggested Will might have a wee sweet spot for her. But by the heavens, he’d been right.
“Ye shouldna have done that,” she reprimanded. “I’m no’ someone ye should be risking yer life for, d’ye hear me? I’m nothing. I’m a tavern wench. I’m a whore and a thief and a swindler when I have to be. I’m—”
“But ye’re no’!” Will exclaimed, his eyes snapping to her with more force than either of them were expecting. “Ye’re good, and kind, and beautiful, and ye dinna deserve what that beast had in mind for ye…”
Realizing too late what he’d said, he snapped his mouth shut and dropped his chin again.
Roisin’s jaw hung agape. Beautiful. He thought her beautiful?
Overcome, she stood up on her toes and kissed him. Hesitantly, a soft kiss. Just one, on his lips.
Her kiss startled Will. He looked at her, unsure. But when she kissed him again, he did not stop her. He held still, even as her kiss lingered. It was when her hands went to his neck and her fingers threaded through his hair that his arms encircled her waist, and he kissed her back with a sweetness, a tenderness that she never would have expected from him.
Around them, the sky broke a shimmering gold and pink. Gray clouds and rain were on the horizon for this new day, but for right now, that sky was glorious.