Owen shrugged, even though his friend could not see him. “Both, probably.”
On our weddin’ night, I’d take her to the cottage in the woods. I’d sit before the hearth with her and unbraid all that long, shinin’ hair, before peelin’ away all those bothersome layers of attire.He closed his eyes to picture her smooth, creamy skin, trying to imagine how many of those pretty freckles coveredher shapely figure. He would kiss them all, mapping out the constellations of her being. Truly, such a thing would be as heavenly as her appearance.
“I best nae hear any heavy breathin’ comin’ from yer cell, M’Laird.” Sawyer mock-tutted, prompting Owen to clear his throat in embarrassment. How could one woman stir him so intensely? An Englishwoman, no less. A sworn enemy of his people.
“Och, ye’re the one who’s been breathin’ heavy, ye degenerate,” Owen shot back defensively, tugging at the front of his breeches to give his enlarged manhood some room.
As Sawyer chuckled, content in his own amusement, Owen glanced toward the bars where Heather had been last night. Considering their first encounter, he had not anticipated a second in these dungeons. Even now, he was somewhat in awe of her courage and humility, in coming back to give him another chance.
Does she really believe me? Perhaps, she could be the one to persuade Elias to let us go, if Brandon cannae?If she returned that night, as she had said, he knew it would not hurt his cause to ask.
Owen watched the empty passageway like a hawk, until his eyes burned, and he was convinced he could see figures dancing in the pools of torchlight that spilled onto the stone floor. Heassumed that Heather would return at the same time as the previous night, if she intended to return at all, and the gaoler had not long abandoned his post for, presumably, his bed.
Look at ye, watchin’ for the lass like a wee lad waitin’ for his first love.He should have been embarrassed, but after a tiresome day of doing nothing but stare at the same filthy walls, he craved the distraction of her.
“Sawyer?” he whispered, hoping his friend had had the decency to fall asleep and give his Laird some privacy.
Silence echoed back, but Owen was no fool; he knew there was every chance that Sawyer was still awake, looking forward to a distraction of his own.
“Sawyer?” he repeated.
“Did you call for me?” A different voice answered. Softer, sweeter, more feminine.
For a moment, Owen raised an eyebrow, wondering if Sawyer was adopting a girlish voice in order to toy with him. But then, she appeared. A vision in the same sapphire-blue skirts as yesterday, though her tight bodice had been replaced with one of rich red. The color of spiced plum wine, which happened to be Owen’s favorite.
“Nay, Lass.” He went straight to the bars, taking up his position by the wall there. “I was mumblin’ to meself, that’s all. Thereisnae anyone else to talk to when me man-at-arms has gone to sleep.”
Heather took a few steps back, before reappearing. “He does appear to be deep in slumber,” she remarked. “I am surprised you cannot hear that atrocious snoring. I thought a bull had gotten loose.”
“Aye, that’s why he’s nae allowed to sleep when we’re marchin’ to war,” he explained, half-serious. “The enemy can hear him snorin’ from halfway across Scotland, which isnae any good when ye’re tryin’ to maintain the advantage of surprise.”
Tohissurprise, Heather chuckled softly. A sound so charming and innocent that it robbed him of his senses for a moment. All he could do was stare at her, utterly delighted.
“I do wish you men would not fight one another so often,” she said, after a while. “I know very little of warfare and conflict, but I wonder if more could be achieved by conversation instead of killing one another. A victory does not seem very victorious when it is won upon a plain of lifeless bodies.”
The fleeting ease that had conjured that sweet chuckle appeared to have deserted Heather, as her ethereal face hardened with sadness. It saddened Owen, too, for now that he had heard her laugh, he desired to hear it again.
“I cannae disagree with ye,” he conceded. “I like nothin’ better than bein’ at Dunn Castle, tendin’ to me flock, wanderin’ the hills and forests, and mixin’ me tonics and salves and tinctures forwhen me flock need tendin’ to. There’s nay greater peace, and though I ken how to swing a sword and swing it well, it’s peace I prefer. I’m nae one of these lads who gets a bloodlust from battle.”
Heather flinched slightly at the word “lust,” and her chin immediately dipped to her chest, concealing much of her expression from him. The movement brought a smile to his lips, for there was nothing so endearing as seeing a young lady in a moment of shyness.
“That does sound rather peaceful,” she mumbled: her voice strangely thick. “I did not realize you were a shepherd. Being a Laird, as you are, I assumed you would perform similar duties to those of my father: overseeing his serfs, collecting taxes to improve his army, that sort of thing.”
A burst of laughter exploded from Owen’s throat, his arm wrapping around his still-aching ribs as he gave into the bubbling humor. He knew he should restrain himself, for her sake, but he could not help it. It felt so good to laugh like that, after weeks of miserable marching, dismal battles, and his present situation.
“I do not see what is so amusing about my question,” Heather interjected, wearing an expression of disapproval with a slight hint of confusion.
Owen let his laughter ebb before answering. “I’m nae a shepherd, Lass. I call me Clan me flock.” He paused, realizing he might have hurt her feelings. “I wasnae laughin’ at ye, Lass.I was laughin’ at the notion of me grabbin’ a sheep and shearin’ it for its wool. Ye see, I tried it once, and I was so bad at it that the shepherd told me he hoped I didnae wield me sword like I wielded the shearer, else the Scots were doomed.”
“Oh—” Heather’s expression brightened slightly, and her hand came up to cover her mouth as a quiet, genuine laugh sounded between her fingertips. “I see my mistake! Goodness, of course you do not shepherd sheep!”
He grinned. “Och, I’m a healer when I’ve nay right to be, so it wouldn’ae be much of a difference for me to turn me hand to shepherdin’ or woodcuttin’ or somethin’ of that ilk.”
“Indeed, I was rather curious about that.” She leaned forward on her chair, beautiful in her inquisitiveness. “I have always been exceedingly interested in the art of healing, and I know more than I should, but I have never practiced the art. I have only read of it.”
That piqued Owen’s interest, for he had not anticipated such a confession. “Why do ye say ye “ken more than ye should”? Is there such a thing as kennin’ more than ye should?”
“Ah, well, my father deems it woefully inappropriate for a young lady to learn of such things. Healing is a “lowly profession,” in his opinion, so I have been studying the art of it in secret.” She hesitated. “It was my brother who permitted me entry into his private library, in truth. He has books containing all kinds of fascinating knowledge about anatomy and alchemy and horticulture.”
