My Fair Highlander Page 9

  What captured her attention the most was the excitement brewing inside her. It stunned her and pricked her temper, but she could not deny that it was flickering in the pit of her belly, eagerly awaiting another encounter with Gordon Dwyre.

  Jemma hissed at herself. The word “foolish” seemed to be firmly attached to her.

  Barras Castle did have a fine bathhouse. Jemma sighed as she leaned forward and washed her feet. She was happy to discover that at least one rumor she had heard of Scotland was true, that the Celtic people liked to bathe often, unlike many of her English brethren.

  She had never been among those who believed bathing too often led to a lack of immunity from disease. Amber Hill had a bathhouse behind the kitchen, and she used it every day.

  Barras Castle put Amber Hill to shame. There were twice as many slipper tubs here. Quite a statement when one considered that each tub cost a large sum. There was also soap and linen for drying with. The bathhouse was built along the back of the huge hearths that were used to cook. The heat came through the wall, heating the room so much that the window shutters were wide open to prevent the room from becoming too hot. But the amount of heat made a cool bath soothing. A large water wheel gently lifted water from the river that ran alongside the castle. A portion of the bank had been dug out to form a pool that the water wheel might work from without risking damage to its wooden slats. The water poured into a long spillway that ran along the outside wall. Every few feet, a thick slab of wood was placed over a cut-out section of the spillway. With a tug it came free, and water spilled down into the tub below it. You only had to replace the slab to stop the flow of water.

  There was a small hearth where iron kettles might be used to heat water, but the room was so warm that Jemma didn’t bother. The cool water felt good against her skin, and she sat down in the water wearing her chemise so that the garment might gain a washing, too.

  “Here now, there is no need for ye to worry about wearing soiled clothing.”

  Ula entered the bathhouse and placed a folded cream-colored garment on a nearby stool.

  “This one should fit ye, but a dress will prove a bit harder to locate. Maybe on the morrow.”

  “I appreciate the chemise, Ula.”

  The housekeeper smiled. “Ye earned yer keep today. No one is forced to stink at Barras Castle. Perhaps the laird will bring a few of yer things back with him.”

  That would mean that she was staying at Barras Castle.

  Jemma felt a prickle of a chill cross her nape. Ula moved to the fireplace and lifted one of the kettles. She tested it with her finger before bringing to to Jemma. There was a hint of something in her eyes that suggested she was preparing Jemma for her laird and that she was quite happy to do so.

  “Let us give yer hair a good washing.”

  Jemma nibbled on her lower lip while she closed her eyes. The warm water soaked her head, running down over her chest to tease her nipples. The knowledge that the housekeeper was tending to her in order to please Gordon sent even more sensation across her skin until she felt like she was pulsing with anticipation.

  Which was absurd, considering she was not interested in any further dealings with the man.

  Liar...

  “A clean head of hair always makes me feel better, more at ease.”

  Ula took up a dab of the softer soap that was kept in a pottery bowl and began to work it through Jemma’s hair.

  “You must have other, more important things to do.” Jemma tried to take over washing her hair, but Ula flicked her hands aside.

  “Nonsense, there be naught that is more important than seeing to someone me laird made welcome. Mind yer eyes.”

  Jemma closed her eyes, and Ula began rinsing her hair. The housekeeper even returned to the hearth to fetch another kettle of water to make sure there was no hint of soap remaining.

  “Now let me have that chemise. Ye can nae get clean wearing that.”

  Jemma didn’t bother to protest. Ula was already tugging the wet fabric up and over her head. It had been years since she had bathed with anyone near. Amber Hill had become quiet during her father’s illness. As it did in late fall when even the animals were still and there were no more leaves to rustle in the wind.

  A maid entered the room, and Ula lifted her face to look at the girl. “Good. Now find her boots and give them a cleaning.”

  “I’ll look after my own things, Ula.”

  “Nae, ye will sit yerself in front of the hearth so that we can get yer hair dried.”

  Once again Ula insisted on her way. Jemma found herself sitting by the fire in the new chemise while the maid cleaned her boots and even polished them. Another girl entered bearing fresh stockings. Ula set the girl to shaking out Jemma’s dress and making sure there was no dirt clinging to the hem.

  A bell began to toll somewhere along the wall, the sound almost startling because of how quiet it had become in the bathhouse.

  “The laird is returning.”

  Jemma could hear the joy in Ula’s voice, but both maids turned to look at her and her throat went dry. They looked at her with assessing stares. From her feet to her head, they surveyed her, their eyes narrowing all the while.

  “Come on with that dress. The laird will be wanting his supper, sure enough, having been out all day long.”

  There were suddenly three women all intent on dressing her. Jemma stood in shocked silence because it had been a long time since anyone had helped her. She had been the servant to her father, helping him and wearing only the simplest of dresses so that she might more easily lean over his bed. She didn’t know the latest fashion, because none of it had mattered. There had only been her father and what he required.

  Anything her brother might send from Amber Hill would be just as plain as the dress she now wore—a single cartridge-pleated pair of skirts that were sewn to one waistband. A modest hip roll helped to keep the weight of her skirts from pulling on her back, but the two-inch-padded roll that went around her hips also kept the garment away from her toes when she walked. Unless she was running, she wouldn’t need to grab her skirt and lift it else risk stepping on it and falling on her face.

  She had on a good set of stays. The corset fit her well, and over that she wore only a simple doublet that buttoned up the front. It had a French cut to it, coming down in a square neckline. She’d worn an over partlet that covered her chest and the swells of her breasts, but it was lost somewhere on the land between Barras Castle and Amber Hill where the rogue knights had attacked her.

  Simple clothing. And boots just as practical. They laced up, and if set beside the ones the maids wore, there was no notable difference.

  There had been a time when her mother was alive that she had dressed in pretty dresses with slipper shoes, but none of those garments fit her anymore. They were packed carefully away now in some quiet, sheet-draped room at Amber Hill.

  Jemma reached for the tie that had held her hair in a thick braid.

  “Ye should leave yer hair loose, being as ye are unwed, lass.”

  “Only brides wear their hair flowing.” And that was on their wedding day.

  “Here in Scotland, ’tis a bit different. Ye’ll see the other girls letting their hair down once the day’s work is finished.”

  Ula took only a small amount of her hair at the front and made thin braids of it that she looped around her head and tied at the back. The style kept her hair out of her eyes while the length of it still flowed down her back to her waist.

  “Come on now.”

  Ula didn’t give her a chance to protest being seen with her hair loose. The housekeeper grasped her hand and pulled her out of the bathhouse. Jemma fought the urge to giggle because it had been a long time since she had played about with her hair flowing behind her. It brought back memories of spring festival and dancing on the green when her father had been ruby cheeked and jovial.

  “Well now, lass, yer a right agreeable sight.”

  Jemma gasped and pulled her hand away from Ula.
The housekeeper didn’t resist the motion; in fact, Ula released her hand and stepped behind her in one motion. Ula dropped a quick curtsy to her laird before the woman disappeared in a flip of her wool skirts. A tingle crossed Jemma’s nape again, but this time it was much more intense. Facing Gordon Dwyre instead of just her recollections of the man was to blame.

  He was more imposing than her memory recounted. Too large for her comfort, because for some reason she was fixated by his broad shoulders and the fact that her head only reached his chin.

  His dark-blue eyes moved to her hair, tracing the unbraided mass and flickering with something that looked like enjoyment.

  “A right agreeable sight to greet a man indeed.”

  “I didn’t dress for you.” But she liked the look in his eyes. Liked it too much really, for it sent a flicker of excitement through her, and the sensation was unsettling.

  He shrugged, and the ends of his shoulder-length hair left tiny wet spots on his shirt. She looked closer to notice that he must have just bathed, too, because his hair glistened with water and he wore only a shirt with his kilt. The cuffs of that shirt were rolled up past his elbows, displaying hands and forearms that were clean and without a streak of dust.

  “Well, I’ll be enjoying it all the same, lass. I’ve never been a man to pass up something I like because it was not intended for me.”

  “I wouldn’t say that, exactly.” The words were past her lips before she considered whether or not it was wise to confess her inner feelings to him.

  “What would ye say then, lass?”

  There was a hint of challenge in his voice that pricked her pride. Jemma raised her chin and returned his stare without flinching.

  “I would say that your housekeeper took delight in preparing me for you as though I was some sort of... of—”

  “Gift?” His lips curved up in a mocking grin.

  Jemma pressed her lips together, refusing to rise to the bait he was dangling in front of her nose. He chuckled softly and moved closer to her, his gaze roaming over her hair once more. There was a flicker of something in his eyes that made her tremble. He reached out and touched a lock of her hair, his fingers making the briefest of contacts before she twisted away from him, hissing at herself for retreating but unable to conquer the urge to do so.

  “I am not your gift.”

  “So do nae touch ye? Is that what ye are saying, Jemma?” He moved back and considered her. “Ye enjoyed being touched this morning.”

  “Why do you do that?”

  “Do what, lass?”

  “Bait me. Do you truly desire to bicker, or is it simply a way to outmaneuver me and gain what you wish without my true consent?” Jemma shot him a hard look. “Needle me until I slap at you, and then claim that touching me was my fault. Is that your game, Barras?”

  He drew in a stiff breath and released it while he crossed his arms across his chest. The pose was intimidating, but Jemma refused to bend beneath his scrutiny.

  “Many a lass has fallen to such tactics, but in truth I have placed a bit more polish on tonight.”

  He turned and extended his arm behind him, where candles illuminated a table with their yellow glow. The table was set with silver dishes that sparkled with the candlelight, and a salt cellar held expensive white salt.

  “I thought we might dine together.”

  Her throat went dry once more as her suspicions with Ula proved true.

  “Since I’ve made an offer to yer brother for ye, I believe it is proper enough for us to learn a wee bit more about one another.”

  Someone cleared their throat behind her, and Jemma turned to see a line of musicians entering. She wasn’t even sure what chamber she was in, only that it was lovely with arches on the ceiling and windows that allowed a soft breeze to blow through the room. The musicians disappeared behind a wooden screen, and she could hear them sitting down. Music began to drift over the screen, soft melody constructed of mandolin strings and flutes, while the screen provided privacy.

  It was a scene set for courting the most highborn lady. But in her deepest thoughts, she didn’t care for it. Gordon did not belong in the courtly setting. Disappointment actually rose up inside her for the stately manner in which he was conforming to society and its rules.

  “Or I could send them away if ye prefer to continue as we began yesterday.”

  He raised one hand, and the music stopped. Challenge flashed from his eyes, but it was the look of anticipation that forced her hand.

  “It is lovely.” Jemma forced her feet to move toward the table and felt her heart rate accelerating with every hesitant step. Gordon sat down across the table from her, but the small piece of furniture caused their knees to feel no more than a whisper from one another. His lack of doublet suddenly drew her attention, her gaze moving over the light fabric.

  “We Scots are a bit more accustomed to the weather, lass. I don’t need a doublet inside this time of year.”

  Her cheeks heated because he’d noticed where her eyes had settled. Well, in all truth she shouldn’t be surprised, the man was facing her, but most men wouldn’t have mentioned it out loud. She drew in a deep breath and reminded herself that Gordon was very far removed from the men she knew. Her brother was controlled and pensive, always weighing his thoughts before allowing anyone else to share them.

  Gordon picked her up and carried her where he pleased if she refused.

  “I believe that the idea is for us to have a conversation, lass.”

  She jumped. “Ah . . . well . . . I suppose so.”

  Maids were carrying in food now, but they didn’t stay long. They left two large platters, removing the tops to reveal beautifully arranged plates. There were summer vegetables, roasted chicken, and even baked apples.

  “Ye sound unsure? Does that mean we may dispense with the English tradition and go back to the Scottish ones?”

  Jemma offered a roll of her eyes, but she couldn’t help smiling at him. “You are a boy.” She pointed her knife at his chest. “Right there inside you is a boy no more than ten.”

  He chuckled and speared a piece of chicken with the point of his eating knife. “Well now, that’s just the playful side of me nature. Ye have one, too.”

  Jemma shook her head. “I have matured, sir.”

  His face turned pensive for a moment while he chewed. “Nae, lass, ye just pushed yer own desires aside to take care of yer father. It’s time for ye to allow them freedom from that chest ye have them locked inside of.”

  “I see, and does that mean you would have to wife a woman who was busy coddling her heart’s desires?” Jemma shook her head. “Marriage is duty, and it is best met with maturity.”

  He frowned. “Now that is just plain pitiful. I swear I don’t know if I need to put ye out of yer misery or”—his lips parted to show her his teeth—“chase ye around this table.”

  One of the musicians struck a wrong note, proving that they were listening intently to every word.

  “Both would defeat your effort to court me gently.” Jemma had to bite her lip to keep from smiling at the idea because it was so absurd. It was also quite exciting, because she had no doubt that he would capture her.

  “Ah, but I think we might enjoy chasing more.” He pressed his hand flat on the tabletop, rising partially from his chair. Jemma gasped and dropped her knife.

  “You wouldn’t dare.” The words had barely left her mouth before she recalled his words from that morning.

  “I’ll show ye how much daring I have inside of me . . .”

  He growled and his chair flew backward. The musicians stopped, but there were several smothered sounds that were anything but horrified. Jemma was grateful for her plain dress because it allowed her to slip out of her chair and make it around the table before Gordon gained the upper hand.

  “This is absurd.” But she was breathless and far from outraged.

  “Aye, but ’tis fun.” He lunged for her, and she danced away from his grasping hands.

  �
��Stop it, Gordon, you are going to ruin all this fine table dressing.”

  “I employ good laundresses, and I know a competent silversmith.”

  This time he thrust his hand over the table, using his large body to bend over the table and catch her skirt.

  She let out a shriek, but no fear crossed her mind. It was simply too ridiculous to become frightened over. Gordon growled with victory and pulled her into his embrace. He ended up behind her, crossing his arms over her body to cage her.

  “My prize!”

  “I believe the idea was to court me, not capture me, you brute.”

  “’Tis the same thing in Scotland.”

  Jemma wiggled, but he held her firmly in place. It was an oddly comfortable position, one that didn’t overwhelm her but allowed her to feel him against her without triggering the need to fight him off.

  “Ask any Highlander and they will tell ye that stealing women is a time-honored tradition. In fact, I’m nae sure they get their wives any other way.”

  “I heard that one of your kings married his mistress.”

  “Ah . . .” He released her, keeping only one wrist clasped in his hand, and she turned to face him.

  “Now that is seduction and I like that, too.” He raised her hand to his lips, pressing a kiss against the tender skin of her inner wrist. Sensation raced down her arm, raising gooseflesh as it went. The excitement that burned in her belly began spreading through her, touching off a desire that made her breathless. He lifted his lips away and rubbed over the same spot with his thumb, clearly feeling the accelerated throb of her heart.

  “I think ye may be liking it as well, Jemma Ramsden.”

  He folded her gently into his arms, moving slowly enough for her to evade him if she chose. Jemma was too intrigued to do anything but comply. This was a side of him that threatened to undermine her resistance. His hand threaded through her hair, lifting the stands and drawing a handful up to his cheek. He rubbed against it for a moment.