lass?’ he spoke deliberately slowly.
‘I would stick it in you. Its edge is sharp!’ she warned.
His eyes glinted. ‘Such gratitude for rescuing you deserves to be rewarded in kind.’ With a carelessness for his own safety that alarmed her, he seized her wrist and twisted, causing her to gasp in pain as the weapon fell to the ground. Then in one smooth movement, his left arm encircled her waist and his right hand cupped the back of her head. ‘A kiss for my pains,’ he murmured, laying claim to her mouth.
She attempted to ward him off, but found it impossible to make an impression against his hard, muscular strength. The pressure from his mouth eased and now his lips moved gently over hers in a pleasant, tingly fashion. She was alarmed that she found even the abrasive roughness of his stubbly chin peculiarly sensual. Only thrice had she been kissed before and it had not caused sparks to charge through her veins, igniting her nerve ends in a truly thrilling fashion like this one did.
But she had sworn to love Diccon as long as she lived. He was the only man with the right to kiss her in such a beguilingly intimate fashion, despite her father having refused his consent to their betrothal. Still, Cicely believed she could change his mind when he returned. Yet now she was allowing this—this savage to kiss her without putting up a fight. She tore her mouth away and raised a hand to hit him, but the blow never landed because, unexpectedly, he freed her.
She glared at him and gasped, ‘My father will make you pay for daring to assault me.’
Mackillin’s eyes narrowed. He knew that it had been a mistake kissing her, but the sight of her lips alone were enough to drive a man to forget any code of chivalry he might live by. As for the golden hair that smelt so sweetly of camomile, he had never seen such hair. His breathing deepened as he remembered that same scent on her skin and his body recalled the feel of her breasts against his chest and the jutting bones of her hips against his nether regions. The stirring in his loins did not abate and he said harshly, ‘Your father? Is he one of the servants here?’
‘God’s blood, no! He’s…’ She paused, uncertain what his reaction would be if he knew she was the daughter of the house. She backed away from him and turned and ran, wondering what he was doing on her father’s manor. The Scots had not raided this far south of the border for decades.
No sooner was she outside the stables than she collided with someone. She gasped as her arm was seized and a familiar voice said, ‘Cissie, what’s wrong? Why did you scream?’
At the welcome sound of her brother’s voice, she collapsed against him. Only to realise that his right arm was in a sling. ‘It’s you, Jack,’ she cried gladly. ‘But what have you done to yourself?’ She touched his shoulder and gazed into his beloved face. ‘Matt knew you’d been hurt. Thanks be to our Saviour that you’re home. Was it that barbarian in there who damaged your arm?’ She gesticulated in the direction of the stable. Mackillin had followed in her wake and stood in the entrance, gazing at them. Cicely eyed him warily. ‘Have you a sword, Jack?’ she whispered out of the corner of her mouth.
He glanced at her as if she had run mad. ‘What use would it be against Mackillin? His skill with a blade is greater than any I have ever seen.’
‘So you fought him and lost?’
Jack gazed heavenwards as if for divine intervention. ‘No, Cissie. He saved my life!’
She was aghast. ‘No! He couldn’t have—not his kind. There must be some mistake.’
‘You’re wrong, Cissie. He’s a friend of Father’s.’
‘He can’t be. Father’s a cultured man. Well travelled, well read. What could he have in common with that—that Scottish wild man?’ She glared at Mackillin, who looked at her with an expression on his face that confused her. ‘I must speak to him. Tell him that he dared to kiss me!’ She turned towards the house.
‘Cissie, wait!’ called Jack.
‘What for? If you think to change my mind, then you’re…’ She glanced over her shoulder at him and stopped in mid-flight at the sight of the misery in his face. Suddenly she was scared. ‘What is it? Why do you look like that?’
The muscles of Jack’s throat moved jerkily. ‘You won’t find Father in the house.’
She retreated her steps. ‘Why? Where is he? Has he had an accident?’ He hesitated. ‘You’re scaring me, Jack. Tell me—what’s happened to him?’ she cried.
‘He-he’s dead!’ croaked her brother. ‘Murdered by thieving rogues.’ The colour drained from Cicely’s face and she shook her head, clutching his undamaged arm. ‘I’m so sorry, Cissie,’ he added.
‘I don’t believe it. I won’t believe it!’ Cicely picked up the hem of her brown skirts, revealing the lamb’s-wool ‘bags’ that had encased her legs whilst riding, and raced across the yard. The hens scattered before her as she approached the grey stone house. She ignored the three packhorses waiting patiently to have their loads removed and the man still mounted. She desperately needed to find her father indoors, shouting in his deep voice for his Cissie. She climbed the steps that ran at an angle along the wall to the entrance to the hall and struggled to open the door in the icy wind. At last it gave way beneath her fingers and she went inside.
As Mackillin watched her disappear from sight, that mixture of pity and dismay he felt deepened, overlaid with another emotion that he did not want to acknowledge. He had forgotten Jack had mentioned his sister was comely. If he had remembered, then he might have guessed her identity immediately. Even so, his not knowing she was the daughter of the house did not excuse his handling of her. Yet his body still thrilled with the memory of her in his arms. It was just as well that his sojourn here was of necessity to be short, otherwise he might be tempted to claim the reward the dead Nat Milburn had offered him.
‘I’ll go after her,’ said Jack, looking mortified.
Mackillin stayed him with a hand. ‘Allow her time to gain control of herself.’
Jack hesitated before nodding. ‘So you kissed her. Is that why she screamed?’
‘How could it be? She screamed before I touched her.’ There was a noise behind them. ‘Here is your explanation,’ said Mackillin, facing Master Husthwaite as he appeared, leading his horse.
The man’s jaw was swollen and showed signs of bruising. ‘So you’re returned, Master Jack.’
‘Who are you?’ asked the scowling youth.
‘Gabriel Husthwaite, nephew of your father’s man of business. He died recently and I have taken charge of his affairs. This family will have need of my services if my surmise is right and your father is dead.’
‘Aye. Set upon and murdered.’ Jack looked towards Mackillin with an uncertain expression. ‘This is the man Father’s agent spoke of in Kingston-on-Hull.’
Mackillin’s mouth tightened as Master Husthwaite smiled thinly. ‘Mistress Cicely wouldn’t have it that he was dead, but I told her it was the most likely explanation for his absence.’
‘So that is why she screamed,’ said Jack, running his free hand through his fair hair. ‘Yet she—’
‘Nay, it is not,’ growled Mackillin. ‘He was making a nuisance of himself, behaving in a manner that was unacceptable
