‘On the morrow, buy what you need to make this house your own. Food, linens, clothing. Whatever you need.’
‘They will not accept my coin,’ she whispered, the words of her shame slashing deep into his heart.
‘There is a sack of coins for your use in the small trunk there,’ he said, pointing to the bedroom. ‘They will not dare to refuse my coin. And they will not dare to insult you while you live under my protection. Even if you cannot accept me, at least accept that which my name gives you.’
From the shaking nod, he could not tell if she would follow his instructions. He would be able to tell more when he visited the next night.
‘I will come tomorrow night.’
‘For what purpose?’
‘No matter what is truly between us, we must look as though this is what everyone believes it to be. When my duties permit it, I will visit and spend the night,’ he explained, nodding his head at the smaller of the two rooms.
‘Everyone in Lairig Dubh will think I am your leman,’ she said.
‘Just so.’
‘And will I be?’
‘Cat, I will try my damnedest to make that happen.’
He turned then, walking out before he changed his mind and pushed the matter. There would be time now, days, but mostly nights, when he could ply his wiles and seek her surrender.
Just so.
* * *
The door latch dropped and so did she, falling, or melting rather, to her knees. Sweat gathered on her neck and trickled down her back and down the crevice between her breasts. She ached in places she’d never paid attention to before from his kiss. His hands touched her as no other man ever had, with wanting and desire in every caress.
Was she the whore her father named her those years ago? To react so to the touch of a man she was not married to? To, worse, crave it more? If she was to be well and surely damned to hell for these sins of lust, why did she want more—more of him, more of that kiss, just more...?
She wiped her hand across her heated forehead, pushing her hair out of her face and lifting the weight of it off her neck so she could cool there.
What should she do? What could she do? Her body told her one thing and her heart said another. Or her honour said another. For even if no one but she knew she had not lost her honour to him before Gowan died, how would she face herself if she gave it to him now?
The fire popped again, drawing her attention. How long had he been there while she slept on in the chair? He’d built a fire in the hearth with wood already cut into pieces, she noticed, not peat. The basic foodstuffs filled the jars and tins on the shelf in the cooking area. The large bed waited, covered in clean sheets and warm blankets.
Looking around now, she noticed that full night had fallen, so it was too late to return to Muireall’s home. Climbing to her feet, she walked aimlessly around the large room, trying to decide what to do. Exhausted from nights of too little sleep and days of too much work and shame, Cat made the only decision she decided to make this night—she banked the fire and walked into the bedchamber.
The bed was too inviting to ignore, she discovered, so she washed with water from the jug someone had filled and placed there on the table. The tips of her breasts tingled as she drew the tunic over her head. The slide of the fabric over them reminded her of his arousing words...his promises, really...about stripping her naked and having his way with her. Moisture pooled between her legs as she reacted to only the memories of his words.
Her eyelids drooped in spite of her arousal as she washed quickly in the chilled chamber, and when she slid under the bedcovers and the clean sheets she was falling asleep as she rested her head on one of the pillows there.
The rest would have to be faced in the morning.
Chapter Ten
‘Good day to you.’
Who would think that just four words, spoken with a pleasant tone, could demonstrate the power of the earl’s heir in influencing how she was treated by the merchants and villagers? But, when it was uttered by every person she passed and called out by those who saw her walking along the paths of Lairig Dubh the next day, it was hard to miss or to misunderstand.
The butcher sold her his best piece of beef. The miller promised the finest milled flour would be sent to her house on the morrow. The weaver offered her some lengths of fine cloth for new gowns. The alewife spoke of a brew that Aidan favoured and assured her some would be sent to the house when it was ready. The village women smiled and nodded, greeting her and asking how she fared.
How could their treatment of her change so much from just one day to the next?
Aidan MacLerie.
He’d changed her from cuckolding wife to the heir’s favoured leman with one signature on one deed. All attempts to hide his efforts and intentions regarding her before Gowan’s death brought gossip and disdain. His purchase of a house for her—and all that supposedly meant—now that she was a widow brought acceptance.
