Regency Proposal: The Laird's Forbidden Lady / Haunted by the Earl's Touch

He sat.

She took a deep breath. ‘Perhaps you should take off your jacket, so we can see how bad the wound really is. It won’t help us if you become ill.’

‘Aye, I suppose you are right.’

‘I wish we had some basilica powders.’

Looking surprised, he eased first one arm out of his coat and then, wincing, drew it slowly off the other arm. The fabric was dark with blood.

She gasped. Her stomach rolled. The blood seemed to drain from her head and the small space spun around. His coat had hidden the extent of the wound.

‘Oh, Ian,’ she whispered, ‘you need a doctor.’

‘It is not as bad as it looks,’ he said through gritted teeth as he pulled the fabric away from the wound. He cursed softly.

Throat dry, she swallowed. ‘We should clean it.’

Looking up, he raised a brow. His eyes gleamed with amusement. ‘We?’

She took a deep steadying breath. ‘Me, then. Look, it is bleeding again. Take off your shirt.’

Now he really looked surprised. ‘All right.’ He fumbled at his collar with his good hand.

She brushed his hand away. ‘Let me.’ Standing this close to him, with the light coming down from above making every sinew and bone as sharp and clear as a portrait as each breath expanded and contracted his chest, she could feel his warmth against her skin. Unnerved, she felt her hands tremble. Indeed, her very bones shook with a force she couldn’t quite grasp. When she breathed in to steady herself, it was like breathing in his air, his essence.

A shock jolted through her. How could that be?

It couldn’t. She was being stupid, just as she had been as a girl. In real life, they stood on the opposite sides of a line drawn on a map.

She forced the inappropriate sensations aside. The man was hurt and patiently waiting without complaint with his chin raised for her to undo the darned knot.

It came free and she cast the cloth aside and went to work on the buttons. Undressing a man—never in her life had she done anything so daring.

The collar fell open with each button she freed from its mooring, slowly revealing the hollow of his strong throat, his collar bones, a wedge of chest lightly furred with dark crisp curls that brushed against her knuckles as she released the final fastening, enticing to her fingertips and her gaze.

Such feelings led in only one direction. Down a path that would do her no good.

She let her hands fall to her side and stepped back. She glanced up to find his gaze fixed on her face. Intense. Heated. He was breathing faster than before.

He also felt desire.

It hung between them, hot and heavy. Terrifying. With effort she made a small gesture with her hand. ‘You should be able to take your shirt off now.’

The fire deep in the blue of his eyes flared, then died.

‘Aye. I can do that.’ He pulled the shirttails free and with his good arm pulled the shirt off over his head, unveiling the body of a Norse god she’d only dared to peek at in the sea cave.

The muscles of his arms were carved and hard, his chest vast and sculpted beneath its smattering of hair. In the face of such magnificence, breathing was nearly out of the question.

But breathe she must. ‘Hold out your arm.’

She knelt close to his knee. He held his arm steady with his other hand, bending his head to look at the wound.

Their foreheads collided.

A nervous giggle escaped her lips. Heat fired her face. The schoolgirl was back. She felt giddy, and not from the sight of his blood.

He grunted. ‘It doesn’t look too bad.’

‘I can’t see.’

He leaned sideways.

A nasty gash scored his arm. Bile rose in her throat.

She swallowed it down. ‘You are right, it seems to be nothing more than a flesh wound.’ She controlled a shudder. ‘I will clean it and bind it.’

Blood from where he’d pulled the shirt free of his skin trickled down to his elbow. She grabbed up the flask. ‘If I recall correctly, this is better than water for a wound.’

‘A terrible waste, lass.’

‘I’ll save you a drop. Give me your knife.’

He eyed her aslant. ‘Why?’

‘Unless you have a nice clean handkerchief, I need some cloth to pad the wound. We will use your stock to hold it in place.’ She looked at his shirt. He’d need to put that on again, bloody sleeve or no. She lifted up her skirt and looked at the hem of her petticoats. The lace of the top one was in tatters after being soaked in seawater, straddling a horse and dragging through heather. Now it would serve to staunch the blood.

He pulled his dirk from his sock and handed it to her, hilt first.

She shook her head. ‘I’ll hold the fabric taut while you cut. I am sure you will do a better job than I.’

An eyebrow shot up and he looked at her rather oddly, but he bent to the task. It felt a little strange with his face so close to her legs, even though he must be able to see little more than her shoes, since there were two more layers of cloth beneath the first petticoat. Portuguese women adored petticoats.

He soon had a long strip cut from around the bottom.

‘Cut it in two,’ she said, ‘and I’ll use one piece as a rag for washing.’

A frown creased his forehead. ‘Where did you learn such skill?’

‘I wouldn’t call it skill. I hate the sight of blood. But my friend, Lady Hawkhurst, convinced me to volunteer at the hospital she funds for injured seamen. I read to them and roll bandages.’ She soaked one of the rags with whisky.

‘So you have no experience in binding wounds and such like?’

‘None at all,’ she said cheerfully, ‘but I have seen it done.’ No point in telling him she’d thrown up in the nearest chamberpot when she’d looked at the wrong moment. Instead, she gritted her teeth and dabbed the cloth at the ragged cut.

He hissed in a breath and she waited for a spewing of swear words.

He remained utterly silent.

Impressed, she continued dabbing. If he could put up with the pain, she could put up with the sight. Although if anything the dizziness of earlier was growing worse. She continued dabbing and wiping until all the dried blood was gone.

The wound looked nasty—ragged edges and fresh welling blood.

Black edged her vision. She felt herself sway. She squeezed her eyes shut, regaining her balance and fighting the sickness.

This wound was nowhere near as bad as the one to her own leg. One brief glimpse of that and she had passed out cold.

Jaw clenched, she tried to remember what Alice had said about the symptoms of spreading infection. Redness? Yellow pus? No sign of anything like that. Yet.

She looked away and drew a deep breath in through her nose. ‘There is not much more I can do, except bind it.’

‘I am glad to hear it,’ he said wryly.

Her gaze flew to his face. His mouth was set in lines of pain. She’d been so busy trying not to pass out that she hadn’t thought about how much she must be hurting him, because he hadn’t made a sound.

Because he was strong and she was weak.

‘Hold still,’ she said gruffly. She placed the pad over the wound, then wrapped his neckcloth around it, tying it off with a knot.

He flexed his hand and she watched, fascinated by the way the muscle in his upper arm bulged against the bandage. He did it again. This time something happened to his chest; it seemed to grow firmer and develop more definition. It almost made her forget just how ill she felt, until her gaze fell on his torn and bloody shirt.

The room wavered in and out of focus. Her knees buckled and the shadows leaped out from the corners to take over the room. And she was falling.

‘Selina?’ he asked as though from a great way off.

A strong arm banded around her waist. It pulled her against something warm and hard. She collapsed against it, her stomach heaving as the candle refused to remain in one place.

‘Selina.’

Ian. Ian had hold of her. She closed her eyes and waited for the horrible sensations to pass. Slowly she became aware that she was sitting on his knee, cradled within his arms. He was stroking her back. She opened her eyes and was glad to see that nothing was spinning.

‘Feeling better?’ he murmured, his voice low in her ear, the roll of his ‘r’ a sweet comforting sensation in the pit of her stomach. She always seemed to feel better when he had his arms around her. Too bad he couldn’t keep them there.

‘I’m such a coward,’ she said, trying to sit up, but he held her against his chest and she realised he was rocking gently back and forth.

‘No, you are not. You have been very brave. I promise everything will be all right,’ he whispered. ‘I’ll get you safely to your friend and we will sort it all out.’

She half groaned, half laughed. ‘I’m not worried about that. The sight of blood always makes me feel ill.’

His rocking ceased briefly, then continued. ‘Then I am all the more grateful, lass.’

Oh, that wonderful deep velvety voice, so close to her ear. She was melting, burning up with a fever of longing and desire.

‘You must think me completely useless.’

‘You are braver than anyone I know, because you knew how it would affect you.’

But she hadn’t been thinking. She’d acted on instinct. She never seemed to think straight around him.

A prickle of awareness made her look up at his face. A slight curve to his mouth and the twinkle in his eye caused her heart to clench.

She couldn’t resist the temptation. She reached up and put her hands on his nape and kissed him full on the lips.

He groaned softly.

His lips parted against hers. His tongue traced the seam of her lips. It felt delicious. Her spine tingled, her hands cradled his head, feeling the soft curl of his hair between her fingers.

His hand came to her cheek, his fingers shaking with the power of this moment between them. Never had her heart raced so fast or her body grown so warm with such a whisper of touch.

He was a big man, huge in comparison to her, and for him to tremble at the mere touch of her lips was heady indeed.

Many men had desired her over the years, lusted for her and declared their love, but they’d only ever seen what she wanted them to see. The perfect nobleman’s daughter. The diamond of the first water. The impeccable manners. The flirtatious wit. This man knew her weaknesses, and yet he trembled.

The knowledge melted her bones.

She parted her lips and let him into her soul. The kiss wasn’t all one-sided. Oh, no. Her tongue slid wantonly along his, tasting whisky and earthy man, while she inhaled the scent of horse and leather and fresh air tinged with peat smoke. Sensual sensations rippled through her body with every beat of her heart.

She arched against him, pressing her breasts against his hard wall of a chest, wound her arms around his neck and submitted to her hunger.

He growled deep in his throat, shifting beneath her, making her aware of the male part of him that pressed against her thigh through her layers of clothing.

She breathed his scent, revelled in his heat and the feel of hard muscle and sinew beneath her exploring hands.

Breathing hard, he slowly pulled away, looking into her face. Could he see in her face the awe and wonder rioting through her body? Could he feel the heat burning in her belly, in her breasts, flowing through her veins?

Helpless with need, she gazed up, waiting.

‘You’d tempt the devil himself, Lady Selina.’

She didn’t want the devil. She wanted him. She gazed back at him with longing and desire and a sweet softness that made her insides feel open and yearning.

He reached around to catch her hands clinging around his neck and tore them free, holding them fast in his. ‘This must stop,’ he said harshly. He disengaged his hands from hers.

‘Don’t you want me?’ she asked, feeling suddenly bereft, even knowing the question was unfair. She felt his desire, insistent, rampant against her bottom.

‘Not want you?’ he growled. His mouth descended in a punishing kiss, full of ardour and passion and heat. Her mind refused to form a single thought. Her hands, freed from his grip, wandered his broad sculpted chest and floated over his back, measuring the width and strength of him.

Lacking air, they slowly parted, their chests rising and falling in perfect harmony as he nibbled and licked at her lips, her chin, her jaw. He teased the tender place beneath her ear, breathing against her neck. ‘I want you. But if we do this now there will be no going back. We will have to be married.’

The words were like a splash of cold water. Have to be married? Clearly it was not something he wanted, any more than she did. Did she?

He groaned and rose to his feet with her still in his arms. He set her back on the stool, wrapped the blanket around her and cleared the opening to the outside.

‘Where are you going?’ To her chagrin, panic edged her voice.

‘I’ll be right back.’

‘That wasn’t an answer,’ she said. Too late. He was gone.

Shame at her cowardice roiled in her stomach. Why would he abandon her here? It didn’t make any sense, but the fear was real enough. The fear of being left as her father had abandoned her the year he’d brought her to Dunross. For years, she’d worried that he would forget about her again, when she was at school, when he was away on business. Even now, when she knew the reason why, she hated knowing that people important to you could just walk away. It was better if you did not allow them to become important, then you didn’t have to worry.

And Ian hadn’t left. He sounded as if he was searching through the heather. Hunting?

Then he was back, pushing something ahead of him. The smell of fresh-cut vegetation filled the cave. Fuel for a fire?

But, no, he didn’t go to the hearth. He spread it out in the corner. ‘Give me your blanket,’ he said.

‘Why?’ The thought of losing even the little amount of warmth it provided was unwelcome.

‘We need it to make a bed.’

‘A bed?’

‘Aye. We can’t sleep sitting up. The heather is springy enough that it will do us for one night. With a blanket beneath us and my kilt for a quilt, we’ll be warmer than toast. Drew and I did it all the time as lads.’

A bed. With him, and after her wanton behaviour? She blushed from head to toe. Now was really the time she should object. Somehow the words wouldn’t form. She stood up and handed him the blanket. He laid it across the shrubbery.

‘Lay yourself down,’ he said. His voice was grim and when she peeped at his face, she saw his mouth was set in a stern line.

What was the matter with him? She settled herself down on one side of the makeshift bed, looking up at him.

His hands went to his belt, then glanced at her. He picked up his shirt and drew it over his head. ‘Close your eyes.’

‘A bit late for modesty, isn’t it?’ she asked, stifling the urge to giggle.

He turned away, uttering a sound between a curse and a laugh of his own.

A huff of his breath blew out the candle and a moment or two later came the sound of him unfastening his belt. Her unruly mind travelled right back to the scene in the cave, him standing there dressing. Now he was undressing. She didn’t need a candle to see.

Cursing silently, she tried not to envisage what was taking place.

A moment later, she felt his warmth along her side and the weight of the thick wool of his kilt settle onto her body. It retained some of his warmth.

She’d slept on softer mattresses, been covered by finer linens, but given her state of exhaustion she could not say that any had felt better than this bed of heather.

‘Thank you,’ she said.

‘You are welcome.’

She shivered.

Ian’s arm came around her shoulders and he pulled her towards him, tucking her against him so her head rested on his chest. Instantly, she felt warmed by his heat, by the feel of his hand on her waist. But more than that, she felt safe. Protected.

It felt wonderful.

She snuggled closer. ‘Body heat,’ she said, laughing softly, feeling wicked and a little giddy suddenly from lack of breath. ‘Goodnight,’ she breathed and tipped her face up to kiss his cheek. At least she was sure that was what she had intended, but she found his mouth instead.

He kissed her back, long and deep until her senses swam. He rolled her on her back, plundering her mouth with his tongue, gently cupping her breast, tenderly pressing her legs open with his firm thigh.

She moaned as her feminine centre responded to the pressure. Her hips arched upwards as she accepted Ian’s deepening kiss.

Suddenly, he jerked away as if stung and uttered a curse. He rolled away from her and she could hear the sound of his ragged breathing in the dark.

‘Ian,’ she said tentatively.

‘Go to sleep, little Sassenach. I’ll no be touching you and you’ll no be touching me. Are we agreed?’ It seemed that what to her had been a moment of bliss to him had been … well, something inconvenient.

He lay perfectly still beside her, slowing his breathing, pretending to be asleep, no doubt. Unbelievable. She was lying next to a nearly naked man, out in the wilds of Scotland, a man she found hugely attractive and who had just kissed her senseless, and he was acting as if he was her brother.

Perhaps the idea of making love to a cripple was more than he could stand. It was hard to blame him if that was the case. She had to admit the scars were pretty ugly and the limp was far from alluring. She was lucky Dunstan had been willing to overlook her flaws. Her stomach sank. Dunstan had done it for the money. He was also a nice man. Kind. Sweet.

A thought, crystal clear and dreadful, came out of nowhere. For the first time since they’d left the keep, her mind seemed sharp.

She shoved at his shoulder.

‘What now, lass?’ he mumbled as if he was really asleep.

‘My father will guess I have gone to Alice. I always do.’

‘So?’ Ah, now he sounded more awake.

‘What if he gets to her first?’

‘What if he does?’

‘Then the alibi won’t work.’

Chapter Ten

The next morning, they turned south. As she strode along beside him, she noticed that her leg barely ached at all. The doctors were right—walking was good for her, though they had not envisaged her tramping through the heather for days. Even so, she needed all her concentration not to trip over the clumps of heather and rocky outcroppings.

While they walked, Ian continually scanned the hills, ahead and behind, especially before they crested each hill. Each time he signalled for her to duck down, her heart rose in her throat. He was clearly intending not to be surprised as they had been the day before.

The next hill they crossed brought them to a valley so small it was more like a crevasse. A cottage snuggled against its craggy cliff. A tiny croft with a peat-covered roof neatly held down with a spiderweb of ropes weighted with boulders. Two people conversed outside the front door, an old crone and a ragged child with a basket over her arm. Rust-coloured chickens were picking about in the dirt at their feet.

‘Let’s hope Grannie has a stew pot over the fire,’ Ian said. ‘And whisky on her table.’

Selina’s stomach growled at the thought of hot food. She quickened her pace.

Ian stayed her with a touch to her arm. ‘Wait here. I’ll make sure things are what they seem.’

Whereas she would have charged in and devil take the hindmost. It was a good thing one of them had some sense. Sighing with relief at the chance to rest, she sank down on a rock and watched him stride down the hill.

Such a braw laddie he looked in the sunlight. Her heart lifted at the sight of his broad shoulders and the way his kilt revealed his strong calves and manly knees. He looked at home and very much in command.

The chickens scattered with clucks and squawks at his arrival. The old lady shielded her eyes from the sun. The girl stared up at him with awe.

The old woman beamed, obviously recognising him. She might have been welcoming the Prince Regent, so effusive was she as she gestured for him to enter, bridling like a girl in her eagerness.

The child curtsied.

The charming smile on Ian’s face would make any female bridle. He looked so handsome when he smiled. He glanced in her direction, indicating he had a companion. Once more the woman put a hand up to shield her face. In an instant, her demeanour changed. She waved her arm first in one direction, then in another. An argument seemed to ensue. Selina could hear the old woman’s raised voice, but not the words. She ended her diatribe, waving an admonishing finger in his face.

The child fled.

How very odd. Highlanders were known for their courtesy, especially to travellers, even if it was only a dram of whisky and an oatcake to see them on their way.

To her surprise, the woman disappeared inside the croft and slammed the door. The sound reverberated off the rocks and crags and faded in ever-quieter echoes.

Ian stomped back towards her. As he drew closer, she could see the glower of anger on his face and behind it worry.

She pushed herself to her feet. ‘What happened?’

His mouth flattened to a thin line. ‘The soldiers were here.’

Her heart picked up speed. ‘Looking for us?’

‘Aye. She sent them off with a flea in their ear.’

‘I thought she was going to let you in.’

‘Aye.’

‘Then she realised I was with you.’ The rejection stung.

‘I told her you were my cousin, but, given what the soldiers told her, she refused to believe it.’

‘And because I am an Albright she doesn’t feel the need to offer hospitality.’

‘Her son was transported for poaching on your father’s land.’

‘Oh, dear.’

‘Her son was one of the lucky ones. Tearny shoots first usually.’

Tearny was the land agent. ‘Not on my father’s orders, I can assure you.’

He shrugged. ‘Be that as it may, we have no choice but to go on.’

She glared at him. ‘If Mr Tearny is shooting people on Albright land, he will be punished.’

He cocked his head on one side. ‘All right. You will speak to your father. Let us leave it at that. We will walk many a mile before we find another house where we can request food.’

‘And no doubt they will turn us away, too.’

‘Not everyone is as bitter as Grannie.’

Hopefully not, or it would be a long hungry walk to the mail coach.

He looked off into the distance. ‘I think I will speak to Niall before we go too much farther. Find out what the soldiers are doing. I may have to go to Dunross myself.’

A feeling of panic ran down her spine. ‘You can’t leave me out here.’

‘Laird.’ The high-pitched voice came from behind them. ‘Laird.’

Ian glanced back.

Selina turned right around. It was the girl who’d been at the old lady’s door, hurrying after them, her basket held out to the side as if she feared whatever was in it would break.

‘Wait,’ Selina said to Ian, who seemed inclined to keep walking. ‘Don’t make her run.’

The girl arrived, bright-eyed and panting. Russet curls escaped from beneath the ragged shawl she had pulled over her head and her dark green eyes darted over Ian and Selina in several wide-eyed passes. Her cheeks flushed scarlet.

‘Well,’ Ian said when she didn’t speak, ‘what do you want, Marie Flora McKinly?’

‘Ian, you will scare her. Give her a chance to catch her breath.’

Still the girl didn’t speak. She curled her toes around a stem of heather, watching her foot, peeping up at Ian as if he was some sort of ogre.

Ian said something in Gaelic in a gentler tone.

The child took a deep breath and gabbled away for a minute or two.

He shook his head at the child and again spoke in Gaelic.

The child’s chin went up. Her eyes flashed.

‘What have you said?’ Selina said. ‘Why is she angry?’