want to go back out into that cold, hostile landscape, not when there was a warm fire, and the beguiling Jura Mcnair was smiling at him. Lawrence had known more beautiful women, and he had known more overtly alluring ones, but he had never met a woman quite so…so enchanting! He smiled back. ‘No one is expecting me. I’d very much like to stay, if you’re sure I won’t be intruding.’
‘You won’t be, there is only me and Brianag, my cat.’
In fact, Brianag was Jura’s familiar, her confidante, her only real friend. Though it was not like the old days, when her ancestors were shunned and feared because of their powers, the move she had made to this village of Dunswaird, away from the memories of her dear departed mother and away from the dreadful history which blighted her happiness and the happiness of her mother and her mother and so on, back two hundred years, had not been quite the fresh start Jura had hoped. The villagers of Dunswaird were too much in awe of her powers to befriend her, and though she had never given them cause, the women were suspicious of a young unwed female and the men rather too interested.
She was lonely. It was her choice, it was for a fine cause, but she was lonely nonetheless. She missed her mother. She missed having someone to talk with and laugh with and confide in. Though it was impossible, though she herself had been instrumental in ensuring it was impossible, there were days when she longed to know what it felt like to be precious to another, to be us instead of me. There were days when the loneliness made her powers fade, and she felt like a faerie whose wings have wilted. There were days, such as today, when she longed to be wanted not for her spells or her healing powers, but for herself.
Realizing that she’d been staring at him rather covetously, Jura blushed, telling herself she was imagining the seductive quality to his smile. A soft scraping on the window gave her an excuse to turn away. ‘That will be Brianag wanting in.’
She opened the latch of the window, and a sleek silver cat jumped into the room, shaking out its snow-tipped fur. Jura leaned out of the window. ‘The snow is even heavier now. If it keeps on like this, no one will be going anywhere.’
The tightly laced gown she wore showed off the sensual dip of her spine to her bottom. It was a very nice bottom, Lawrence thought appreciatively. Her gown stopped just above her ankles. As she leaned out of the window, her petticoats rode up, giving him a delightful glimpse of her pretty calves, the backs of her knees. She wore neither shoes nor stockings. She had lovely toes. He had never seen such lovely toes. He should not even be noticing her toes, with his head aching and his clothes sopping.
The long rippling fall of her tawny hair fluttered over her beautifully rounded rump. Were she naked, it would caress her breasts, silken threads, giving him tantalising glimpses of her nipples. Would they be pink, like her mouth, or darker? And would the curls which covered her sex be the same tawny colour of her hair, or darker? Darker, he decided. And her nipples would be darker pink too.
Jura pulled closed the window and turned around, catching him unawares. Embarrassed to discover that his musings had made him hard, Lawrence crossed his legs. For heaven’s sake, what was wrong with him! His libido was not usually so rampant. In fact, given the circumstances, he couldn’t understand why it was even present. The silver cat wound itself around his booted ankle. ‘Bry-an-ack,’ he said, struggling with the soft Gaelic syllables. Dammit, the cat was a sinuous as her mistress.
‘Bree-an-ach,’ Jura corrected him, stooping to pat the creature, affording Lawrence a tantalising glimpse of cleavage. “Do you want me to help you take off your boots?”
His boots, his breeches, and whatever else she chose to remove! Lawrence shook his head. “I can manage.”
Jura nodded. “Mind you do now, else you’ll likely catch a fever. I’ll be back in a moment.”
The door closed behind her. Lawrence stared into the flames of the fire. Back home, he would have been in the midst of preparations for tonight’s ball. His mother would find time, in between driving the servants mad with unnecessary reminders and completing her lengthy toilette, to lecture him on the merits and demerits of each eligible partie. He grinned. His temple throbbed. His feet were soaking. Hoby’s boots were obviously not designed for Scottish snow. His coat, too—the superfine was wet through at the shoulders to his shirt. Still, he wouldn’t swap places even if he could, because cold and tired and lost as he was, he was also thoroughly intrigued and no little aroused by his barefoot and unaccountably unattached hostess. Lawrence took off his boots.
In the wooden lean-to that was her still room at the back of the cottage, Jura collected together leaves, seeds, roots, and essential oils. Lifting her mortar and pestle from the shelf, she set about pounding a balm for the bruising, a tisane for the headache.
She had never seen such extraordinarily blue eyes as Lawrence Connaught had. If she could have cast a spell to conjure a lover, she’d have wished for eyes exactly like those. She’d have wished for hair to curl over her lover’s collar as Lawrence’s did, for his mouth to curve delicately under just such a straight nose. Her spell would have given her lover just that aura of sensuality, the same heady mix of potency and confidence which would make her feel both vulnerable and desirable.
She was not accustomed to feeling either. Her powers made her inviolable. It was her choice, her magic which ensured she would never know the happiness of true love. A bleak enough future for sure, but knowing it would also be without tragedy, without the sorrow and anguish she had seen her mother suffer, had always helped comfort her lonely hours. Though tonight…
Tonight, fate had brought her Lawrence Connaught. Tonight, for the first time, she knew the lure of temptation. She could never have love, but that did not mean she had always to be alone. Yearning, until now quite undefined, sharpened and focused. Longing, wanting to taste just a little of what was forbidden, now that it had shape—such a very attractive shape—was so much harder to resist. What harm could it do to open the door to that forbidden chamber just a little? To take just a step into the sensual, glittering world of desire? A moment out of time to warm her in the cold nights to come.
Jura tipped the crushed leaves for the tisane from the mortar into a linen sachet. She didn’t mean it, of course. She was merely indulging her imagination. No harm in that. She picked up the jar of balm. The knot in her stomach tightened. She didn’t mean it, but what harm if she did?
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