suddenly feeling lost. She didn’t recognize a single face or wall; even the clothing was foreign to her gaze. Coupled with the fact that she had nothing to call her own but what she wore, the feeling of being misplaced grew until it threatened to overwhelm her.
“Come along, lass. Let us see if yer face can’t be cleaned up a wee bit.”
Jemma stared at the woman but nodded because it was something to do besides standing in the door frame.
But her misgivings grew with every step that saw her going deeper into the Scottish fortress. The stories told around the winter hearth whispered across her mind with tales of women who never returned from such places.
Gordon couldn’t recall the last time he’d felt his temper burn so hot. He was a man who knew full well that controlling his impulses was wise, but tonight he was being tested beyond everything he’d ever known.
“Ye look ready to kill.” Beacon Barras spoke softly, but he knew that Gordon would hear him. The man was his friend, but Gordon still snarled at him. Beacon shrugged, unconcerned.
“No one would think ill of ye if ye did. That was a right nasty bit of doing that we interrupted.”
“I daresay the English would consider it ill if I ran those pitiful excuses for men through. ’Tis a worry we do nae need with the winter creeping down from the mountains.”
“Is that truly Ryppon’s sister?” Beacon was watching the darkness beyond the curtain wall, keeping his gaze moving because he wasn’t as at ease as his words might make a person think.
“Aye, and much as I like the man, I had more respect for him this morning. What manner of fool allows any woman out so late in the day? She didna go riding this morning and ’tis my thinking that she should have waited until the sun rose on the morrow.”
Gordon clamped his mouth shut. He’d spent too much time watching Jemma. Rumors were already making the rounds that he lacked the courage to approach the lass. It might sound innocent, but any hint that he wasn’t bold enough to take what he wanted was an invitation for some clan to think his borders were easy pickings. There would be raids if that happened and blood flowing when he rode out to protect his people.
“Well now, she’s nae a timid thing. I’d wager her brother didna give her leave to ride out.”
That posed a very good question, one Gordon felt beginning to burn in his mind. Was the lass truly so foolish as to ride out on her own without considering that the night held dangers? Her sister-in-law had fled across the border, so maybe Englishwomen were being reared in ignorance these days.
He hoped not.
He’d thought the lass spirited, not foolish. The last thing he needed was a marzipan bride—a woman who was nothing but pride and pretty features. He needed a woman who could use her wits when the time called for it.
“It seems that ye have gotten yer wish to meet the lass after all.” Beacon offered him a slight nod of his head. “So I’ll bid ye good luck, Laird.”
Luck indeed. Gordon frowned because his hope was strangling on a rope made of facts. He’d allowed his fascination to lead him astray. A bride was chosen for her family connection and gain it brought to the clan. Not because he’d become infatuated with an idea spun from his own imagination.
It would be better to not see the lass again.
He ground his teeth together and lost the battle to resist the urge to discover exactly what sort of female she was. Girl or woman? God help him if she was the woman he’d imagined her to be.
Because he didn’t think he’d be able to give up such a prize now that he’d managed to bring it home.
Jemma sat still, listening to the sounds of the tower. It was strange and yet familiar. Ula had left her while muttering about fetching warmed porridge. Jemma found herself scanning the room and noticing where the glow of the lantern ended and the shadows took control. The shapes of the walls were different, but the feeling of the stone around her one that she was accustomed to.
Or should be.
Yet she still felt ill at ease. Standing up, she paced to the end of the large chamber, stopping when she reached a window. The shutters were still open, allowing in the night breeze. The air smelled fresh and full of winter. But what she felt most of all was the presence of the master of the castle. Gordon Dwyre, Laird Barras. Her rescuer and captor. It was truly a strange combination, one her mind toyed with while she turned to pace back across the floor.
She gasped, her heart freezing when she discovered him standing behind her, without a sound, as though he’d been summoned by her own thoughts. Sensation rippled across her skin, leaving gooseflesh behind.
“Evening, lass. I trust ye are comfortable in me castle.”
Chapter Three
The man moved too silently; there had to be something unnatural about him.
Jemma felt frustrated with her own thoughts, finding them too somber for her liking. Men such as Gordon Dwyre were still only men; she’d felt his heart beat and his breath filling his chest. He was as real as she.
Instead of comforting her, that thought only blew across the coals of longing that were left from being pressed up against him.
Her gaze swept the Scot from head to toe, picking out all the details that made him so silent when he moved. Strength was etched into his body, proving that he was more a man of action than words. He still wore his kilt, but the pommel of his sword was no longer sitting above his right shoulder. She didn’t make the mistake of thinking that he was now less dangerous.
The man embodied the idea. It was in the way he moved and the manner that he held his arms. Ever so slightly away from his body, his fingers hooked into the wide leather belt he wore. A simple wool doublet was unbuttoned to the middle of his chest. A little ripple of awareness crossed her skin, and she bit her lower lip to dispel it.
“Ula knows her craft well. She’ll not leave ye wanting beneath me roof.”
Jemma realized that she’d been struck silent by her desire to look at him. That annoyed her because such had never happened before. It shouldn’t be troubling her now, especially when she needed her wits to convince the burly Scot to return her home. She had freedom of choice there. Here she was subject to Gordon’s will, and that knowledge sat uneasy on her. For all that her life had been a simple country one, she realized that she had never lacked freedom.
“Yes, Ula was most kind.”
He stepped farther into the room, his kilt swaying slightly. She noticed the garment because it was so different from everything she was accustomed to. In fact, Gordon Dwyre was unlike anything she knew, which must explain why she had difficulty mastering her thoughts when he was near.
Of course. That made sense, and understanding would lead her to logical thinking. That was what she needed.
“I shall remember her fondly.”
A soft chuckle filled the room. Gordon closed more of the gap between them. “Are ye in a hurry to depart, lass? The sun will nae be rising for some time.”
“Of course I am eager to return
