lacking the real tones of pure terror. He pretended though, closing his eyes as he thrust himself forward. His arm lifted and the high pitched whine of the whip's strokes were a complement to his own shout of release.
"Judith!" he nearly screamed, and it was rage that brought him to his senses at last.
It should have been her white body beneath him, her moans he heard, her blood he spilled.
One day, he would find her. Until then, he had her memory. Long nights filled with ecstasy.
And the sounds of her screams.
CHAPTER 11
"The best wool," Judith explained,” is behind the shoulders and down the front legs. Here and here." With a few practiced strokes, the hapless ewe was shorn of half its coat. "Always cut from the legs towards the back, and it doesn't matter if you do it in one pass or not. Most of the time, the wool will have to separated anyway. It saves a step if you grade it while you shear it." She flung one section of fleece towards the small pile to her right, and a growing pile to her left.
So far, only the twins had spotted the MacLeod, not his surprising English wife.
"It's best if you wash the sheep before you shear, but you'll still need to wash the wool, too."
Alisdair had expected many things of Judith. He had anticipated that she would stir his clan to irritation, possibly anger. Perhaps she would bedevil them the way she did him. But, in all his thirty-two years, Alisdair could not have imagined a scene like the one he came upon after returning from Inverness, with the sun beginning its downward journey into night.
She was, his English wife, astride a sheep.
Her skirt was tucked into her waistband, her bare legs pressed against the woolly sides of a protesting ewe. The sleeves of her bodice were tied back to the elbows, her hair fixed in a haphazard knot, curls tumbling from it as though she were a well used doxy at the end of a prosperous night. Her hands were buried in the long fleece, her face brightened by a sheen of sweat, and a dark swipe of something whose origins he preferred not to guess marred her forehead.
A rim of men stood leaning idly against the fence shouting instructions, a gaggle of women stood in a tight circle muttering. With one hand, Alisdair dismissed the men, a look was all it took to send the women scurrying for cover. The twins stood on either side of his wife, each grasping two legs of the hapless ewe while she lectured them upon the serious business of shearing.
When Judith noticed that neither of her helpers was moving to control the heavy ewe, she prodded Daniel - or was it David? - in the side with her elbow, her only free appendage, then glanced up to see the source of his fascination.
The MacLeod’s smile was not so much mocking as it was rooted in surprise. Judith forgot how to make a sound, and even now, when the most prudent person would have looked away from the amber gleam of those eyes, she found herself staring like a lackwit at him.
His trousers were not new, but they encased legs too broad and brawny to need any English padding. His white shirt was old, but constructed of the finest linen and still carelessly elegant. His coat was blue superfine, his boots polished black. It was not sartorial elegance Alisdair MacLeod portrayed as he casually leaned back against a fence post, legs crossed at the ankles, hands resting on hips. He was too tall, too muscled, too tan to be truly a dandy. Judith had the oddest thought that while he may have only been the chief of a tired clan, his home a burnt out castle, Alisdair MacLeod greeted the world with as much pride as a duke, as much arrogance as a prince.
"Dare I wonder exactly what you're doing, wife?" he asked, his tone one not of a half-civilized Highlander, but of a bored effeminate indolently lounging in a London drawing room. For a moment, she could imagine him the medical student in Brussels, or Edinburgh, half his time analyzing the human body, the rest engaged in intense and intimate
"Judith!" he nearly screamed, and it was rage that brought him to his senses at last.
It should have been her white body beneath him, her moans he heard, her blood he spilled.
One day, he would find her. Until then, he had her memory. Long nights filled with ecstasy.
And the sounds of her screams.
CHAPTER 11
"The best wool," Judith explained,” is behind the shoulders and down the front legs. Here and here." With a few practiced strokes, the hapless ewe was shorn of half its coat. "Always cut from the legs towards the back, and it doesn't matter if you do it in one pass or not. Most of the time, the wool will have to separated anyway. It saves a step if you grade it while you shear it." She flung one section of fleece towards the small pile to her right, and a growing pile to her left.
So far, only the twins had spotted the MacLeod, not his surprising English wife.
"It's best if you wash the sheep before you shear, but you'll still need to wash the wool, too."
Alisdair had expected many things of Judith. He had anticipated that she would stir his clan to irritation, possibly anger. Perhaps she would bedevil them the way she did him. But, in all his thirty-two years, Alisdair could not have imagined a scene like the one he came upon after returning from Inverness, with the sun beginning its downward journey into night.
She was, his English wife, astride a sheep.
Her skirt was tucked into her waistband, her bare legs pressed against the woolly sides of a protesting ewe. The sleeves of her bodice were tied back to the elbows, her hair fixed in a haphazard knot, curls tumbling from it as though she were a well used doxy at the end of a prosperous night. Her hands were buried in the long fleece, her face brightened by a sheen of sweat, and a dark swipe of something whose origins he preferred not to guess marred her forehead.
A rim of men stood leaning idly against the fence shouting instructions, a gaggle of women stood in a tight circle muttering. With one hand, Alisdair dismissed the men, a look was all it took to send the women scurrying for cover. The twins stood on either side of his wife, each grasping two legs of the hapless ewe while she lectured them upon the serious business of shearing.
When Judith noticed that neither of her helpers was moving to control the heavy ewe, she prodded Daniel - or was it David? - in the side with her elbow, her only free appendage, then glanced up to see the source of his fascination.
The MacLeod’s smile was not so much mocking as it was rooted in surprise. Judith forgot how to make a sound, and even now, when the most prudent person would have looked away from the amber gleam of those eyes, she found herself staring like a lackwit at him.
His trousers were not new, but they encased legs too broad and brawny to need any English padding. His white shirt was old, but constructed of the finest linen and still carelessly elegant. His coat was blue superfine, his boots polished black. It was not sartorial elegance Alisdair MacLeod portrayed as he casually leaned back against a fence post, legs crossed at the ankles, hands resting on hips. He was too tall, too muscled, too tan to be truly a dandy. Judith had the oddest thought that while he may have only been the chief of a tired clan, his home a burnt out castle, Alisdair MacLeod greeted the world with as much pride as a duke, as much arrogance as a prince.
"Dare I wonder exactly what you're doing, wife?" he asked, his tone one not of a half-civilized Highlander, but of a bored effeminate indolently lounging in a London drawing room. For a moment, she could imagine him the medical student in Brussels, or Edinburgh, half his time analyzing the human body, the rest engaged in intense and intimate
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