toward the door. “Nevertheless, I would leave some coin with you—for whate’er your heart fancies.”
She blinked, looking almost hesitant, but not quite.
“You are kind.” She watched as he fumbled in the money purse at his belt and slapped a handful of coins on a wall shelf. “I would not mind cloth for a new gown. My usual visitors are not overconcerned with such needs.”
“Well, then, it is settled,” Kenneth rushed on, already half out the door. “You have my siller, and, come spring, I will have my men bring you a fat milch cow—and a few goats as well.”
Her eyes glimmered at that, and she touched a hand to her cheek.
“You are a fine man, Kenneth of Cuidrach,” she said, giving him a tremulous smile. “Your lady is more than fortunate.”
“She is not my lady,” Kenneth amended, unable to lie.
“So-o-o.” The widow raised arching brows. “Then you must see that she is. If she is a wise woman, she will not need much convincing.”
But a short while later, as Kenneth spurred his steed ever faster toward Cuidrach, the only thing he knew was that it wasn’t Cuidrach urging him to such speed, but
her.
The flame-haired minx he had no intention of letting slip from his grasp.
If ever he could hope to have her.
A possibility that seemed more than unlikely, now that he knew her true identity.
Indeed, as he finally neared Cuidrach, the numerous gaps in the curtain walls and, in particular, the decrepit state of the gatehouse, only underscored the vast differences in their worlds.
Her status as daughter of a much-respected warrior laird, whether the man was wroth with her or no.
And his taint as bastard son of scoundrel so dark-hearted many in Kintail still refused to utter his name.
Kenneth frowned. Such was a stain even his new style as Keeper of Cuidrach couldn’t erase.
Nor did he wish to see his half-ruinous holding judged against Archibald Macnicol’s Dunach Castle, a strength he was sure would prove magnificent.
And impregnable.
As unconquerable as he suspected the old laird would be if e’er one such as he were to desire his daughter’s hand.
The man’s approval and consent.
A blessing Kenneth’s honor sorely wanted.
Nay,
needed.
And knowing it, he kneed his horse forward, his narrow-eyed stare not missing Cuidrach’s bent and rusted portcullis. How the spike-tipped ironwork hung at such a crazy angle.
Vowing to have a new one made so soon as he could, he clattered through the gatehouse pend, determined to do what he hadn’t done in years . . . pray.
And to any saint that might listen.
But before he could reach Cuidrach’s bare-walled little chapel, a movement in the shadows near the castle well caught his eye and all thought of piousness fled. Indeed, the urges that had so plagued him earlier, then vanished, returned with a vengeance at the sight of
her.
She came toward him across the moonlit bailey, her hair loose and tumbling around her shoulders. A rippling, gleaming skein of liquid bronze that spilled clear to her hips.
Glistening waves that took his breath and . . . enchanted him.
“You return late,” she said, reaching him at last, handing him a wineskin. “I have been . . . waiting. Watching for you.”
“In the cold dark, my lady? At this hour?” He accepted the proffered wine, drank gladly—and tried not to drink in her scent as well.
A perfume made all the more disturbing for the bright wash of moonlight gilding her curves, the glimpse of her flimsy night robe beneath the woolen cloak she hadn’t bothered to fasten.
“It is because of the cold dark, and the hour, that I am here.” She cut a glance toward the keep, pushed her hair back over her shoulders.
The movement caused the front of her mantle to gape a bit wider and Kenneth swallowed a groan. His entire body tightened and heat sluiced through him, pooling in his vitals. Never in his life had he been more . . .
aware
of a woman.
Saints, but that wee slip of a gown clung to her!
Made
She blinked, looking almost hesitant, but not quite.
“You are kind.” She watched as he fumbled in the money purse at his belt and slapped a handful of coins on a wall shelf. “I would not mind cloth for a new gown. My usual visitors are not overconcerned with such needs.”
“Well, then, it is settled,” Kenneth rushed on, already half out the door. “You have my siller, and, come spring, I will have my men bring you a fat milch cow—and a few goats as well.”
Her eyes glimmered at that, and she touched a hand to her cheek.
“You are a fine man, Kenneth of Cuidrach,” she said, giving him a tremulous smile. “Your lady is more than fortunate.”
“She is not my lady,” Kenneth amended, unable to lie.
“So-o-o.” The widow raised arching brows. “Then you must see that she is. If she is a wise woman, she will not need much convincing.”
But a short while later, as Kenneth spurred his steed ever faster toward Cuidrach, the only thing he knew was that it wasn’t Cuidrach urging him to such speed, but
her.
The flame-haired minx he had no intention of letting slip from his grasp.
If ever he could hope to have her.
A possibility that seemed more than unlikely, now that he knew her true identity.
Indeed, as he finally neared Cuidrach, the numerous gaps in the curtain walls and, in particular, the decrepit state of the gatehouse, only underscored the vast differences in their worlds.
Her status as daughter of a much-respected warrior laird, whether the man was wroth with her or no.
And his taint as bastard son of scoundrel so dark-hearted many in Kintail still refused to utter his name.
Kenneth frowned. Such was a stain even his new style as Keeper of Cuidrach couldn’t erase.
Nor did he wish to see his half-ruinous holding judged against Archibald Macnicol’s Dunach Castle, a strength he was sure would prove magnificent.
And impregnable.
As unconquerable as he suspected the old laird would be if e’er one such as he were to desire his daughter’s hand.
The man’s approval and consent.
A blessing Kenneth’s honor sorely wanted.
Nay,
needed.
And knowing it, he kneed his horse forward, his narrow-eyed stare not missing Cuidrach’s bent and rusted portcullis. How the spike-tipped ironwork hung at such a crazy angle.
Vowing to have a new one made so soon as he could, he clattered through the gatehouse pend, determined to do what he hadn’t done in years . . . pray.
And to any saint that might listen.
But before he could reach Cuidrach’s bare-walled little chapel, a movement in the shadows near the castle well caught his eye and all thought of piousness fled. Indeed, the urges that had so plagued him earlier, then vanished, returned with a vengeance at the sight of
her.
She came toward him across the moonlit bailey, her hair loose and tumbling around her shoulders. A rippling, gleaming skein of liquid bronze that spilled clear to her hips.
Glistening waves that took his breath and . . . enchanted him.
“You return late,” she said, reaching him at last, handing him a wineskin. “I have been . . . waiting. Watching for you.”
“In the cold dark, my lady? At this hour?” He accepted the proffered wine, drank gladly—and tried not to drink in her scent as well.
A perfume made all the more disturbing for the bright wash of moonlight gilding her curves, the glimpse of her flimsy night robe beneath the woolen cloak she hadn’t bothered to fasten.
“It is because of the cold dark, and the hour, that I am here.” She cut a glance toward the keep, pushed her hair back over her shoulders.
The movement caused the front of her mantle to gape a bit wider and Kenneth swallowed a groan. His entire body tightened and heat sluiced through him, pooling in his vitals. Never in his life had he been more . . .
aware
of a woman.
Saints, but that wee slip of a gown clung to her!
Made
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