“I feel like I-I have s-seen a ghost,” she stuttered, horror in her eyes. “I cannae believe it. Willie, is it really ye?”
William frowned at the nickname and stepped past her. “See that me man is well taken care of,” he ordered, not looking at her. “I shall head to the chambers that are rightfully mine.”
“Willie, wait?—”
He didn’t let her finish. Instead, he made his way down the hall and up the stairs to the corridor that housed the Laird and Lady’s chambers. Emotion clogged his throat as he remembered walking down the same corridor with his father and mother, and how they had been killed before his eyes.
Forcing his feet to keep moving, he stepped into the Laird’s chambers, then undressed as soon as he had crossed into the bedroom. Everything looked the same as he remembered, which he appreciated, even though it had been soured by his uncle’s presence.
He divested himself of his boots and wet clothes, wondering why a fire was burning in the grate when his uncle had been dead for two months already.
He shook the thought out of his head and slipped into the warm embrace of the furs… only to rear back.
There was a soft and warm body where no one should have been. He reached out again, the lush naked curves stirring his blood.
What woman would dare sleep naked in the Laird’s chambers?
He felt her stir from sleep and turn, before a scream rent the air. He stumbled back right as she did and caught her before she fell off the bed.
She gasped in surprise, stiffening in his arms, before her hands reached out to push him off of her.
“Get away from me!” she screamed. “How dare ye try to assault yer Laird’s wife?”
Wife?
He hadn’t heard anything about his uncle remarrying after his wife’s passing, so how could this young girl be his uncle’s widow?
“Who are ye, and why are ye in me bed?” he demanded, rising.
He couldn’t see her face in the dim light, but he noticed the bed covers shift as she wrapped them around her body. A futile attempt at maintaining decency, considering he had already touched her.
“Yer bed?” she scoffed. “Ye cannae be serious. Get out at once, or I’ll scream again. Surely ye daenae want to be hanged tonight.”
He frowned at her audacity. “These chambers are rightfully mine. How dare?—”
“Get out!” she snapped.
He gritted his teeth and grabbed his wet clothes. He couldn’t have a sane conversation when he was naked, and he had yet to recover from the lust coursing through him.
He frowned as he slipped back into his wet clothes, but it was an evil he had to endure until he could dry them.
He heard the door open and turned as warm light spilled into the room. The strange woman had lit a candle, allowing him to see her more clearly.
For a moment, he found himself at a loss for words.
The woman was a striking beauty, albeit much too young to have been wed to his uncle. She had a youthful face, framed by wavy hair that looked golden in the candlelight. Her full lips were pressed tightly into a thin line, but that didn’t detract from their appeal. He wondered for a moment if they felt as soft as the rest of her.
She was more than a head shorter, and through the robe she now wore, he could see her full figure. She was a curvy thing, made for loving.
He frowned harder at the thought that such a beautiful creature had been tainted by his uncle’s hands.
He cleared his throat to draw her gaze to his, and he gritted his teeth when he found himself admiring the flush in her cheeks.
She lifted her chin in a weak attempt at defiance, and he folded his arms, arching an eyebrow at her.
“‘Tis clear ye are a stranger, as I havenae seen ye in these halls before,” she started. “I am Sorcha, the widow of Laird Dunrath. Who are ye? Speak truly, and I may forgive yer indiscretion.”
“How would ye ken if I spoke an untruth?” he asked.
