Amanda Scott (39 page)

A shout from above drew his attention. “Patrick must be back,” he said. “He’ll be wroth that Donald’s galleys managed to slip
past him.”

“I do not think they did,” Molly said quietly. “We believe they came from the south, from Sleat, just as the Glen Shiel raiders
probably crossed at Kylerhea.”

“You’ve thought it out right carefully, sweetheart,” he said, putting an arm around her again. The endearment warmed her heart,
but his next words made her chuckle. “Has anyone thought about supper?” he asked. “It looks as if this deluge means to continue
till morning, so we should be safe as mice in a mill tonight.”

Guiltily, Molly looked at Mauri, but the older woman nodded reassuringly. “If ye’ve two lads willing to help serve, laird,
I ha’ food enough,” she said, turning toward the kitchen. “There be soup keeping warm on the hob.”

“Fetch it to table at once,” Fin said heartily. “I swear I could eat enough for ten tonight. Were you badly frightened, lass?”
he asked Molly.

“I had no time to consider my feelings,” she said. “From the moment we first saw them, we had so much to do, and then Thomas
was hit, and … and Ian—”

“Thomas MacMorran? Is he hurt? Where the devil is he? And where—?”

“Here, laird,” Thomas said, entering with Doreen at his side, and looking much steadier on his feet. “I am well, barring an
unpleasant ache in my head, but I count my headache good fortune compared to Ian Dubh’s fate.”

“Ian Dubh? What of him? Where is he?”

“He was killed, sir,” Thomas said, glancing at Molly. Fin was silent, clearly shocked. Then he, too, looked at her. “Why did
you not tell me this at once, lass?”

“I had no chance before now,” she protested. “You’ve been asking questions, but you haven’t asked till now about what happened
here. There is something more you should know, too.” She described the final moments of the battle, adding that she had not
meant to kill Donald. “I aimed for his thigh, and the arrow struck true, but he yanked it free without taking even ordinary
care.”

“A lesson in patience, perhaps, but that is all,” Fin said with a shrug. “Do not let it trouble you. We’ll none of us miss
Donald, and you’ve doubtless saved hundreds of lives. I’ll send word to Jamie. He’ll certainly not grieve.”

Sir Patrick came in then, and while Fin and Thomas reported the news to him, Molly went to help Mauri and Doreen in the kitchen.

Supper was a relaxing meal despite the excitement of the day, and when Doreen rose to help Mauri afterward, Molly asked her
to have someone fill the tub in Kintail’s bed-chamber for her and build up the fire there, as well.

“I want a hot bath,” she said. “All I washed last night was my hair, and after everything that’s happened today, I feel grimy.
The men will talk here for hours yet, so I should have plenty of time for a proper bath.”

“Aye,” Doreen agreed. “I’ll see to it straightaway.”

As Molly left the hall, she saw that Fin was still deep in conversation with Patrick and the others. He waved but otherwise
seemed to pay her no heed.

Upstairs, she went to her own bedchamber first and searched her chests until she found a nightdress she liked that she had
not yet worn at Eilean Donan. Made of cream-colored cambric, it was fashioned simply, like a shift, but embroidered with a
blue Celtic motif and edged with delicate lace. It felt like the right night to wear it.

Several lads with buckets of hot water soon filled her bath, and one carried in another of cold water that he placed near
the tub to cool the bathwater if necessary.

Doreen arrived shortly after the water bearers had gone.

“Ha’ ye got your French soap, mistress?”

“Aye,” Molly said, already stripping off clothing. “Help me with my laces.”

Moments later, she stepped into the tub and, with a deep sigh, sat down and leaned back. It was the largest tub she had ever
bathed in, and lined with smoothly beaten silver as it was, it was also the most comfortable. She decided that Fin’s size
was an advantage in that respect if in few others.

The thought made her smile. Truth be told, his size was an advantage in myriad ways, and she admired it—at least, she did
as long as he was not angry with her. At such times as that, his size gave him an unfair advantage.

“Fetch a net for my hair, please,” she said to Doreen. She had twisted the braids into a topknot, but curls had escaped, and
she did not want to take wet hair to bed with her a second night.

Doreen handed her the soap and drew up a short, three-legged joint-stool to set the little soap dish on. Then she went to
Molly’s bedchamber to fetch the hair net, and Molly began to soap all the bits of herself that she could reach, using a small
towel to scrub her face.

Sliding down into the water to rinse herself, she rested her shoulders against the sloped back, pressed the hot towel against
her cheeks, and shut her eyes, relaxing. When the door opened, she said drowsily, “Just slip the net on over my hair, Doreen.
I may never move again.”

“Oh, I hope you will move a little, sweetheart.” Fin’s voice, teasing and sensual, startled her into opening her eyes.

“You,” she said accusingly, “are not Doreen.”

“And you,” he retorted with a grin, “are very perceptive.”

“I like your tub,” she said, folding her arms across her breasts and watching him warily. As usual, her body was responding
to his presence, making it hard to sit still. He had taken off his weapons, helmet, plate, and mail, and stood now in only
his shirt, braies, and boots. The lacing of his shirt was open.

“I’m envious,” he said, still grinning. “Can you really stretch out your legs?”

“Aye, easily. My toes touch the end, but it’s the biggest tub I’ve ever seen.”

“I think I should have a larger one made,” he said. “Big enough for two.”

“You can use this water when I’ve finished,” she said, wishing she could relax and hoping Doreen would not walk in.

To be naked in a bath, attended by the personal servant who had tended one from childhood, was one thing. To be naked in a
bath with one’s husband in the room was something else. But to be naked and aroused in a bath with both of them there, watching
her, was not an experience she wanted to face.

Fin watched her appreciatively. Although she did not realize it, the situation was as new to him as it was to her, because
he had never watched a woman bathe before, and she was lovely to watch. She had looked at first as if his entrance had not
disturbed her in the least, although she had crossed her arms protectively over those luscious breasts of hers. But when she
offered him the use of her bathwater—a common enough suggestion in any household—she had blushed, and now she seemed to have
fixed her attention on scrubbing the very skin off her face.

With her red-gold curls piled in loose plaits atop her head, her face looked pixielike, her lovely eyes enormous. They revealed
a greenish cast that he had not seen before, and their dark lashes sparkled with tiny drops of water, like diamonds. Her skin
was smooth, rosy from the hot water, and enticingly touchable. He wanted to lather every inch of her with the bar of soap
in the dish on the stool beside her.

“Will you hand me that towel, please?” she asked a moment later, gesturing toward the washstand with one hand while still
covering her breasts with the other.

“Where is Doreen?” he asked, realizing that she had expected him to be the maidservant, and that Doreen must have meant to
be there to hand her the towel.

“She went to fetch a net to keep my hair up. I think she realized that you had come in, though, or she would have come back
by now.”

He liked the way the curly tendrils that had escaped the coil atop her head wisped around her ears and cheeks. One trailed
down the back of her neck and he wanted to touch it, to let it wrap itself around his finger. Doreen would not return, and
the soap glistened temptingly in the dish on the stool.

“The towel?” Molly said.

“I don’t think you’re quite clean enough yet,” he said, bolting the door.

Picking up the wet soap, he moved the little dish to the floor and sat down on the stool. The thought of touching her, of
sliding the soap around on her smooth skin, was almost more than his body could stand. A particular part of it was fairly
shouting at him to snatch the lass from the water and take her to bed. But anticipation would only increase his pleasure,
and hers. He was going to take his time and enjoy himself.

She watched him silently, her beautiful eyes wide and wary.

With the soap in his right hand, he reached with his left and gently moved the protective arm hugging her breasts. Feasting
his eyes on their plump splendor, he dipped the soap in the warm water, and then used it to lather them. When they were silky
and gleaming, he let the soap slide into the water with her and stroked the lather with both hands.

“That is French soap,” she murmured, eyes locked with his. “It will melt.”

“I’ll buy you more,” he said, watching her eyes widen as he stroked the mark on her left breast with a soapy finger, then
slid it lower to caress the nipple.

Her voice was a ragged whisper when she said, “French soap is expensive.”

“I’ll tell Jamie he owes my lovely wife a bar of French soap. In the meantime, you talk too much.” Leaning forward, one hand
still resting on her silken breast, he kissed her. He had intended the kiss to be light, provocative, but when his lips touched
hers, the jolt that struck him nearly unmanned him. Heat flamed through him, setting every nerve afire.

He moved his other hand to cup the back of her head, holding her while his lips pressed harder against hers and savored their
response. He moaned deep in his throat, and his tongue demanded entrance to her warm, inviting mouth.

His right hand continued to stroke her body, gently at first, then more hungrily, sliding over her breasts to her smooth belly
and lower. Just as his fingertips touched the soft curls at the juncture of her thighs, he shifted direction, holding her
silent with his kisses while he searched in the tub for the bar of soap.

She wriggled, but her little tongue stayed busy, playing with his, teasing him.

Finding the soap, he lost it again when it slipped from his fingers and slid under her knees. Reaching between her legs, he
captured it again and began to soap the insides of her thighs, moving nearer his goal with each stroke. When she moaned and
wriggled more, he touched her nether lips with the bar of soap, delighting in her gasp of pleasure. He let the bar slide free
of his fingers again and touched her where the soap had touched her. Her body was warm and welcoming, and it took only a few
gentle caresses after that to bring her to her peak.

He held her until the spasms eased.

She had shut her eyes. When she opened them again, he said, “I’ll fetch that towel for you now.”

When he released her, she grabbed the sides of the tub with both hands, as if she feared she would slide under the water if
she did not hold on.

Grinning, filled with anticipation of what was to come, Fin jerked a towel from the washstand rod and turned back.

The damned voices could chatter all they wanted to tonight. As things were now, they wouldn’t faze him.

Draping the towel over a shoulder, he turned to get hot water from the hob and pour it into the cold pail.

She continued to watch him, her eyes luminous with sensual pleasure.

“Stand up, sweetheart. I cannot rinse the soap off you whilst you huddle in the water. Moreover, that water must be growing
chilly by now.”

Slowly, using one hand on the tub sides to balance herself, she stood up, but then she gazed at him steadily and lowered both
arms to her sides. Her breasts glistened, firm and shapely, their only flaw the mark that the hot key had made on the soft
upper swell of the left one. Her arms were softly rounded, as were her hips and bottom, and her legs were long and slender.
Her grace stunned him, and despite the fiery, impatient demands of his body, he stared like a moonstruck lad.

To think that Donald had dared try to take her from him…

Her eyebrows lifted slightly, as if she wondered at his hesitation. Her expression grew wary again, as if suddenly she were
uncertain of herself.

“You are so beautiful,” he said quietly as he poured the rinse water over her, taking care not to get her hair wet.

“I’m weak, sir, and I’ll soon get cold if you do not give me that towel!”

“I’ll dry you myself,” he said, holding out a hand to her. “Step out of the tub and move closer to the fire so you don’t become
chilled.”

She obeyed, stepping onto a rug near the hearth, still watching him.

“Shall I do your back or your front first?”

Her body trembled. “You choose,” she said, her eyelids lowering slightly, lashes aflutter.

He smiled. “Art trying to seduce me now, lass, or unman me?”

Suddenly shy, she looked at her toes. “I thought you would want…” She swallowed and then added in a rush, “I have never felt
anything like that before—what you just did to me—but we have not truly bedded yet. I thought you…” She faltered, looking
at him as if she hoped to read the answer to her thought in his eyes.