Kate Wingo - Highland Mist 01 (4 page)

Taking a deep, stabilizing breath, she bent over and
proceeded to unbutton her right boot, her fingers awkwardly fumbling with the closure. After sliding the wet boot off of her foot, she set it on the floor.

To her surprise, Iain promptly plucked
the boot from the ground, holding it aloft as he examined the extravagant piece of footwear. Not only was the ankle boot lined with sable and banded with green velvet, it was ornately embroidered with gold thread.

“No’ very practical, is it?” he casually remarked before setting her boot back
down.

“When I left Castle Airlie this morning, I did not anticipate having to trudge
through the mud and the rain.”

Nor having to ride on the back of a horse,
my arms wrapped around a bare-legged savage.

Trying to ignore the soaking wet behemoth
standing over top of her, Yvette reached under her chemise and untied her stockings, hurriedly rolling them down her calves. With a snap of the wrist, she unfurled both of them before laying them across her boots. That done, she unclasped her mantle, raising her hips in order to pull the cloak out from under her. Wordlessly, Iain took the garment from her and hung it on a hook attached to one of the ceiling crossbeams.

Her trepidation mounting, s
he next unbuckled her girdle, carefully setting it beside her boots. And though her hands trembled as though palsied, Yvette tugged at the laces on the front of her wet kirtle. Despite the fact that she was of noble birth, here, in this ramshackle hovel, that counted for naught. She was the laird’s hostage. With no rights. No recourse. All dignity stripped from her.

But even if Iain MacKinnon ravished her body
– nay, not
if
, but when – there were parts of her that he could never touch, her heart, mind, and soul belonging exclusively to her. And that elusive trinity would forever remain inviolate. Safely stowed away. Hidden from the savage Highlander.

Her defenses bolstered
, Yvette next untied her laces. Then, rising to her feet, she grabbed two handfuls of fabric and pulled upward.

Near
ly smothered in wet wool, she gasped aloud when Iain snatched the kirtle from her hands and, with a deft yank, tugged the damp garment over her head. When she emerged from the imprisoning folds of fabric, Yvette turned her head, embarrassed, acutely aware of the fact that this was the first time a man had assisted her with undressing.

As he had with the mantle, Iain hung her kirtle on a metal hook, the garments eerily putting
Yvette in mind of two lone corpses dangling from a hangman’s noose.

Just then, o
ut of the corner of her eye, she noticed Iain staring at her, the blatant arousal that gleamed in his eyes taking her aback.

Ha
d any man ever gazed at me with such intent longing?

In truth, s
he did not think so. Certainly, her husband Roland had never looked upon her with such intensity.

Flustered, she plucked at a gold thread that had come loose on the cuff of her
chemise, trying her utmost best to ignore the man who stood only a few feet away.

It proved a
n impossible endeavor, Iain MacKinnon too earthy, too bold, too virile to ignore. Moreover, there hovered about him a predatory alertness, his desire for her evident in the barely leashed tension that animated every inch of his powerful physique. And though she did not look forward to sharing his bed, Yvette could not deny that with his long mane of black hair and cerulean blue eyes, he possessed an unholy handsomeness.

Like
one of the fallen archangels.

Brusquely gesturing
toward her embroidered bodice, Iain said, “Ye’re not finished undressing.”

“My
chemise is . . . is dry,” she nervously stammered, silently praying that he would not order her to remove it, the linen undergarment her sole concession to modesty.

Unnerved by his intense gaze,
Yvette self-consciously wrapped her arms around her waist, reminding herself that, as the priests so often extolled, the body was naught but a worthless shell.

Entranced, Iain stared at the w
oman standing in front of him. While her facial expression was undeniably innocent, from the neck down, the highborn Yvette Beauchamp looked every inch the wanton.

Her sheer undergarment skims
her body like the morning mist skims an undulating glen
, he thought musingly, able to see Yvette’s hardening nipples through the fabric.

Highly aroused
, his manhood stirred.

At that moment, h
e wanted to take her, there, on the dirt floor of the pathetic hovel. Like an animal in rut.

But he couldn’t
.

Yvette Beauchamp
was too delicately fashioned, too well-bred. For all that he wanted the lady, he could not bring himself to take her in the mud and the muck. Instead, he would wait until they reached Castle Maoil five days hence. Then he could savor his lovesport on a proper bed with clean, heather-scented sheets.

Unable to take his eyes off
of her, Iain watched as Yvette nervously finger-combed her wet tresses, the hacked skeins ending just below her breasts.

Och, but
I regret cutting her hair.

To have seen
the lady garbed to her knees in only the shimmering strands of sable hair was a sight that he would have paid dearly to behold.

Although the
vision he currently beheld caused his loins to throb with an aching need, the wool plaid tenting between his hips. While the chemise might be dry, he could nonetheless see the intriguing thatch of dark hair that covered Yvette’s woman’s mound through the nearly transparent garment. The sight of which aggravated the urge to touch her. Smell her.
Taste her
. To hear her softly whimper as he teased her with his tongue. Teased until the lady begged him to give her succor. Until he thrust into her and they both found release.

His noble intentions
of waiting until they arrived at Castle Maoil quickly falling to the wayside, Iain placed a hand on Yvette’s shoulder, urging her to step toward him. “I dinna think that I can wait to—” At seeing the unadulterated fear that flashed across Yvette’s face, the words caught in his throat.

F
or no reason that he could fathom, he suddenly felt like a hulking, lecherous beast.

Clearing his throat,
Iain stepped away from her. “I dinna think that I can wait to fill my belly. I’ll eat with Diarmid and the others,” he muttered, not about to let the wench know the effect that she had on him.

Clenching his teeth, as much from the driving rain as from unfulfilled lust, Iain strode
outside.

Relieved that the foul weather had driven his
kinsmen indoors, he headed toward the thatched hut where the horses were stabled. He wasn’t in the mood to hear the chorus of ribald taunts that would ensue if anyone were to catch sight of his blatant arousal, his randy cock still puckering the front of his kilt. He’d sup later. Once the chill rain had cooled his lust and his need for the Sassenach had ebbed.

Then, again, the ground
might fissure open and swallow me whole.

’Twas as likely a
scenario.

As she watched Iain charge through the rain toward the makeshift stable,
Yvette jammed a balled fist into her mouth, muffling a sob.

I will not cry!

Nor would she show any weakness that the laird of Clan MacKinnon could exploit. No matter what transpired, she must stay strong. For she would only survive the horrendous ordeal if she remained stout-hearted. And while Iain MacKinnon had demanded her compliance, that was
all
he would get from her.

Wiping the sleeve of her
chemise under her eyes, Yvette dried her tears. She then wearily walked over to the leather pouch that contained their foodstuffs. Uncertain what she’d find, she was surprised to discover a number of neatly tied linen packets. One by one, she opened each of them, discovering smoked herring, oats, and dried beans; all of the ingredients one would need to create a hearty pottage. Although, now relieved of the burden of having to prepare a meal for her captor, Yvette could summon no enthusiasm for the task.

Instead, she
grabbed a handful of dried apples, several soggy oatcakes, and a leather flask of water. Even though she had no appetite, she stuffed a dried apple slice into her mouth and listlessly chewed it. Her strength nearly depleted, she feared that she would lose her vitality all together if she didn’t partake of some sustenance.

Uncorking the flask, she washed the apple down w
ith a mouthful of tepid water. Next, she sampled the oat cake, none too impressed with Scottish cuisine. Not only should the apple have been candied with cinnamon syrup, the oatcake would have been vastly improved with the addition of saffron and ground almonds.

With h
er pitiful meal concluded, Yvette walked over to the scattered pile of dried peat that she spied on the far side of the hut. Gathering as much of it as she could carry in her arms, she took her spoils over to the crudely constructed pit in the middle of the floor. A fire would generate much-needed heat to dry her clothing and provide a modicum of light, twilight’s shadow having just fallen.

As she hunkered in front of the stone-rimmed fire pit, Yvette pulled
her voluminous linen undergarment between her legs to prevent it from dragging on the dirt floor. Had she known beforehand how this day would unfold, she would have donned more practical garb. Not that her trousseau contained much in the way of practical clothing. After all, an earl’s wife didn’t need to be concerned with practicality. An earl’s wife had servants and villeins to wait on her hand and foot. Only those who labored at manual tasks – like starting a peat fire – required practical clothing. An earl’s wife need only be concerned with greeting her lord husband’s guests, seeing to their comfort, and plying her hand at embroidery.

Once I wed Hugh de Ogilvy, I shall have a lifetime of useless embroidery to look forward to
, she thought glumly.

Had
her father permitted her to join a nunnery after her first husband died, Yvette would at least have had the quiet companionship of other women. But Lyndhurst had adamantly refused her request. In marrying her off to Hugh de Ogilvy, her father stood to gain lands in the Border country, greater prestige with King Edward, and a marriage alliance with a Scottish nobleman who, at least for the time being, swore allegiance to England.

“And so the dye is cast,”
Yvette murmured, resigned to her fate.

Using the flint and stone that she found in the bottom of the pouch, she was eventually able to get a
peat fire started. Gently blowing on the fledgling flame, she coaxed it to life.

Satisfied
that the small fire would sustain itself without further intervention, she seated herself upon the rickety three-legged stool, folded her hands in her lap, and stared dispiritedly at the orange and yellow flames.

“The auld ones claimed they could see yer future in the flames of a peat fire.”

Startled at hearing Iain’s burred baritone, Yvette gasped. Preoccupied as she’d been with her maudlin thoughts, she’d not heard him enter the hut. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw that he was soaked to the skin.

“I do not need a
Highland oracle to know that my future is bleak,” she said scornfully. Or that the future was no longer hers to command. Not that it ever had been.

Tossing aside the leather flask that he’d carried in with him, Iain grabbed
the food pouch off of the floor. “No’ so bleak as it once was. The rain has stopped coming down in droves.”

Laughing c
austically, Yvette continued to stare at the fire, paying her captor no mind as he fumbled through the leather pouch.

“Ye find that amusing, woman?”

She turned on her stool to face him. “Yea, I do find it amusing that a man could so easily reduce the sum of one’s life to the banal simplicity of the here and now.”

“I dinna see the point in wasting my time worrying over that which is out of my c
ontrol,” Iain said with a shrug. “I canna control the future anymore than I can control the rain. All I can control is
this
moment in time. I have lived long enough to know that if ye put yer hope in the future, those hopes will eventually bite you in the arse.”

Unable to fault his reas
oning, Yvette remained silent. She, too, had once placed her hope in the future; only to have that hope deteriorate into heartache.

“Did you not eat with your kinsmen?” she inquired
as she watched Iain greedily stuff an oat cake into his mouth.

“No, I didn
a,” he said around a mouthful. “I was busy tending to the horses.”

On the verge of asking Iain if he’d like for her to prepare a hot meal, Yvette
thought better of the offer at the last. She was the laird’s hostage, not his lackey. Unless he ordered her to do so, she would not wait on him.

Let the fiend stuff
his belly with cold oat cakes. I care naught.

For lack of anything better to do,
Yvette turned her back on Iain and resumed staring at the flames. Although the small fire created what she knew to be a false sense of security, she took what comfort she could from it. Eventide would soon be upon them and she dreaded to think of what the nightfall would bring. Dreaded to think that she would have to lie next to the towering, broad-shouldered savage who held her captive. Or that she would be forced to yield the very essence of her femininity to him.

“
Here. Ye look like ye could use a wee dram,” Iain remarked as he shoved a leather flask under her nose.

Taken aback by
the unexpected offer, Yvette shook her head. “Thank you, but I drank some water with my meal.”

“’Tis
uisge beatha
. The ‘water of life,’” he translated in the next instant when he saw her brow crinkle. “What you English call ‘whisky.’”

Wrinkling her nose, she again shook her he
ad, this time more vehemently. She remembered the one and only time that her first husband had forced her to imbibe spirits against her will. It was an unpleasant memory and one that she did not wish to ever repeat.

Iain took a swig from the flask, the muscles in his neck gleaming in the firelight as he quaffed what Yvette considered an inordinately large
amount of the beverage.

“The offer is still open if later ye change yer mind,”
he told her, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

Tossing the flask aside, he proceeded to remove the belted scabbard that sheathe
d his deadly-looking claymore. Carefully, he laid the weapon on the ground. Next, he removed the leather belt from which hung his falchion and battle axe. Those, too, were placed on the ground. When he began to remove his wet kilt, her eyes opened wide.

“What in God’s name are you doing?” she screeched, lunging to her f
eet as she charged toward him.

“Wha
t does it look like I’m doing?”

Yvette
came to a sudden halt several feet from him. Turning her head to avert her gaze, she said over her shoulder, “It would appear that you are removing your clothing.”

“Aye, so I am,”
Iain said with a deep-throated chuckle, his levity no doubt caused by the injudicious amount of spirits that he’d just imbibed. “I’m soaked to the skin.”

As if to prove that very point, he shook his head, drops of water flying in every direction, more than a fe
w hitting Yvette on the cheek.

“Perhaps you should, um, sit by the fire,” she nervously offered, motioning to her vacated stool
in the hopes of preventing him from removing any more of his clothing. Still garbed in his tunic, breastplate and boots, he was properly, if not inelegantly, attired.

Iain suspiciously glanced at her, clearly mistrust
ing her sudden show of goodwill.

“
Mmph,” he muttered as he flung his rain-soaked plaid onto one of the ceiling hooks before sitting astride the stool. Bending at the waist, he proceeded to untie the laces on his boots.

Somewhat anxiously, Yvette
began to pace back and forth. Surreptitiously glancing at Iain’s broad back, she could see that his drab brown tunic was soaking wet, the linsey-woolsey garment clinging to his thighs and upper arms. She hoped,
prayed
, that he wore a pair of linen braies under his tunic and that like her chemise, it was dry enough for him to wear. Otherwise—

“I need yer help with these bloody laces,” Iain abruptly informed her, rising from the stool.

Baffled by the request, Yvette glanced downward. “You seem to have managed well enough on your own,” she replied, verifying that both his feet were bare.

“I’m talking about
the laces on my breastplate,” Iain clarified as he waited for her to approach.

Rather than stepping toward him,
Yvette instead took two steps away from him.

Noticing her retreat, Iain raised a brow, one side of his mouth quirked in
a wry half-smile. “I may growl a bit, but I willna bite ye,” he remarked, raising his right arm to show her the row of laces that he wanted her to untie.

Since she had no recourse but to do as he bid, Yvette took a
steadying breath as she approached him.

Ducking her head so
that she wouldn’t inadvertently make contact with his raised arm, she pulled at the waxed thong that laced the brigandine breast plate together, trying to keep her movements as impersonal as possible. Given that she stood only inches from him and was able to feel his animal heat, it was nigh on impossible not to be affected by his overt masculinity. And even though she deliberately avoided making eye contact, she could
smell
him; smell the leather, the horseflesh, the whisky that clung to him like a second skin.

Not knowing
where
to look as she tugged on the knotted thong, Yvette found herself staring at the dark hair that grew in the crease of Iain MacKinnon’s underarm.

Realizing the impropriety of her gaze, she
shifted her eyes to the bunched muscles that ran the length of his outstretched arm. Never having studied a man’s musculature before, she was surprised to note the pattern of raised veins that meandered across the bronzed surface.

“What the devil is taking ye so long?”
her captor inquired, craning his neck to peer at her from under his arm.

“The knots are extremely tight,”
Yvette snapped tartly, refusing to look at him. “And the fact that they are wet makes my task all the more difficult.”

“Ach, no doubt they are tight,” he readily
allowed, his concession coming as something of a surprise. Thus far, the laird had proved himself a man who gave little, if any, ground. “When Diarmid laced me into the breastplate this morning, he didna know that a highborn English lady with dainty fingers would be untying those same laces come nightfall.”

Just as
Yvette didn’t know when she so blithely stepped through the postern door at Castle Airlie that by day’s end she would be standing in naught but her chemise as she undressed a Highland laird.

“When are you to wed the Earl of Angus
?”

Caught unaware
by Iain’s question, Yvette fumbled awkwardly with one of the knots. “Five days hence,” she muttered as she yanked on a leather thong.

“I think no’,”
Iain grunted, clearly of the opinion that the wedding would be postponed.

And for that small mercy,
Yvette was actually grateful to the surly Highland laird. In the last three decades, Hugh de Ogilvy had gone through two countesses, both of whom died in childbirth; with a total of eight miscarriages and stillborn deaths between them. Yvette did not look forward to becoming the earl’s third brood mare.

“Do ye love him?”

“I h-hardly know the Earl of Angus,” she stammered, wondering at Iain’s sudden interest in her private life.

Again, Iain ducked his head and gazed at
Yvette from under his raised arm. “That’s no’ wha’ I asked.”