awaiting him at the end of this particular side glen, he’d surely slaked his ease with enough fair widows to justify visiting this one.
Whether the wind approved or nay.
The hot pulsing in his loins gave him scarce choice.
But when, a short while later, a flicker of lights pricked the chill dusk, letting him know he’d found the widow’s cottage, the throbbing at his groin diminished, dwindling as quickly as a snuffed out candle flame.
And with the dwindling came a cackle on the wind.
A triumphant sounding cackle.
Reining in, he swiveled round, glaring into the shadows, but saw . . . nothing.
Nor did he feel anything
there,
where he’d had such an itch just moments ago.
Unsettled, and determined to air whoever’s skirts he desired, he jerked back round and glowered at the widow’s tidy turf-and-wattle cottage.
Glowered, because his need, so insistent since thundering away from Dun Telve, now proved as stubbornly aloof as the silent hills surrounding him.
He drew a hand over his brow, wishing himself back at Cuidrach. But before he could be away, the door of the cottage opened and a woman appeared. A well-made one—and wearing only a scanty undergown.
If that!
Kenneth swallowed and weighed the chances that she couldn’t see him, sitting his horse as he was, half hidden by the trees at the edge of the clearing.
But her direct eye said otherwise—a hungry stare he felt all over him.
And whether he desired a tumble with her or no, honor forbade him from cantering away. So he dismounted and strode forward, his mind whirling for a chivalrous . . . excuse.
“Keeper of Cuidrach—I welcome you!” Gunna of the Glen called, her voice low pitched. Rich and smooth.
Just as he would have expected, considering the lushness of her curves.
Indeed, any other time, she would have fired his most heated dreams.
But not now, not on this ill-fated night.
“Lady, I greet you,” he said, keenly aware of the absence of heat that should have been pulsing into his loins. “I am come to—”
“I ken why you are here,” she supplied, fingering the long plait of her hair. “Your uncle sent word that I might expect you.”
“I am sure he did,” Kenneth acknowledged, the neck opening of his tunic growing tighter by the moment—especially when she began
really
toying with her braid.
A thick coil of glossiness, raven as his own, he glimpsed its sooty darkness repeated in the prominent,
V
-shaped triangle at the top of her thighs—a luxuriant thatch, clearly visible through the thin cloth of her low-cut shift.
As were her generous breasts, the large, well-defined nipples.
“Lady, you . . . take my breath,” he said honestly, watching as she curled her fingers around her braid’s thickness and moved her hand slowly up and down its black-gleaming length. “Even so, my reason for being here is not what you think. I—”
“Och, I ken what you seek,” she purred, the glide of her fingers turning even more sensuous. “You will be well served, do not doubt it.”
She stepped closer, her musky scent rising between them. “Come away in then, and—partake!”
Kenneth shifted, glancing at his horse, but before he could take a step backward, she circled strong fingers around his arm, pulled him inside.
And her cottage
did
welcome.
A wee bittie place, it glowed with warmth. Wafting peat smoke thickened the air and blackened the walls, but a swift look-around showed a swept earthen floor and a rough-hewn table that looked less than sturdy but was notably well-scrubbed.
But she was turning to face him then, the candlelight showing her not quite so young as he’d first thought, but undeniably alluring.
“You require sustenance,” she said, gesturing to a platter of oatcakes and cheese on the table. Even the cold, sliced breast of a fat capon. A well-filled jug of ale.
But the cottage’s sole chair, a simple three-legged stool by the shape of it, proved hidden beneath the damp expanse of a homespun kirtle.
A
Whether the wind approved or nay.
The hot pulsing in his loins gave him scarce choice.
But when, a short while later, a flicker of lights pricked the chill dusk, letting him know he’d found the widow’s cottage, the throbbing at his groin diminished, dwindling as quickly as a snuffed out candle flame.
And with the dwindling came a cackle on the wind.
A triumphant sounding cackle.
Reining in, he swiveled round, glaring into the shadows, but saw . . . nothing.
Nor did he feel anything
there,
where he’d had such an itch just moments ago.
Unsettled, and determined to air whoever’s skirts he desired, he jerked back round and glowered at the widow’s tidy turf-and-wattle cottage.
Glowered, because his need, so insistent since thundering away from Dun Telve, now proved as stubbornly aloof as the silent hills surrounding him.
He drew a hand over his brow, wishing himself back at Cuidrach. But before he could be away, the door of the cottage opened and a woman appeared. A well-made one—and wearing only a scanty undergown.
If that!
Kenneth swallowed and weighed the chances that she couldn’t see him, sitting his horse as he was, half hidden by the trees at the edge of the clearing.
But her direct eye said otherwise—a hungry stare he felt all over him.
And whether he desired a tumble with her or no, honor forbade him from cantering away. So he dismounted and strode forward, his mind whirling for a chivalrous . . . excuse.
“Keeper of Cuidrach—I welcome you!” Gunna of the Glen called, her voice low pitched. Rich and smooth.
Just as he would have expected, considering the lushness of her curves.
Indeed, any other time, she would have fired his most heated dreams.
But not now, not on this ill-fated night.
“Lady, I greet you,” he said, keenly aware of the absence of heat that should have been pulsing into his loins. “I am come to—”
“I ken why you are here,” she supplied, fingering the long plait of her hair. “Your uncle sent word that I might expect you.”
“I am sure he did,” Kenneth acknowledged, the neck opening of his tunic growing tighter by the moment—especially when she began
really
toying with her braid.
A thick coil of glossiness, raven as his own, he glimpsed its sooty darkness repeated in the prominent,
V
-shaped triangle at the top of her thighs—a luxuriant thatch, clearly visible through the thin cloth of her low-cut shift.
As were her generous breasts, the large, well-defined nipples.
“Lady, you . . . take my breath,” he said honestly, watching as she curled her fingers around her braid’s thickness and moved her hand slowly up and down its black-gleaming length. “Even so, my reason for being here is not what you think. I—”
“Och, I ken what you seek,” she purred, the glide of her fingers turning even more sensuous. “You will be well served, do not doubt it.”
She stepped closer, her musky scent rising between them. “Come away in then, and—partake!”
Kenneth shifted, glancing at his horse, but before he could take a step backward, she circled strong fingers around his arm, pulled him inside.
And her cottage
did
welcome.
A wee bittie place, it glowed with warmth. Wafting peat smoke thickened the air and blackened the walls, but a swift look-around showed a swept earthen floor and a rough-hewn table that looked less than sturdy but was notably well-scrubbed.
But she was turning to face him then, the candlelight showing her not quite so young as he’d first thought, but undeniably alluring.
“You require sustenance,” she said, gesturing to a platter of oatcakes and cheese on the table. Even the cold, sliced breast of a fat capon. A well-filled jug of ale.
But the cottage’s sole chair, a simple three-legged stool by the shape of it, proved hidden beneath the damp expanse of a homespun kirtle.
A
Similar Books
