I turned, my breath catching in my throat at the sight that greeted me. Munro stood beside the bed, wearing only his braies. Torchlight played across his broad chest, highlighting the defined muscles of his shoulders and arms. My gaze traced the ridges of his stomach before darting away, heat rising to my cheeks. But my eyes betrayed me, drawn back to him as if by some irresistible force.
Scars marked his torso—a long, jagged one across his ribs, smaller nicks and cuts scattered across his skin. I was certain that each scar told a story of battles fought and survived, of a life lived hard and dangerous.
“Battle wounds,” he said, noticing my stare. “From other clans who thought us easy prey.”
He moved toward the bed, and I quickly shifted to make room for him, pressing myself against the edge of the mattress. He slid beneath the quilts with a sigh, his body bringing a wave of heat that seemed to fill the space between us despite the careful distance I maintained.
“Ye need nae fear me,” he murmured, his words slightly slurred.
I nodded, not trusting my voice. The torchlight cast shadows across his face, softening the hard planes and angles, making him look younger, less burdened. His eyes drifted closed, then a soft snore started. But before I’d even gotten comfortable, he grunted, my eyes flew open, and he was suddenly rolling toward me. Before I could react, his lips pressed against mine—warm, surprisingly soft, and tasting faintly of wine. The kiss lasted only a moment, a gentle pressure that sent an unexpected shiver down my spine. Then he pulled back slightly, his eyes already closing once more.
“Goodnight, Isabella,” he murmured, and immediately sank back into the deep slumber of the exhausted and drunk.
I lay frozen beside him, shock rendering me motionless. He had called me his dead wife’s name. The kiss hadn’t been meant for me at all. I should have felt offended, perhaps, or at the very least dismissed. Instead, a mixture of pity and something I dared not examine too closely rose within me.
As his breathing deepened once more into snores, I found myself unable to follow him into slumber. I lay awake in the dark, my fingers occasionally drifting up to touch my lips where the ghost of his kiss lingered. Guilt twisted through me as thoughts of Liam surfaced. I was doing all of this to ultimately get back to Liam, yet I couldn’t deny the racing of my heart, thinking of Munro’s lips on mine.
It meant nothing. To him or me. My heart was racing in surprise; that was all. He had been drunk, confused, and lost in memories. And I was merely caught off guard, my senses heightened by the strange circumstances. Nothing more.
I stirred, slowly surfacing from a sleep deeper than any I’d known in years, and became aware of a weight across my waist. Munro’s arm. During the night, he had shifted closer, his broadchest now pressed against my back, his breathing warm against my hair. We fit together perfectly. His larger frame curled protectively around mine, a feeling at once foreign and strangely comforting.
I stilled, acutely conscious of each point where our bodies touched. The solid weight of his arm. The heat of his chest against my shoulder blades. The slight tickle of his breath at my nape. My heart quickened, though whether from alarm or something else entirely, I couldn’t say.
Moving with deliberate slowness, I lifted his arm just enough to slip out from beneath it without waking him. He mumbled something unintelligible but didn’t wake, his arm falling heavily onto the space I had occupied.
Free of his hold, I rose to my knees on the bed and looked down at him. I found myself studying the curve of his jaw, the shadow of stubble darkening his cheeks, the way his black hair fell across his forehead, and his dark lashes resting against his skin. Without the shield of anger and wine he wielded, he looked younger. Vulnerable. A man who had once known happiness and might again, if only he could find his way back from the darkness that claimed him.
The quilts were gathered at his waist, and I took a moment, allowing myself to look at the rest of him that was visible. He was built like a man who had been wielding a sword all his life. He was all sinewy muscle. A light dusting of hair ran down his chest to disappear under the quilts, and I had the urge to lift the quilts to see where the trail led. I shook my head at my own foolishness and slipped from the bed, wincing as my feet touched the cold stone floor. My gown was wrinkled beyond repair, and my hair hung loose about my shoulders, but I had no desire to linger and risk Munro waking to find me watching him. What had passed between us was best left unacknowledged in the light of day.
We had shared a bed, nothing more. If guilt gnawed at me over the phantom memory of Munro’s lips on mine, it was misplaced. And my inquisitiveness over his body was nothing more than natural curiosity. I’d never seen any man in a state of half-dress other than the occasional glimpse of a warrior emerging from the loch at home, but those glimpses had always been from a distance. I had come to this place with a clear purpose to break my curse and return to Liam. One mistaken kiss changed nothing.
The corridor outside Munro’s chamber was empty save for a servant who hurried past with barely a glance my way. I started toward where I thought my assigned chamber might be, hoping to change my clothing before seeking out the girls, when a voice called my name.
“Murieall?”
I turned to find James approaching, his expression a careful mask of neutrality that didn’t quite hide his obvious happiness at finding me emerging from Munro’s chamber in the early morning hours. Did he think bedding me would fix what ailed his laird? I pressed my lips together on a scowl.
“How do ye fare this morning?” he asked.
“Fine,” I said, and added, “After sleeping all through the night uninterrupted by anything or anyone, I’m quite rested.”
I knew he got my message because he smiled. “I see. Verra well.” His gaze flickered toward Munro’s chamber as if he might want to further question what had occurred last night, but instead, when he looked to me once more, he said, “Ye gave us quite a fright at supper last night.”
“I’m sorry for that,” I replied, self-consciously smoothing the wrinkles of my gown.
He nodded, studying me with those shrewd eyes that seemed to miss nothing. “Ye’ve eaten nothing since yesterday afternoon.Would ye care to break yer fast with me? The lasses are still abed.”
My stomach growled in answer, and I nodded gratefully. “That would be most welcome.”
As we walked, a question burned on my tongue, demanding voice. Finally, I gathered my courage and asked what had been haunting me since I’d first stepped into Isabella’s solar.
“James, what truly happened to Munro’s wife?”
He slowed his pace, a shadow passing over his face. “Ye’ve heard something of it already, I take it?”
“Only that she died, and that he cannot bear to look upon his daughters because they remind him of her.”
James sighed and motioned me to continue walking. “Isabella was found at the edge of the highest cliff on Ross land,” he said quietly, approaching the door of the great hall. “Her body broken on the rocks below.” He paused and led me into the great hall, which was empty save the two of us and three servants. They brought trenchers to our table quickly and filled our goblets, and when they departed, he took a deep breath and continued. “Most believed she jumped, overcome with grief after losing her newborn son, but Munro refused to accept it. He insisted someone had killed her.”
