“Are you and I kin?”
She choked out a laugh. “You and I? Nay. I am naught but a weaver. You lived in the castle proper. Save for the day I departed, we never exchanged words.”
That did not fit with Magnus’s beliefs about himself. Well, not entirely, anyway. He knew from the calluses on his right hand that he was familiar with a blade, so the notion of not being a common laborer felt real enough. But holding himself above those who were of lesser status? He couldn’t imagine possessing such a surfeit of pride.
“I need to strengthen this leg,” he said, lightly pounding his lame leg with his fist. “I cannot remain here forever. I must seek out those who know me.”
Morag tightened the woolen shawl about her shoulders. “Take to the hills, then. Climbing will strengthen the leg. Just be wary of soldiers. They seem to be venturing into the woods with more frequency of late.”
Magnus crossed the hut to stand before her. He lifted her chin with his hand and peered into her pretty green eyes. “I’ll forever be grateful for the aid you’ve given me. Be assured of that. If I can ever repay you, I will.”
She flushed and stepped back, forcing him to release her. “Just chop me a good supply of wood before you go, and I’ll be rewarded enough.”
He let her walk away.
The woman was too proud by half. Her supplies were limited—purchased from the castle in exchange for the fine cloth she wove on her loom—and yet she had shared them unsparingly as he healed. Once he was able to hunt, he had supplemented her food with the odd hare, but he had a hearty appetite, so her pot on the fire was forever in need of new ingredients.
He would pay her back.
He just wasn’t sure how or when.
Just as he wasn’t sure when he would leave. It bothered him immensely to imagine her alone here, fending for herself. She was young and beautiful. She ought to be some man’s wife, not chopping her own wood and risking her very life traveling to the castle to trade her wares. He’d accompanied her the last few times. He’d seen the harassment she had endured at the hands of the soldiers at the gate and clenched his fists.
“We’ll never be even,” he said softly. “I’ll forever be in your debt.”
“I don’t want your debt,” she retorted.
“You have it anyway.”
His words annoyed her—he could see it in her sharply angled eyebrows. She did not want anything from him except for him to stay. But what she wanted was impossible. Not because of who he was, but because of who he had once been. Until he knew his past, he could not settle with a woman. For all he knew, he was already wed.
He studied her elegant profile. He only prayed that he wasn’t. Otherwise, the thoughts he had about Morag would surely see him in hell.
* * *
The MacCurran returned to the hill fort as the light was fading. Isabail spied him at the entrance of the inner close, looking like some barbarian warrior of old—his hair a tangled mess and his lèine spattered with bloodstains.
He was as far from a gentleman lord as she could imagine, and yet her heart did a funny dance in her chest as he marched through the gate. Perhaps it was the purposeful look that took control of his face when he caught sight of her, or perhaps it was the rippling muscles of his thighs and calves as he strode toward her. Whatever it was, her body reacted instinctively, flooding her with heat and eager anticipation.
He grabbed her hand and led her away from the central fire and toward the hut he had claimed as his own.
“Where are we going?” she asked breathlessly.
“I owe you a proper thanks,” he answered, pulling her into the hut. He shut the door, then released her briefly to change his lèine and splash his face with water. Then he advanced toward her with a wolfish grin, slowly backing her against the wall. “Your idea to move the bodies was inspired. We built a fire pit half a league from here and left several of our broken tools there, along with some furniture and the bodies. MacPherson will believe his men found us camped there and were ambushed.”
Isabail heard everything MacCurran said, but she had difficulty concentrating. His hands were wandering places they had no right to be. A proper noblewoman would take him to task. But as his fingers swept down her back and over her rump, she relaxed against the wall and let him have his way. It felt so good to have a strong man offer her such exquisite moments of pleasure.
Her softened stance encouraged him to go further. The words stopped, and his lips found more adventurous tasks to perform. Like nibbling the skin along her collarbone and tracing a red-hot path to her earlobe. The heat of his kisses sent a tremble of need through every nerve in her body.
She should despise this man for all he’d done, even though he denied it. Yet she found she could not. All she could remember as his lips made merry on her flesh was the gentle hold he’d kept on her for two days in the saddle, the care he’d shown her and Muirne when they were snowbound, and the fierce desire that leapt into his eyes each time he looked at her.
Logic said that he had done all that Daniel insisted he had done, but her heart disagreed.
When he scooped her up and carried her to the mattress, Isabail did not protest. She thrust her darker thoughts to the back of her mind and faced the man lowering himself next to her with a steady stare. She was a wee bit nervous, but there was no doubt in her heart that she wanted him to kiss her.
He lowered his mouth to hers, and she met his kiss eagerly. Opening to his press, her lips parted with a soft sigh of contentment. None of his kisses were gentle. They had the potent force of a man whose ardor was barely held in check—and that filled Isabail with a weak-kneed pleasure. He wanted her, badly, but he restrained himself as best he could. For her.
“You are a rare beauty,” he murmured against her throat. “As lovely as a snow-white lily.”
