She remained in the water until the men left and then, under Joan’s careful guard, she left the water and changed into dry clothes.
When she was dressed, she made her way to him and stepped intothe woolen plaid he held open to receive her.
“Did ye enjoy yerself?” His arms closing around her and his breath against her ear filled her with warmth.
She nodded, wanting to invite him in with her next time. She said nothing and closed her eyes as his scent of pine and morning mist covered her, filling every inch of her.
She knew he would be leaving any day now to battle the MacKintoshes once and for all. Would he return?
With a slight shake of her head that made her short tresses sway, she refused to think on such things. Of course, he would return. He was the Lochiel. The most savage man she had ever met.
“Ye’re shiverin’,” he said huskily and wrapped her up more tightly in the plaid.
“Och, lady!” Joan lamented, standing behind her and at least five safe steps away. “Yer hair is still wet! Why would ye bathe in the freezing lake?”
Ismay moved to smile and reassure her. “I’m well, Joan. Verra well.”
Her friend got the message, stopped, and smiled brightly at her, and then at the Lochiel holding her.
Because she decided at that moment to rest her cheek against his chest, her ear heard the sound of deep rumbling from someplace within him. Was it the sound of his resistance to what was clear to Joan?
Taking mercy on him, Ismay stepped back. But he didn’t let her go. She couldn’t lift her arms to embrace him or push him away, so she simply let him warm her.
She realized it was a vulnerable position to be in—unable to lift her arms in defense. But this was no mere chief. This was the man who had taken her under his protective arms and had not let go.
She trusted him without caring why she offered it to him so easily. He would not hurt her the wayothers had.
Finally, he bent his head and shoulders back to take a look at her. His dark eyes moved over her wet strands and she struggled a little to instinctively lift her hand to her hair. He lifted his to it instead.
From behind her she heard Joan’s startled intake of breath. Ismay worried he might kiss her in front of the others. She wished they were alone so that he would indeed kiss her. He didn’t. He pulled the length of the plaid over her head and rubbed it on her head.
When he finally let her go, she felt cold and alone for an instant. But his warm gaze on her was like hot coals heating the deepest cavern of her heart.
They ate a feast of braised duck, and pheasant. Hare stew with turnips, mushrooms, and carrots. This morning’s black bread with honey, currant tarts, along with dried and smoked herring, various custards and savory and sweet pies.
While they filled their bellies, she learned from the worshipful words of Lachlan, things Joan could not tell her about the Lochiel because she had not been privy to them. Like how Constantine had saved his men during all six of their major battles against both Cromwellian garrisons making their way into the Highlands, and enemy clans, like the MacKintoshes, MacPhersons, and even sometimes Campbells.
Ismay wasn’t surprised by any of it. He had appeared fearless when the MacKintoshes had arrived at the inn. But she wished he did not enjoy fighting so much. One day, his life would catch up with him.
“Do ye have to fight?” she asked, hating herself for it.
He looked up from his cup of water and simply stared at her. Then, with a hint of a smile on his decadent lips, “I will do all I can to avoid it.”
She was tempted to gape at him, but fought it, not wishing to appear a hapless dolt. “Ye will?”
“Ye will?” Lachlan almost sprang to his feet. “Do ye jest?”
“I want to give killin’ up and live a wee bit, if I can,” he told hiscousin—who didn’t care what he looked like with his mouth hanging open.
“What will we all do withoot ye, Lochiel?”
Constantine let out a sigh and shook his head. “I will fight when I’m needed.”
At this, Ismay tossed the younger Cameron a dark glare. She said nothing in front of him, lest she become the enemy before his men even found out she was a MacPherson. She would not make Constantine’s decisions for him, unless they might get him killed.
Nae. She quickly shook her head at herself. It was not for her to say. His life was his own. He hadn’t pledged it to her.
“Let us not speak of fighting on such a perfect day,” she suggested, doing her best not to worry about tomorrow or the day after that.
