The Highlander (6 page)

Her thoughts were foolish, she knew, yet she could not help wishing for human contact, and even his presence—warm, strong and protective. At least she would not be alone if he were here.

Her heart cracked at the thought, for it was true. She was completely alone, in a strange land, and her heart felt as abandoned, lonely and as bleak as the windswept crags of the cold mountains that surrounded this place.

She knew she should harbor no illusions about Jamie Graham. He would have no use for her when he learned the truth; when he discovered she was the granddaughter of the Sun King.

That thought carried its own warning, and she reminded herself that her life may be in more danger here with him than it would be with the English, or the French.

She had to congratulate herself, for she always managed to get herself in a silver-lined dilemma. And what was she doing romanticizing about a grim Scot, when she should be concerned for her life?

Because there was no help for it; she simply could not stop thinking about him, even to the point of infatuation, for she had to admit he was quite probably the most impossible, terrifying, deliciously beautiful man she had ever seen.

Why was he not the man the King of France chose for her to marry instead of that unspeakable villain, the Duke of Rockingham?

She could not forget the smooth, sensual lips, the proud nose with the aristocratic slant, the hair as black as the devil's own heart, and those eyes that missed nothing. And when he walked from her bedside to the door, she could almost hear music playing, for he moved with such a graceful, sensual ease that it made her want to call him back.
        

But she could not call him back, for it would do no good. He was an honorable man, a leader who would never trust her, because he did not believe her lies. She wished that she could take back everything she had said and start over. Would that she could simply tell him the truth— but she knew she could not. No, not yet, for she had no way of knowing where his loyalties lay.

If he were loyal to the crown he would turn her over to the English in a heartbeat. If he was a Jacobite, and a follower of the man they called Bonnie Prince Charlie, he would turn her over to the French. Either way, she would lose, for either of these choices would soon land her in the Duke of Rockingham's bed. She shuddered at the thought of being the wife of such a horrid excuse for a man.

The only way she could get any sleep was to resolve this issue once and for all, so she told herself that once she learned of Jamie Graham's leanings, and had the inward assurance that he would not hand her over to either king, she would tell him the truth. She hoped when that happened, it would not be too late. If she waited too long and he found out the truth for himself, he would turn his back on her, and she would never, ever stand a chance to gain his help, or win his heart.

A man like Jamie Graham would love and love deeply, but even that would not be enough to hold his heart if the woman he loved ever betrayed him.

If only it were possible. If only he was a man like those of the legends of yore, a man who would defy heaven or hell to love and protect her, and keep her forever by his side.

She drifted off to sleep, feeling acutely the loss of love, before ever having experienced it.

_Four

Not all that tempts your wand'ring eyes And heedless hearts, is lawful prize; Nor all that glisters, gold. —Thomas
 
Gray
 
(1716-1771),
 
English poet. "On a Favourite Cat, Drowned in a Tub of Gold Fishes" (1748).
The Poems of Thomas Gray: William Collins: Oliver

Goldsmith

Jamie went below stairs and poured a glass of wine, then slumped into an empty chair—the same chair Sophie had sat in earlier.

His mind quickly went over the assorted array of thoughts vying for attention, the primary one being his suspicions about the sudden appearance of a certain French lass in his life and how she managed, in a short while, to complicate everything.

He knew so little about her, which naturally fueled his suspicions. And there was the fact of her lack of memory, and the vagueness of some of her answers. Yet his doubts isolated him, for there was no lonelier feeling than to distrust someone you desperately wanted to trust and believe in.

He had a responsibility to his country, his clan, his family, and even to the lass now in his care, and that made him wonder how much more complicated things could become.

The situation in Scotland was tenuous, and likely to get worse, for Bonnie Prince Charlie was stirring things up with his claim to the British crown. Because he had many followers in the Highlands, the British were worried. If Charlie were to win enough French support, he could attempt to gain the crown.

In the British mind, preventing a war was much easier than winning one, so they attempted to trample all Stuart support into the ground, before it became a greater threat.

Jamie knew they would not stop until they reached their ultimate goal—the complete annihilation of the Highlanders. The names of acquaintances arrested as Jacobites was growing, and he rarely picked up the newspaper without seeing the name of a friend who had been imprisoned.

Spies were everywhere. He would not put it past the English to send a beautiful temptress to ferret information, under the pretext of being a shipwrecked lass, for they had been guilty of much worse in the past.

Whenever he looked at Sophie's angelic face, he wanted to trust her, wanted to believe everything she said. He could not allow his desire— to help her or to bed her—to rule his head, and neither could he allow his heart to acquit her because he found her desirable.

And therein lay the crux.

How could he accuse her unjustly, and call her a spy, without proof?

He had practically betrothed himself, only two weeks ago, to a woman he did not love, and then the ideal mistress floats out of the North Sea and into his life. She was the kind of woman a man wanted to keep all to himself, and the thought of making love to her nightly held an inordinate amount of appeal.

He could not erase the memory of her sweet body and innocent face, the full lips made for kissing, and the long legs that would fit so perfectly around a man's torso. She was as rare as virgin's milk.

He shifted his position, feeling uncomfortably hard. Thoughts of her had a way of doing that to him. Desire for her was like a snake that coiled around him, sinuous and subtle, charming him and catching him unawares, until the fatal bite.

How could he ever be satisfied with Gillian, the woman he thought to make his wife? Gillian, who managed to arouse nothing in him, save his temper...

As always, his thoughts could never reside with Gillian for long, and now thoughts of Sophie were beginning to supersede them. He thought about the way Sophie said
Oh, yes,
and how her sultry voice aroused him instantly, and stirred impassioned thoughts as he wondered what it would be like to copulate with her and have her whisper
Oh, yes,
in exactly that way the moment he came inside her.

The idea of making love to her was elbowing its way to the forefront of his mind, for all thoughts seemed to eventually wind up there. Naturally, that made him consider the probability of it happening. She thought she was a lady's maid, and, if so, he could have her at will, but there was something about her that made him suspect she might be more than a lowly maid.

She seemed too refined, too genteel.

Oh, he wanted her to be a lady's maid, and wished for it to be true, for then he could go ahead with his plans for marriage to Gillian, and when his obligation there was done, and an heir was born, he could seek his pleasure elsewhere, and he knew without a doubt that when it came to Sophie, she would be all pleasure.

It occurred to him also that if she was not a lady's maid, and if she was of a higher position or, God forbid, a member of the peerage, then having her here alone with him had already compromised them both.

Well, it was a little too late to think about that now. The oarless boat was adrift in the water, and could not be called back. If Tavish had taken her to Monleigh Castle instead, things would be different. But he had not, and now she was here.

There was a reason this lass came into his life, at this particular moment, and whether it was to turn his world upside down or to fit smoothly in his plans to keep her beside him for as long as it pleased him, he had no idea. He could only wait and see which one it would be.

He hardly slept that night, for it was difficult to sleep when he knew Sophie was lying in another bed alone, and not very far away. All he had to do was go to her. Somehow, he knew— call it instinct—that she would not turn him away.

By the time morning came, he was tied in enough knots that he decided a cold swim would shock some much-needed sense back into him and cool the raging lust that roared for attention, for it would not serve the Earl of Monleigh well to go about as besotted as a schoolboy, with the front of his kilt raised up, especially when he was only two weeks into the idea of marriage to someone else.

Gillian came briefly into his mind but could not linger, so overpowered she was by the lustful image of a French lass.

Sophie... Ah, Sophie. The superlatives came easy when thinking of her. A natural beauty, she could have descended from Aphrodite herself, for she possessed all the qualities of beauty, being both pleasing to look at and desirable to touch. A beautiful woman was something to be enjoyed and he intended to do just that. A few simple thoughts of her aroused a wild sort of heat within him that he felt with sharp intensity.

The sun had not been up long when he slipped away and made his way down to the narrow shallows of the river. He stepped into the icy water, submerged himself and walked back to shore, droplets of water sluicing down his naked body.

By the time he picked up his plaid and began wrapping himself in yards and yards of fabric, the rivulets of water had pooled into a single channel that ran, straight as a pine, between the muscles of his chest and abdomen.

He followed the line of water until it disappeared and saw that the cold swim had not had the desired effect. He was still hard. He tried not to think about the best way to rectify that. Slinging the water from his hair, he took long strides back to the lodge.

He was surprised to find her sitting in the chair by the fire when he walked into the kitchen.

"What are you doing up, lass? I have no' yet had time to build up
th&
fire. Right now, it is putting out a sorry amount of heat."

"I have been here only a few minutes, and I do find the kitchen to be much warmer than my room."

"Aye, 'tis the warmest room in the house. With the staff is away, I dinna bother to light fires in the other rooms."

He stirred the coals and added some kindling, which ignited immediately. He continued to poke at the fire for a while and then, with a satisfied grunt, he stacked three logs over the flames. "It should start getting warmer soon. Are ye hungry?"

"Yes, but what I would really like is a bath.

I still have all this salt water in my hair, and bits of debris and sand, too. When I awoke, I found a piece of seaweed stuck to my cheek."

He wanted to tell her it would take more than seaweed to mar her beauteous face, but he decided against it, knowing it would only make her uncomfortable. Instead, he simply watched as she tried to smooth her curly, matted hair back from her face.

When she saw he was watching, she said, "I fear I am a frightful sight, rather haggard-looking, I know."

"Och, lass, it would take more than a wee bit o' seaweed or tangled hair to mar beauty such as yours," he said, having decided it was a statement that needed saying.

She dipped her head and he marked her shy, realizing she had not been able to completely ignore his comment.

"This is one time I am thankful there is not a looking glass about," she said.

He did not want to tell her that his opinion was better than any reflection in a looking glass. He wondered at her reaction if he were to tell her she looked good enough that he could easily throw her over his shoulder and carry her up to his bed without hesitation. Or that he would pause only long enough to warm her up, so she wanted him as much as he wanted her, and that she would be crying out for him when he took her.

"If it's a bath ye want, lass, then a bath ye shall have. I will heat some water for you."