Chapter Fourteen

"…and upon this the Clitoris cleaveth and is tied, which being nervous, and of pure feeling, when it is rubbed and stirred it causeth lustful thoughts…"

Jane Sharp, 1671, The Midwives Book or The Whole Art of Midwifry Discovered

Are your unbrotherly feelings more heat? Hot like a flame?

Rory's words played about in Sara's head as she sat on the edge of her small bed. They strummed through her like a vibrating chord to tease that very flame he'd detected within her.

He wanted her, maybe as much as she desired him. But he'd said he didn't trust anyone. Could he come together in pleasure with a woman he didn't trust? Morag said physical love could be different for different people. Sometimes, it was an act to find pleasure and had nothing to do with the heart. To Sara, trust lived in the heart.

Sara worried at her bottom lip. Could she do that? Be with someone without throwing her heart into jeopardy? Her aching body screamed yes, but her mind wasn't so sure.

With a huff, Sara pulled her robe over her smock and unlocked her door, peering out into the darkness of the landing. It was late. She'd woken from a dream that had left her aching in carnal frustration, and now her mind wouldn't let her fall back under its spell.

Sara slipped from her room and down the tower stairs. She held her breath, but no one moved out of the shadows. Pushing past the niggling disappointment, she continued down two more flights. Apart from an occasional snore or creak behind a door, everything in Dunvegan was quiet.

Perhaps she truly wasn't a prisoner. She had a key and no guard. Despite Jamie's cruel words today, those two facts made her a guest. Someone would surely stop her at the gate if she tried to take the ferry across. Although, Jamie had ordered her to leave. The man was mad if he thought she'd marry him now. The bruise on her wrist was still tender even after Margaret had wrapped a poultice around it.

Sara stopped in the great hall, considering, but turned down another corridor away from the gate. She couldn't leave Dunvegan in the night, in her robe, without saying farewell. Morag's was too far to journey to alone at night on foot.

Margaret had brought Sara through the castle earlier to the kitchens to tend her cut knuckles and blossoming bruise, and Sara had noticed a garden beyond. She hugged her robe tighter and hurried through the shadowed corridor. A few sconces guttered, their flames scarcely alive.

The sound of even breathing met Sara when she entered the kitchen. Fiona, the gruff cook who wore her hair plaited in two braids coiled atop her head, slept on a thick pallet near the hearth. She rolled her curvy bulk over, pulling her blanket to her chin.

The kitchen walls were plastered with bright white, and someone had painted a flowering vine along the wall where it joined the ceiling. Bunches of dried herbs hung from the exposed beams like at Aunt Morag's cottage, and a door opened out into the culinary garden inside the thick Dunvegan wall. The glow from the hearth helped Sara maneuver without hitting anything as she crept through the tidy space. She lifted the bar from the door with silent care, setting it down, and slid out into the garden.

Fragrant aromas of rosemary and oregano greeted Sara as she walked down the pebbled path between bushy, well-tended herbs. At the far end of the garden stood two trees, and a swing dangled from one of the thicker limbs. The chilled air helped cool the ardor in her blood as she filled her lungs with the freshness of the night. The half moon peeked from behind drifting clouds, illuminating the crushed white stone paths. Sara's slippers crunched as she hurried toward the swing.

Her hand flitted along a lavender bush, and she plucked a stem, holding it to her nose. It smelled of her mother, because Morag always added it to the soap she'd made for her. What must Elspet have felt having to let one of her little daughters go? Sara's heart squeezed.

Sara sat on the wooden swing. Her feet dangled above the grass, and she leaned back to make it move. The breeze tugged at her hair, and she was glad she'd left it down to drape her shoulders, keeping her warmer.

Eyes trained forward, she walked her feet back, releasing into a low swoop. The breeze felt refreshing in her face.

Movement . Sara's breath halted, and she tried to stop her swinging by dragging her toes. The kitchen door opened. The light from the hearth fire was blotted out when a tall figure emerged and closed the door behind him.

By St. Mary's tears! Jamie wasn't well enough to walk outside, was he?

But the figure's gait was brisk and strong with health. "Rory?" she asked, her voice just above a whisper in the vast darkness.

"Aye."

Sara released her breath and leaned back on the swing. Her hands clenched around the ropes on either side.

"What are ye doing out here?"

She pushed her toes against the grass again. Even though fear had dissipated immediately, her heart still thudded. Rory had followed her. And now they were alone, in the dark, and she was in her sleeping smock and robe. Desire prickled through her despite the bracing coolness of the air. "How did you know I was out here?" she asked.

He stopped beside her, his broad form creating a giant's shadow across the garden wall. "Ye answer a question with another question."

"Does that annoy you?" She hoped her voice sounded casual, playful, to hide the fluttering breathiness afflicting her.

He released a soft bark of laughter at another question and walked behind her. Sara forced herself to take a long, even breath.

"I heard someone walk past my door," Rory said, his voice so close she imagined she could feel the warmth of his breath. "Someone light on their feet. So I followed and waited outside the kitchen thinking ye might be hungry."

His hands pressed against her backside, lifting her way up. She gasped, clutching the ropes, and then he released, stepping aside. Sara swooped down, her toes skimming the wet grass, and he pushed her again. In the darkness, it was as if she were flying, and a pulse of panic surged, reminding her of her aversion to heights.

"Not so high," she said as her legs came even with her head on the upswing. He let her swing back and forth a few times without pushing.

"Ye didn't come downstairs to eat then?"

The swing slowed, and Rory gave her a slight push to keep her going without her having to kick her legs.

"Did you push Eleri out here on the swing?"

"I will answer yer question after ye answer mine."

She inhaled the breeze until her head swam. "I couldn't sleep, so I came out to find peace."

Rory pushed her gently a few times before speaking. "I used to swing Eleri out here when she was a wee lass." Rory walked out before her, letting the swing slow to a halt. With the moonlight peeking past the border of a moving cloud, she could see the hardness of his frown. "With Jamie awake, it isn't safe to leave yer room when everyone is sleeping."

She swallowed, her throat tight at the memory of her fear when she saw Rory's shadow. "I didn't think he could walk about in his weakened state."

"He'll improve quickly now that he's awake and can eat and drink."

She slid off the seat and looked up into the sky where sea mist grew into fog, muting the moonlight. The dampness of the fog prickled against her cheeks, and she knew her hair would curl wildly from it.

"The fog's coming in," she said.

Rory inhaled. "The air is fresh with it."

"Not like the fettered air of prison."

He stared down at her, his eyes dark in the shadows. "I dreamed and prayed to breathe the clean sea air of Skye again."

Sara remembered the festering slashes on Kenan's back when he'd returned from England, and his nose swollen from a bad break. Rory must have suffered the same, although he seemed to have recovered. His arm muscles bulged against his sleeves, and she still remembered his chiseled legs and tight arse when he'd walked naked to retrieve his plaid on the beach.

What would it be like to touch that toned flesh? His skin would be warm, his body tight with power.

"Come," he said.

"Come where?"

He pointed down. "The wind is blocked closer to the ground." He pulled the long sash from across his chest, shaking the wool out. The other end of the woven swath was caught by his belt, keeping its pleat in the wrap around his waist. "'Tis big enough."

Rory sat on the grass, apparently not minding the cold damp against the flesh above his boots. He threw the sash out from him and leaned back on his palms. "'Tis like a picnic but without food."

She let out a small laugh, staring down at the swath of wool. "That would be called sitting on the ground."

"Probably fewer ballads written about it, but 'tis still fine."

She pulled the sash wide and lowered to sit on it. Rory leaned his head back to stare at the sky. Sara did the same, watching the layers of barely lit fog slide over them, descending inside the wall. "It looks like ghosts."

"'Tis like God snapping out a blanket to let it float down over us," he said.

"The Lion of Skye is a warrior and a poet."

He sniffed in what could have been a laugh. "I'd make a poor poet."

"Why?"

His head came up and he met her with a serious expression. "I don't rhyme."

Sara laughed and any remaining unease faded.

They sat side by side, leaning their heads back to stare at the damp ribbons of fog. "Dunscaith is by the sea, too," Sara said, "but I've never sat watching the mist like this." The truth was that it wasn't safe to wander at night there, either.

After a moment he said, "Why couldn't ye sleep?"

She turned to Rory's profile. His eyes were open, looking up. She could give him part of the truth. "I worry about Eliza, about what my father might do next." She sighed. "About your people still wanting to burn me alive and about Jamie hating me and wanting me to leave when I have nowhere to go."

Rory's face turned to hers, and her gaze traced the edges of his strong jawline. His words were low like a deep caress. "How about I take half that worry so ye don't have so much to carry?"

"Worry doesn't work that way," she said, unsure if he was jesting.

He kept his gaze on her. "'Tis clear that Jamie isn't right in the head and won't listen to reason, so I'm in charge of the clan until he improves. I won't let Jamie, yer father, or the villagers harm ye, and we have Kenan working to bring Eliza here."

His assurances were sound, but Sara couldn't tell him that what was really keeping her from sleeping was him. The way his amber eyes met hers with intensity that warmed her to the core. How she kept repeating his words about heat, trying to weigh if they were some trick.

"Perhaps…I would sleep easier with a weapon."

He leaned closer, and she could make out his grin in the darkness. "Ye seem to have a fine weapon here." His warm hand clasped hers where it sat in her lap. "Who taught ye to punch?"

His thumb slid across the thin poultice tied over her knuckles and up the back of her hand. It caused a shiver to slide through her. It was like the touch in the corridor, reverent and tentative, and she could imagine it running along other parts of her body.

"Kenan," she said. Should she hold Rory's hand back or let him hold hers like some stunned bird he'd pick up from the yard?

"Why?" he asked, the lightness gone from his tone. His thumb stopped its caress, but he continued to hold her hand.

"Gilbert is a bloody arse who…plays tricks on me." Her hand fisted within his hold.

"What type of tricks?"

Her other hand flipped in the air. "Throwing me in the sea, locking me in the dungeon, tripping me, especially when I was younger. So I learned to punch him and anyone who threatened me. It usually surprises them enough to let me go."

"Ye certainly surprised me."

"You still carried me away," she said, sounding surly.

"If I carry ye back to yer room…because 'tis unsafe to be out at night, will ye punch me?"

The thought of Rory MacLeod carrying her back to her room, to the bed there, relit the dry kindling Sara had been trying to smother within. "Are you going to carry me away right now?" She kept her tone light.

"I'm thinking about it. Will ye punch me?"

"Perhaps," she said and caught the slight gleam of his white teeth in the dark. "And then will you bite me, Lion of Skye?"

"Nay." His mouth tipped in a grin and moved close to her ear so that she could feel his breath stir against her hair, making her stomach flutter. "Unless ye want me to."

The spark at her ear sizzled. It spread down her neck and through her body like lightning sparking a tree and lighting the darkest night.

Her words came easier under the thickness of the mist and shadows. "Why would I want you to bite me?"

"Some lasses like a nibble."

Sara tried to remember what Morag had told her about physical love. She didn't remember biting being part of it.

"So it…doesn't hurt," she said.

He didn't laugh, but she still felt her cheeks burn and appreciated the coolness of the mist falling on them. "Nay," he said, his voice low like he was imparting a secret, "that type of bite is a little capture of skin between my teeth that is soothed quickly with a kiss and touch of my tongue."

He'd done this to other women. His words painted an image that annoyed her until she replaced the face of the woman with her own. "'Tis not the type of bite you do in battle."

"I rarely do that, either," he said, "but the threat deters most."

"The…nibble and other things," she said, "where exactly do you do that?" Her curiosity shot off more lightning, making her legs shift together.

Rory took her arm and placed a finger on the inside of her elbow. "Here." His warm pad stroked her skin.

She held her breath as his hand rose to her earlobe, pinching it gently. "Here," he said, the word coming on a low exhale. His finger slid slowly down her neck, setting tiny bumps popping up on her skin. "All along here."

Her nipples peaked in anticipation, but his finger stopped at the base of her throat, warm against her cool skin. "And lower," he said without moving it.

"Lower?"

"Aye."

She almost groaned when he removed his finger, but then he bent his mouth to her ear. "I could nibble and lick a path around yer breasts and the hard pearls of yer nipples, Sara." His accent was rougher, deeper as if he, too, were affected by his words and the images they painted. They were no longer about some phantom lover, but about her.

"I'd love the skin over yer stomach and the rise of each of yer hip bones."

Sara could imagine his warm mouth working its way down her body. His words stroked her like she imagined the brush of his fingers and lips would do. Even the edge of his white teeth could slide against her sensitive skin, teeth able to cause pain, but he would use them for pleasure.

"Anywhere else?"

"Aye," he said but still didn't touch her except with the whisper of his breath at her ear. "There is a sensitive spot between yer legs, lass."

"I know." She felt the nub throb as if nothing would calm it.

"Ye've…touched it?"

She nodded in the dark. "I want to touch it now." She felt heat flush up her neck into her face. She wanted Rory MacLeod to touch it. The thought sent a pulse of wet desire between her legs.

Rory murmured something that sounded pained. She felt him shift, his hand going down into the shadows. Was he stroking himself? The heavy jack and ballocks she'd seen briefly when he'd walked out of the sea? Without the icy seawater, was it hard and standing upright like she'd seen one night on the Macdonald warrior with a maid in the barn?

She'd watched them from a back stall, and the sight and sounds had shot an achy heat through her.

Rory groaned lightly. "'Tis indeed dangerous out here for ye, Lady Sara Macdonald."

Lady Sara Macdonald? Her full name put distance between them. He pulled back from her. "I'll escort ye back to yer room."

For a moment, she did nothing, the ache pulsing in her rooting her to the ground.

"If ye stand," he said, nodding to his sash trapped under her.

"Oh." The flush that had shot through her body now rose into her cheeks.

Heart hammering and face aflame, Sara stood and backed off his woolen wrap. Rory rose and tucked it better into his belt, flipping the end over his shoulder. The two of them walked in silence through the kitchen past the snoring cook. He didn't take Sara's hand but escorted her up the flights of steps without a word. So many steps. The burn in her thighs helped tame the fire inside her, but his nearness on the small landing before her door made it flare.

"I'll listen for ye to lock yerself inside," he said.

She looked into his eyes that she could once again see in the light of a wall sconce. The flame from it glowed in the amber pools. "Will you come inside with me?"

There was a pause so long that she startled slightly when his voice broke the silence. "I am a warrior, not a…not a man to woo a lass. And ye're a maiden, not a widow looking to relieve an ache."

Sara felt her jaw tense. "Maidens can ache, too."

"I'm also not a scoundrel, Sara," he said, his words rough.

"And I am not a whore, Rory." Her words followed his same inflection. "But I am truthful and not ashamed of the heat inside me." She opened the door to her room. "I have no need for my maidenhood, and I ache." Her words were soft but sounded loud in her ears as she stared into her dark room "Life is too short to ignore it."

She turned toward him and let her robe part. The thin white smock dipped down along her collarbone. In the darkness of her room, he would not be able to see the ugliness across her back. The shadows made her bold. Sara slid one hand up from her abdomen, her body alive even under the touch of her own fingers, and she lifted under one of her breasts.

Rory's gaze followed her movement, hunger in the set of his jaw. His lips parted, and she caught sight of the tip of his tongue touching his bottom lip. Her heart thumped at the surge of want that slight movement caused. He'd come to her, pull her into his arms, kiss her, touch her. He wanted to, maybe desperately. She could see the lustful strain on his features and the rise of his jack against his plaid.

His hands braced on the lintel of her doorway, stretched over his head. His muscles bulged like he was stopping himself from stepping in. His gaze raked her, and he swallowed hard. "My honor is stronger than my want."

He turned and walked down the staircase.