SUMMONED FOR SEDUCTION

Joanne Rock

Scottish Highlands, 1072

Laird Léod mac Ruadhán is accustomed to being feared. But when his dark reputation causes his betrothed, Lady Helene MacKail, to flee from him every time he attempts to get close to her, it is an insult he cannot ignore. Léod vows to make Helene regret turning her back on him—by seducing her in disguise before selecting a new bride. In the dark intimacy of a secret meeting, however, Léod may be the one seduced by the provocative Highland beauty…

Dear Reader,

I've had plans to return to medieval Scotland ever since my 2005 Harlequin Historical The Laird's Lady. This winter, I'm fortunate enough to spend lots of time in one of my favorite Scots time periods with "Summoned for Seduction," a prequel to my January 2011 Harlequin Historical, In the Laird's Bed.

Now, the most prominent Highland families are gathered for the holidays at Domhnaill Keep for a winter revel and countdown to Twelfth Night. Helene MacKail knows her father plans to betroth her to one of the guests, but the man he chooses—powerful laird Léod mac Ruadhán—has a dark and frightening past. She eludes him at every turn, hoping to avoid the inevitable.

Léod has a plan, however. He's seen the way Helene avoids him and has come up with the perfect way to corner her. An anonymous note and a tryst in a darkened corner assure he isn't recognized. All he needs is enough time to make her see beyond his past…and feel the inescapable heat between them!

If you enjoy "Summoned for Seduction," I hope you'll pick up In the Laird's Bed to read more about the lady of the keep—Cristiana of Domhnaill—who is about to receive an unexpected visitor for the holdiays. Duncan of Culcanon is a former lover turned enemy—an altogether dangerous man to house during a treacherous snowstorm, especially when he is determined to ignite an old flame that never really went out.

Happy Reading,

Joanne Rock

To Dean—Merry Christmas!

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

About the Author

Chapter 1

Scottish Highlands
Winter 1072

He was gaining on her.

Resisting the urge to peer over her shoulder, Helene MacKail quickened her pace toward Domhnaill Keep’s massive great hall where Twelfth Night festivities awaited guests hailing from all over the Highlands. If only she could reach the throngs of revelers before Léod mac Ruadhán caught her, she might slide into a seat beside her mother and avoid conversation with the brooding Scots laird.

The man sought more than her hand in marriage. He required her lands, her wealth and her body. And he wished to dominate them all absolutely.

“Lady Helene.” The deep tone of his voice would surely carry over a war-torn battlefield at the height of mayhem. It reverberated now down the long, narrow corridor of an old tower with ease.

If she pretended not to hear him, she would offend the most influential clan leader in all of Scotland. Word of it would surely reach her father’s ears. But to speak to the warrior here— alone in a remote part of the drafty old keep—made her heart race unsteadily. Léod mac Ruadhán had been known to turn on his own knights, keeping his men in a heightened state of readiness fueled by fear so they might fight for him at naught but a moment’s notice.

She’d heard enough tales of his cruelty. And not just toward his own men. She also knew that his insatiable appetites had sent his last wife running to the furthermost outreaches of the Highlands until she perished from the inhospitable winter. Unfortunately, Helene’s father had been more concerned with Mac Ruadhán’s ability to protect the people of the clan MacKail than with his unsavory reputation with women.

Perhaps—knowing she could end up wed to the brute in the spring—she would do well not to earn even darker levels of animosity than his last bride.

For that reason, she slowed her step on the cool stone floor.

“My lord.” She faced him in the darkened corridor lit only by two sickly tapers sputtering at either end of the long expanse.

Was it possible he loomed even larger and more threatening than she recalled from previous meetings? He stood far closer than she’d realized when she’d been hurrying to increase the distance between them. The leather of his boots was heavy, yet his step had been surprisingly light. Agile. Stealthy, even. She could envision him prowling about the Highland forests at night, personally gutting any man or beast who dared to threaten his stock of fat sheep or his stables of coveted horseflesh.

It helped that his hair, black as a raven’s wing, would blend with the shadows. A strong jaw and prominent cheekbones made him appear as though he were carved in granite, an illusion upheld by the impossible breadth of his shoulders. A gray wool cloak drapeed him now, the fabric held by a heavy silver brooch at one shoulder, though most swept down his back like the folded wing of a great predatory bird.

Or perhaps she merely thought as much since she felt as nervous as a mouse about to be carried off in the grip of steely talons.

“I see you are in some haste to dine.” He offered her his arm.

To escort her? Or to squeeze the breath from her with one careless touch?

Memories of the more graphic tales she’d heard came to mind. A maid in her father’s hall had confided that the laird’s dead wife had rattled the rafters with her screams on their wedding night. One of the laird’s grooms had bragged to all her father’s men-at-arms that his lord’s… endowments… were the stuff of legend, as disproportionately large as the rest of him.

Helene had nightmares for many days hence.

“My lady?” Léod’s voice pierced her inappropriate thoughts. “Will you join me to sup?”

Her cheeks flushed with warmth as an expression of annoyance sent his dark brows swooping downward. A frown curled his lower lip. Her breath caught in her throat at the thought of what he might do to women who displeased him.

She hadn’t heard that he would eat them for dessert, but that did not mean she couldn’t be the first.

“I am sorry.” Flustered, frightened and angry that her father would give her to such a man, Helene executed a ridiculous little curtsey that would better befit a kitchen maid or a wine server. “I have forgotten my knife in my chamber.”

Hoisting a handful of her skirt in one hand, she turned on her heel and sprinted away from him, her eating knife actually jostling her hip where it dangled from the chain at her waist. In a few moons’ time, she would not have the legal right to run from this man. But for now, she would follow her good sense and put as much distance between them as possible.

Behind her, she could have sworn she heard him snarl like the ravenous beast he was reputed to be. And, skidding back into her chamber, she promised herself that no matter the cost, she would find a way to avoid a betrothal to the monstrous laird. Even if it meant openly appealing to another man in attendance at the holiday festivities. She could compromise herself, or at least create whispers of her unworthiness to wed, if she were to dally in dark corners with another man.

She had until Twelfth Night before her father packed her up and sent her back to the isolated mountains Léod called home. Less than a fortnight to make sure Léod mac Ruadhán viewed her as the last woman on earth he would choose for his bride.

It would be the last time Helene MacKail walked away from him.

Léod promised himself as much as the Highland beauty hid from him in her chamber. He needed to solidify a marriage contract before he returned home. He’d been away for too long after the debacle with his first wife, allowing his dark reputation to grow since it had the benefit of protecting his lands and people even more than his formidable skills with a sword.

But word had reached him that the reputation had begun to attract unsavory characters to his Highland keep—the kind of men who killed for sport and relished the notion of rule by brute force. The time had come to end the gossip and nothing would quiet the storm of suspicion as efficiently as a new wife. While he’d hoped to wed the only heir to the profitable MacKail lands, he would not force himself on an unwilling bride, especially after what had happened with Margaret.

Still, that did not mean he would stand by idly while the gently bred Helene snubbed him by skittering off into corners to hide from him. He’d treated her with deference.

Well, if not deference exactly, he certainly hadn’t bared his teeth at her. He'd taken her riding one morn, and one of her lady companions had fainted when he'd brought down a boar. Later, he'd followed her onto the ramparts one day to speak to her privately, not realizing until she'd turned frighteningly pale that she assumed her life was in danger. Had she assumed he would toss her over the wall? He'd attempted to reassure her, but his soothing remarks had soured a bit when he'd thrown in a biting reminder that he'd never risk her life before he'd secured her dowry. But curse the Fates, he'd been in a foul mood by then.

He did not appreciate her looks of wide-eyed horror. Today’s scrambling exit to escape with the bold lie of the eating knife was the last straw. As long as he celebrated the holiday at Domhnaill Keep when it overflowed with visitors from all over the Highlands, he would use the time to seek another wife to fatten his coffers and fill his bed.

But first, he would open Helene’s eyes to what she missed in running from him. Indeed, he would take great pleasure in such a diversion. It was the holiday season after all. Enticing a delectable maid to forget her reservations would be a gift beyond measure.

He just needed to find a way to seek her out alone. Preferably under cover of night so he could whisper to her in the darkness. That way, she would not know she spoke to the fearsome Highland lord who had unwittingly caused the death of his first wife. Helene would think she merely conversed with another suitor, a circumstance which she might greet with eagerness given her obvious aversion to him.

Nay, she would not run from him again. Tonight, he would ensure she came to him instead. Once he had her—alone and unprotected—he would soothe his wounded pride with the taste of her lips. Her first flush of passion.

Only then, when she panted sweetly beneath him would he consider today’s slight assuaged. It was a fitting retribution. Considering his reputation for slaying his brides, stealing a feel of Lady Helene’s sweet treasures was hardly a high price for the hardhearted maid to pay.

Chapter 2

A woman could starve to death for the sake of her pride.

Helene paced in her chamber later that evening while the rest of the keep danced and played games for the Twelfth Night festivities. Every now and then, when she dared to move the tapestry away from the room’s lone window, she could hear the sweet strings of the clàrsach harp drifting on the icy breeze of a coming snowstorm. She could also smell the roasted fowl and boar meat that made her mouth water and her belly angry that she had been too much of a coward to walk to the great hall with Léod.

A knock at her door distracted her from her disgruntled musings.

“Yes?” She tucked the tapestry back over the casement and hurried to her chamber door, hopeful her mother had brought her a trencher left over from the meal.

Her father had sent a servant to check on her earlier when she’d not appeared at the table, but Helene had sent a message back saying she did not feel well. She walked a fine line with Léod when she made excuses not to speak with him or spend time with him. Helene feared returning to the great hall after her abrupt leave-taking tonight in the event he—or her father— would upbraid her for her behavior.

They did not understand what it was like to lose their freedom—possibly their life—to a mad Highland laird.

Wrenching open the door to the tower hallway beyond, Helene found no one. Yet a tray sat at her feet, carefully arranged with three sugared figs and a small parchment scroll.

Curious.

She strained her eyes in the flickering shadows cast by the weak tapers on the far ends of the corridor and failed to find any hint of who had left the small pewter tray or the treats within. Bending to retrieve the gift, she gobbled a fig and moved deeper into her chamber to unroll the parchment. Someone had cut the piece to size and it lacked a wax seal. She simply needed to press the curling edges apart to read the missive within.

I missed seeing you at sup. There is a full tray keeping warm in the mead house if you would like a meal. I only want to speak with you before you are wed and I have lost the chance forever. If you fear for your safety, bring one of the hounds from the hall.

No signature followed.

Helene dropped the parchment and tugged open the doorway to look out into the corridor once more, but the hall remained as silent as ever save the far-off sounds of the clàrsach. The sweet wail of the instrument echoed the swirl of unnamed emotions in her breast. Bereft at the thought of disappointing her father and—more so—her mother, who did not deserve a disobedient maid for a daughter. Indignant at the thought of being betrothed to a murderous lord who demanded utter submission from his people. But more than anything else, she felt the quick race of daring in her blood to defy them all. With a dirk in her garter and a hound at her side, why should she not venture to the mead house for a meal provided by an admiring stranger? Lady Cristiana of Domhnaill had not invited ruffians to her Twelfth Night festivities save one Léod mac Ruadhán. So who would dare accost Helene on the lands of their wealthy and generous hostess?

Helene slid a dagger into the band about her hose and fluffed the train of her gown to ensure it remained hidden. She peered into a small looking glass to find her cheeks flushed with high color and her eyes bright with hopefulness. Ah, she had forgotten the rush of blood through the veins at the thought of a stolen kiss by a handsome man. There had been a time she had looked forward to betrothal and the kind of union that brought other women pleasure. But that had been before she’d learned what awaited her in the marriage bed was not the bliss

Tossing a woolen cloak about her shoulders for the short walk beyond the main keep, Helene scurried out the door of her chamber and down the drafty halls, careful to remain in the shadows even though all of the guests appeared to be within the great hall. The sounds of laughter and music grew louder as she reached the main floor, then quieted again when she hastened toward an exit out into the courtyard. She peered about for a likely hound to accompany her—the scroll’s suggestion had been a good one—but the cagey beasts must all have found refuge in the great hall where bones would be plentiful after the feast.

Undaunted, Helene shoved open a wooden door guarded by two of Domhnaill’s men-at- arms. Engaged in a dice game, neither man spoke to her since both appeared as deep in their cups as any holiday reveler. She drew her hood farther over her head and braved a gently falling snow to cross the smooth stones near the entrance to the keep. Bonfires dotted the landscape as other men-at-arms kept their vigils and celebrated the season at the same time. The scent of burning pine and oak mingled, both sweet and pungent, in the crisp, cold air. Her heart eased at the sight of so many sentries about. Despite the lack of a hound to protect her, she would be safe.

Besides, if anything seemed amiss, she would simply take the tray and depart. She was starving, after all.

Arriving at the mead house, she could smell the fragrant honey and clover in the air from the brewing vessels within. The Domhnaill clan made the best mead in all of Scotland and the hope of receiving the sought-after libation brought guests from far and wide for Lady Cristiana’s winter revel. Now, Helene stepped inside the darkened structure lit only by an untended blaze at the back of the room where a cauldron hung low over banked heat. The dull glow of hot ashes and a few short blue flames was not enough to reveal much of her surroundings and Helen kept the outer door open to the moonlight for a moment while her eyes adjusted.

“You came.” A soft masculine whisper drifted over her though the voice emanated from a place far off.

The sound felt unearthly and very real at the same time, sending a shiver along her spine.

“Who’s here?” she demanded, tensing. She was grateful to be standing so close to the door in case she needed to run.

“The bearer of your dinner,” was the reply. The voice seemed calm and steady, as if the man behind it reclined in a distant chair and made no move toward her. “I left it by the fire so it would stay warm.”

Was it her hunger, or could she suddenly smell roast duck and a rich glaze? Her grip on the door loosened, her gaze sweeping over the room’s dark corners in the hope of finding her mysterious host.

“I would prefer to eat here in case I do not like your company, sir.” Although, truth be told, she rather liked his voice. Warmth and confidence lurked in his tone. A vital man rather than a boy.

“Then you shall remain hungry, for you must retrieve it yourself from the middle of the room. For my part, I have promised myself I will not move from my perch unless you wish it. I think you’ll feel safest if you know where I am at all times.”

“Perch?” Her gaze moved upward. “Do you hang from the rafters then?”

She opened the door wider to admit an extra sliver of moonlight and a blast of wintry cold pelted her cheek with crystalline flakes of snow.

“I am not of a mind to be seen yet,” he barked in that oddly commanding whisper. The brew house’s round shape must help the sound to carry and surround her. “I pray you, be at ease and shut out the cold. I sit on a bag of milled grains and will not stir unless you wish it. You have my word.”

“If I asked you to come out into the light, would you do so?” She could not begin to imagine who had invited her here. Who sought her company and promised to remain at her command.

The scroll he’d given her suggested he wanted to speak to her before her marriage, hinting at an interest of the most intimate kind. Another shiver lit up her spine as she waited for a stirring.

“That I will not do.” The brew house remained silent save for his voice. “At least not yet.”

Another chilly gust blew through the door, sealing her gown to her legs. Unwilling to suffer the cold any longer, she allowed the door to close, blanketing them in the dark. Alone.

“Why?” she asked, lifting her skirts slightly and slipping out of her shoes so she might steal silently across the floor toward where the tray of food awaited her.

“Haven’t you ever wished to be known for the person you are within and not the person the world assumes you to be?”

His question gave her pause.

She thought of Leod and the assumptions the world made about him. But since he did nothing to stop the gossip about his relentless grip on his lands and his power, he surely had no desire for the world to believe anything different about his character. So who could the mystery man be?

Was he a castle steward or man-at-arms? She had not thought a man of lowly rank might approach her. Hurrying toward the blue flames glowing under the cauldron, she could make out the platter of food balanced on a low table that held a huge spoon and a few tools for the fire. As she retrieved the pewter tray, she looked around the room again to where she’d pinpointed the voice in the back, but if anything, being closer to the building’s only light source made it more difficult to see.

“Everyone wishes for that sometimes.” She steadied a flagon of wine and retreated with the tray. Carefully, she moved toward the door and then spied the shape of a work bench against one wall. She took a seat at the high stool and helped herself to a hearty bite of bread, wishing she could see him.

How could she tell if he was the right sort of man to risk compromising herself with?

“Does Mac Ruadhán know anything about the woman you are within?” The soft question echoed all around her, a trick of his melodic voice and the round walls, perhaps.

He’d made it clear he knew of her impending betrothal even in the missive he’d sent earlier. But hearing him say Léod's name now made her think he was indeed a Scots lord, for there was not a shred of deference in his tone when he spoke of a man who incited envy and awe in even his peers.

“I do not think he is overly concerned with knowing people. He seems content to amass wealth and inspire fear.” Confiding her thoughts to this stranger in the dark should be awkward and yet she felt oddly safe as she savored the food he’d brought her and shared worries that her own parents had refused to let her voice.

She poured a cup of wine from the flagon and brought it to her lips before realizing the libation was not wine at all but the famed Domhnaill mead. The rich brew of honey and clover pleased her tongue and warmed her blood, infusing her whole body with a tingling contentment.

“What would you choose to share with your betrothed, if he could know one thing about you?”

That voice! It resonated along her ears like a caress. She almost recognized it. Or maybe the sound of it simply felt more familiar now that she’d grown accustomed to him sitting in the dark, just beyond her vision.

“I would not share even a shred of myself with a man who frightens females for sport.” She speared at her meal with her eating knife, remembering how she’d run from him earlier. “He might be handsome, but his aspect is fierce. He is too impatient to listen to a woman speak.”

Her companion said nothing for a long moment as she mopped the remnants of her meal with her leftover bread.

“You’ve avoided the question,” he observed finally.

A laugh slipped free and she poured more mead, wondering about the man in the shadows. Was he handsome as well? Already, she found his disposition pleasing. His voice compelling. And his desire to seek her out, all the while respecting her honor by remaining on the other side of the chamber, had stirred a warmth inside her that had naught to do with the mead.

“I suppose I’ve been so consumed with the injustice of marrying a brute that I have not given much thought to what a union could be like.” Should be like. “I would think a husband and wife should be able to speak freely.”

“The way we are now?” His voice deepened and she could almost imagine he’d come closer.

Had he? Her heartbeat thrummed insistently.

“I suppose.” She listened hard for any hint of sound, but she could hear naught but her pulse pounding in her ears and the occasional crackle of the hot ashes keeping the mead cauldron simmering. She thought she might understand what a slow simmer felt like. “Yes, actually. Just like this.”

“What else would you wish for in your marriage, Helene?”

The way he said her name… Recognition teased at the corners of her mind.

“Do I know you?” she asked suddenly, rising from the stool to turn toward him.

She could guess where he sat now. Could even tell herself she spied an outline that could be a man.

“By reputation, perhaps. The same way any of us know each other when we come out of our far-flung homes but once every few years for entertainments such as this.”

Venturing forward, she took a few steps toward him, giving the cauldron at the center of the room a wide berth since being too close to that lone source of light skewed her vision.

“What would you seek in marriage, sir?” She could not say why she felt so certain he would not leap out at her and deflower her on the floor of the mead house, but she knew he would do no such thing.

He wanted something from her and she began to think she wanted something—very much—from him as well. This man, this night, represented all she needed to dissuade Léod from marrying her.

“A woman willing to speak her mind.” His voice wrapped around her like velvet, cloaking her in softness. “A woman who will come to me of her own will.”

“The way I am now?” She did not know where she found such boldness. But she wanted, nay needed, to know that her mystery stranger found her desirable.

By the saints, she wanted to be with a man and not a monster.

“Aye.” His voice went rough in a way that thrilled her.

Her skin heated beneath her gown and she realized she still wore her cloak. Reaching for the fastening at the throat, she unclasped the brooch and prepared to let it fall.

“Wait,” he commanded, halting her in her place when she could not be more than some ten paces from him.

Although she must have mistaken his form for the outline of something else against the wall for the shape was too big to be a man.

“What is it?” She gripped the cloak and hood in her hand, peering behind her as if a ghost had followed in her tracks.

“I have enjoyed this and I am not prepared to let it end by revealing myself too soon.”

Still he withheld himself? Helene tried not to feel affronted. She backed up a step.

“Perhaps I should leave—”

“I would like to kiss you, Lady Helene.”

The pronouncement flashed through her like a lightning bolt, sparking heat all the way to her toes.

“It would be difficult to not reveal yourself if that is the case,” she observed breathlessly. Hungrily.

Her eyes probed the shadows, desperate for a glimpse of him, for some hint of his identity.

“Nay,” his voice whispered, soothing her and exciting her at once. “Not if I blindfold you.”

Léod kept as still as his body would allow in the confined space with a provocatively curious maid venturing ever nearer.

She wanted to be kissed.

He’d heard it in the catch of her voice when he’d proposed as much. But the blindfold? That had been a risky proposition. Would she run from him once more? He cursed his lack of patience. But her ease with him here in the darkness had intrigued him. If he was honest, he’d been equally surprised by his own ease with her. He could not recall the last time a woman had that sort of effect on him. His encounters with worldly widows or other eager bedmates had been focused solely on physical pleasure. These stolen moments with Helene had been more than that. While he’d thought physical pleasure and a bit of revenge was his objective tonight, he found himself drawn to the hints of boldness in her that he’d never expected.

He found himself unwilling to let their time together end. Yet how could he resume his pursuit of a woman who would betray him—or at least betray his intentions toward her—by meeting privately with another man? He should not want her. Still, he understood her fear of him all too well

“Blindfold?” She had not run.

Neither had she come closer.

He could see her white fist clenched tight at her throat, clinging to the cloak and hood she’d been about to drop. Of course, he had a better view of her since he’d positioned himself beneath a high window, ensuring any moonlight filtered down and away from him.

The chamber was vast, built for housing fires, cauldrons and stacks of barrels, not lovers’ games. But there was a cushioned bench nearby where he could seduce a kiss from her.

“Like Hoodman’s Blind.” He cited the children’s game to make the notion sound less— sensual. But perhaps as a virgin untouched, the other uses for hoods and blindfolds would never occur to her innocent mind. “I would remain anonymous to you a bit longer yet we could sit closer together.”

He strove to keep his voice relaxed, careful to hide his response to her as she stood poised like a woodland creature, unaware of the huntsman’s danger. At this moment, more than anything, he wanted her to close the distance between them of her own volition.

“I will share my mead with you,” he continued, tempting her shamelessly with the prized commodity. “I discovered a barrel back here that tastes less of honey and more of cinnamon.”

And a fine brew it was, but the only taste he wanted upon his lips now was Helene.

“Will you swear on your honor as a Highland lord to allow me to leave whenever I wish?”

His lips curved in a rare grin.

“A clever bargain and one which I make with ease. I swear by my God that I will not touch you unless you wish it, and that you may leave at any time. If I break this vow, I pray my sword arm turns as errant as my tongue.” He wondered what Helene would think if she knew it was the only oath he’d ever pledged to another living soul.

Ever since his father died in Léod’s youth, he had forged his own path in the world, winning respect by the sword and not by words. But he was learning fast that his old ways would not work with Helene.

Would she believe any vow he repeated if she knew his true identity? A part of him mourned the fact that she would never know the truth. If anything, her discovery of his identity now would make her despise Léod mac Ruadhán more than she already did.

“Very well.” With a curt nod, she relinquished her grip on the cloak but kept her hood in her hand. “I may require assistance.”

Lifting the heavy swath of velvet, she was about to settle it over her head.

“Nay.” He tugged a length of silk off his waist and thrust it in her direction. “Take this instead.”

He had almost leaned into a moonbeam that arced down to pierce the brew house floor between them. But in the end, only the cream-colored silk caught the light. Helene reached for the strip of cloth with gently trembling hands.

“It is warm with your scent. Thank you.” She stepped nearer to accept it, directly in the path of that pale moon glow.

She stared at him, unseeing, blue eyes wide with open curiosity that he burned to satisfy. Her skin turned alabaster in the blue-tinged moonbeam, as snowy white as the ground outside. Rivers of long dark curls streamed over her shoulders now that she’d removed her hood, with stray waves catching on the elaborate embroidery and tiny gemstones sewn into the bodice. The slashed sleeves revealed a light-colored muslin tunic beneath the heavy velvet kirtle. She smelled like roses and cinnamon, a fragrance he’d noted about her person even before tonight so he knew it wasn’t just the mead that accounted for the hint of spice in an otherwise floral scent.

Blinking at him in the silent space that separated them, she withdrew the silk slowly from his fingers, dragging the fabric in a long, slow slide along the back of his hand.

“Perhaps you will help me.” She guided the material to her eyes and then turned to present him with her back. “Would you care to tie it?”

She could turn on him at the last and catch him in the act. Léod wondered if that was her plan. But no. She’d made him swear an oath. He did not think she would play with him thus.

So, sliding off the sack of grain, he stepped lightly toward her. She was delicately made and half his size. No wonder he had frightened her off between his reputation and his height that towered over her. If he bent to kiss her head, she would fit neatly below his chin. For now, he settled for taking the strips of cloth that lay against her hair and tying the silk into a firm knot.

“How is that?” he asked, speaking softly into her ear from behind. If he leaned any closer, her hair would catch on the rough beginnings of a beard along his cheek.

“Fine. Good. I mean—” she babbled awkwardly, her heart racing so fast he could see the swift pulse at her neck as he took the liberty of peering down her bodice as far as the fabric would allow.

He could not see much more than her collarbone, but the slope and sway of her frame fascinated him, making it difficult for him to keep his hands to himself.

“Are you sure?” He lingered there, hating the thought of leaning away. He’d wanted to get close to her ever since arriving at Domhnaill a sennight ago, but she’d been running from him every time he neared.

“Nay.” Her fingers moved restlessly up to the blindfold, smoothing along its length.

“Rather, the blind is comfortable enough. But I find myself curious about something else.”

His breath burned a path down his lungs. His body tightened immeasurably, every inch of him in readiness for whatever Helene might want.

“Tell me,” he insisted, past the point of any elegance in his words.

“You promised not to touch me unless I willed it.”

It was the last thing he cared to think about.

“Aye,” he managed to answer, yanking his head up before his nose sank into the fragrant dark waves of her hair.

“Well, I will it.”

He could not say how many heartbeats passed before his brain deciphered her words. Could she be offering him what he wanted most? Or was that merely a trick of a hungry body that wanted to lay her back on the grain sack and rent her rich gown from neck to hem so that he might view every lovely curve and nuance?

“You—” his voice growled out a hoarse note that he hastened to clear “-wish for me to touch you?”

He prayed with sudden fervency that he had not misunderstood.

“Please, my lord. I would like that more than anything.”

Chapter 3

Was it bravery or utter foolishness to invite the caress of a stranger?

As Helene trembled behind her blindfold, tense and longing, she could not care one way or the other. For the mystery lord offered her a chance to compromise herself in a way that would deter Léod mac Ruadhán for good. And he tempted her on an intimate level she never would have suspected.

Brave or foolish, she trusted that this stranger would not break his word to her. She only hoped she could trust herself to walk away from this encounter without giving far more to him than she intended.

“Nothing could give me more pleasure.” He spoke into her ear, his breath warm and honey-scented against her skin through the veil of her hair.

She waited for him to turn her, kiss her, take her fully into his arms. He did none of those things. Keeping her back to him, he reached around her shoulder to caress her cheek, his fingers trailing a slow path down from her temple to cradle her chin. He hovered close to her back, his scent a spice she did not recognize and the musk of vital strength. She had the vague impression of size, but he could not possibly be as large and looming as Léod. Her mystery stranger was a man of gentleness, she could tell by his restraint and his promise to her.

That belief made her tip her head toward his touch, seeking more of his warmth against her cheek. Her mouth.

As if reading her thoughts, his thumb found her lips. He outlined the full softness with a calculated touch until she sighed with startled pleasure that he could come in contact with so little of her and still incite a cascade of sweetness throughout her whole body. Even her toes curled at the small circles he traced upon her mouth. She swayed back toward him until her shoulders found steadiness upon his chest. She tipped her head backward and found he was built like a warrior, all muscle and sinew. Yet every inch of him radiated warmth, as if his body welcomed hers as much as she yearned for his.

“Do you remember what I want from you, Helene?” he asked, his voice more a rumble from his chest into her back than a sound she heard.

“I can think of little else,” she admitted, rolling her head from side to side, blinded by darkness but more aware than ever of her other senses. Her cheek brushed the laces of his tunic beneath a linen hauberk. She recognized the fine silk as the same kind she wore about her eyes.

“You claimed to want a kiss, but you have not yet taken it.”

He was quiet for a moment and she wondered if he thought her too bold by half. Perhaps no respectable lord would claim a maid who behaved with such wantonness. She stilled, thinking it was not too late to seek her chamber. Pretend this night never happened.

“I would prefer a kiss freely given,” he admitted finally. “That way, neither of us will look back and think I took advantage of a blindfolded maid.”

A bold warrior who would take such care with her heart and her body? The notion was a revelation. And provided her with a power she had never guessed she could possess.

Easing away from him, she turned so that she faced him. If she lifted her blindfold now, who would she see? Her heart pounded hard, but not out of fear. Even as she felt his gaze upon her, devouring her with his eyes, she did not want this moment to end. She liked learning about her mystery lord slowly, without the watchful stares of a hall full of family and clansmen as witnesses.

“I am willing, but untutored,” she confessed, the scents of honey and cinnamon filling her nose until she felt drunk on the fragrance of mead if not the taste. “I may need guidance.”

Licking her lips, she stretched up on her toes, seeking contact. The low growl he made in his throat rolled through her like a possessive caress, an assurance he wanted her with a hunger that bordered on primal.

By the time his mouth met hers, she flattened herself to him, her whole body seeking his. He gathered her tightly to him, his broad palms spanning her back and drawing her nearer, nearer until her spine curved into him.

Sensation simmered just beneath her skin, her blood stirring hotly at the feel of all that hard male heat against her needy flesh. But although his hold on her remained tight, his kiss was unutterably soft, his lips gliding lightly over hers with a teasing caress she had not imagined. It was delectable. Heavenly. And not nearly enough.

On instinct alone, her lips parted. That small accommodation rewarded her a thousand times over as his tongue stroked hers in a way that sent an echoing pleasure to her womb. Her hips answered as surely as her tongue, both pressing closer in a dance gone suddenly wild.

“Please,” she murmured against his mouth, unsure what she wanted and certain he could provide it. She gripped his shoulders, needing him to steady her.

But perhaps he thought she signaled that he stop for he pulled away sharply.

“What is it?” she whispered, alert to some confusing change in the air.

He stood so still. So rigid. Had someone entered the brew house?

“Helene.” He did not speak to her as a mystery stranger but with the cold reserve of a Highland laird in the great hall.

It was that note of wintry restraint that confused her. He sounded familiar in a way that made her stomach knot. Dread cooled her blood even before her brain caught up with what her instincts told her. Something had gone very wrong indeed.

Without warning, he reached for her blindfold and shoved the silk up, away from her eyes.

Revealing the mystery stranger clutched in her arms.

Léod mac Ruadhán. The monster who chased his wife from his home, leaving her to die in the inhospitable north. The very beast who sought a second bride to fill the place left by the first.

She realized she still gripped his hauberk in her fingers, an action she’d taken in the throes of a passion she hardly recognized in the cold air between them now. She relinquished it—him—as if burned.

He had tricked her. Called her out into the winter night alone to shame her and then revealed himself as her tormentor.

A weight closed on her chest like a tightening fist. She could not have formed words if she tried, but then all rational thought had fled from her head anyway. She could only feel a dark betrayal where unwise passion had been a moment before.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, releasing the blindfold like a child’s forgotten plaything.

It sagged down her ear, a lopsided circlet of silk and foolishness.

But before she could think to accuse him with righteous indignation or maidenly outrage, the powerful Highland laird spun on his heel and stomped out of the brew house into the night.

The morning had not come fast enough for Léod. He would leave Domhnaill at once, but he needed some hint of daylight for the journey. Now, with a hint of dawn breaking on the horizon, he could finally dispense with all pretense of civility and depart the holiday festivities at the lavish keep. He’d never been one for merry-making anyhow. His life had been all about hard work and sacrifice. Making war and serving his king to enrich his own coffers. He’d never seen this trip to Domhnaill as anything more than a chance to find a wealthy bride to bring him more land and alliances.

Now, he had.

Because Lady Helene MacKail was not the sort of woman he could forget easily. He’d thought to trifle with her enough to make her see the error of her ways in refusing him, then choose another bride who would be more biddable and less frightened of him. He certainly had not planned to lie to Helene, play sensual games with her in darkened corners, and then marry her as well. No doubt she would hate him now more than ever.

But something had gone amiss in his carefully laid plans for her last night. She’d trusted him in a way that pleased and surprised him. He’d seen a glimpse of how he might break through her hardhearted opinion of him, and he could imagine a sizzling future with such a temptress in his bed. Yet, even as that occurred to him, he’d known that he could not sabotage her trust completely by continuing the pretense of being someone else. He didn’t want her to fall for a mysterious stranger in a dusty brew house.

He wanted Helene to fall for him and no other, even himself in disguise.

Now, he gave the reins of his best mount to a groom outside the courtyard and approached the keep to retrieve his bride. He’d awoken her father from his slumber to confess a portion of his transgressions with the girl and demand her hand at once. Although the MacKail lord had protested the haste, they had finally agreed to a handfasting now and a formal exchange of church vows in the spring. All that remained was to obtain his wife.

The woman who first appeared in the hall was not Helene but their hostess, Lady Cristiana of Domhnaill. A frown creased the lovely features of the keep’s famed mead-maker, her auburn hair only half contained in saffron-colored veils as she hastened toward him.

“My lord,” she greeted him, granting him a deferential nod before placing a tender hand upon his arm. “Must you leave us so soon? All of the keep’s winter revels have been leading up to our Twelfth Night festivities.”

The lady managed to run the keep effectively as her father aged and relied heavily upon her. Yet, despite her head for politics and lands, she continued to be an attentive chatelaine. She would have made a fine wife for a man seeking lands and wealth, yet she did not call to him in a primal way as Helene had from the first. Léod knew now he would have no other for a bride.

“It is with regret I leave your fair company.” Lifting her hand, he bowed over it briefly. “I am in haste to introduce my new wife to her future home.”

At that moment, he felt Helene’s presence in the corridor outside the great hall. She made no sound, but he sensed her nearness with a fever in his blood. Turning toward the stairs from the gallery, he found her at her father’s side, her eyes dry but rimmed with red as if tears had been there recently. Her mother hovered in the background, her face pale as she touched a steadying hand to Helene’s shoulder.

Memories of his first wife’s vehement protests darkened his vision for a moment, the past tainting the present with ugly reminders that he’d already been found unworthy as a husband. He ground his teeth together to lock down his impatience.

“Good day, Lady Helene. Are you ready to depart?”

He looked to her father so he did not have to see her unwillingness. The MacKail lord gave a terse nod and nudged his daughter toward Léod with a hand at the back of her waist.

Despite her frosty mood and her clear resentment, Léod could not help a hint of triumph at having her by his side. Later, he would figure out how to win back her passions. For now, he simply wanted to claim her.

“I would hear the vows declared now,” Helene’s father insisted. “Perhaps Lady Cristiana would be kind enough to act as a witness.”

If the MacKail laird had been worried that Léod would not honor the marriage contract, then a witness proved wise. But Léod had no intention of withdrawing his suit. Helene would remain his from this day forward. He looked to her delicate form cloaked in travelling clothes and wondered how far he would have to travel to find some place to be with her privately. How long would it take to win back enough trust to have her come to him willingly again?

He remembered the taste of her kiss so vividly that his body responded immediately to her presence as he drew her into the circle of his arm. When their hostess nodded her agreement to serve as a witness, Léod spoke the simple lines to bind them together forever.

“I vow to take Helene MacKail as my legal wife….”

Helene had listened to the pledge in silence. She must have repeated her promise at some point, because before she knew it, her father and Lady Cristiana were hugging her, wishing her well and sending her out into the snowy dawn with the dark deceiver who was now her mate for life.

Any hope of a cart or her own horse was dashed when she spied the lone huge stallion in the courtyard. The beast pranced and snorted around the young groom who held him, as unfit for human company as the laird Mac Ruadhán himself.

She stood still as Léod swung up on the great animal’s back. Her composure was more difficult to maintain when he bent down to pluck her off the ground, dragging her body across his as if his lap were a suitable saddle for her.

Her cheeks heated at the nearness as he kicked the horse into motion and guided them out of the courtyard and across the drawbridge to the open fields around the keep. She sat so close to Léod that she could catch his scent. Memories from the night before—when she’d thought him a more tender soul—came back in a rush. The silk of his tunic laces and the muted spice of his scent brought on a bolt of pleasure no matter how staunchly her mind refused to acknowledge such wayward feelings.

“Where are my things?” she asked, if only to avoid thinking about the way his chest felt against her shoulder where he had tucked her close. She attempted to peer backward over his shoulder, but his form was so broad and the snow swirled in the horse’s wake so that she could not discern much. “My father said he would send my clothes and the dowry items.”

“They will take longer to pack.” As they darted around a low patch of brush, Léod readjusted his hold on her hip. His palm strayed low, grazing the curve of her rump and causing another flare of heat to sizzle over her skin. “A caravan will follow tomorrow once your father can assemble your belongings.”

With his fingers curled around her hip, she could almost forget he had tricked her into marriage. Had deceived her just for the fun of seeing her humbled.

“I see.” Her anger bubbled up to the surface again, blocking out the heat his touch still inspired. “And was this the same way your first marriage began? By force and deception?”

He peered down at her with an expression more forbidding than she’d ever seen. She swallowed hard and almost wished she could retract the question. But if she remained fearful of this warrior’s ways, she would never find any peace in her marriage. If he planned to banish her, she would at least make her displeasure known first.

She would not run from Léod again.

“Margaret was not well from the first.” His voice held a harsh note, but the words were quieter than their earlier exchanges. In fact spoken as they were, close to her ear, the sound called her back to their intimacies in the brew house. “Yet her father wanted an alliance with me, and did not care that his daughter considered me the devil on earth.”

She could hear the bitterness, yes. But she also heard him confiding something in her, a secret perhaps, that reminded her of all they’d shared the night before. Hadn’t they each expressed a desire to speak plainly and to be known for their true selves?

“I’m sure she had her reasons to think as much,” she accused, though the words lacked force. Cocooned against Léod’s chest as the horse tore through the snow-covered woods, Helene could not help but remember the way he’d held her the night before. She had wanted those touches to be real. To mean something.

Instead, they had all been an elaborate means to an end for him. A way to show her that she was at his mercy.

“Nay.” Léod’s response brooked no argument, his hand tucking her cloak under her thigh where the wind had freed a small section. “She had been fiercely protected by her parents all her life because she’d been born too fragile for this world. I think they believed she would be all right once she was wed, but they chose a man who embodied all of her girlish nightmares of a bloodthirsty warrior.”

Helene could see where a sheltered woman might balk at this man’s aspect. But she wondered at Léod’s description of the maid as “too fragile.” Helene had known a peasant girl whom she would have described as such—a sweet little thing who seemed to have been born with a babe’s simple mind. Had this woman been afflicted with that same gentle madness?

It was the first time she’d considered the marriage from Léod’s perspective, making her wonder why she’d never thought to do so before. Had she been too prejudiced against him because of his reputation?

“Rumor says she screamed herself hoarse that very first night,” Helene prompted. Not to goad him. Simply to learn the truth.

“Aye.” The set to his jaw and the dark glower in his brown eyes confirmed he was not happy to be reminded of it. “And I did naught but appease the needs of a church union on our wedding night—with an audience of a priest and her father no less. Still she behaved as though I would breathe flames and devour her whole.”

Helene shifted awkwardly against him as the great stallion jumped a small ravine. Her hips jounced in his lap, sliding between his thighs until she had to hoist herself back up on top of his legs again. The whole business made her skin flush hot and she could not meet his gaze.

Ever since last night, her flesh seemed highly sensitive everywhere. Léod had woven some kind of sensual spell around her, making her captive to a man who had been a lie.

“So you sent her as far from your keep as possible, leaving her to waste away to nothing.” Helene hoped if she concentrated on what he’d done, on the kind of man he really was, she could dismiss these awkward feelings for him—the heat, the ache, the needs that were too earthy to name.

Her desires had gotten all tangled up and it was his fault for making her feel so itchy and responsive to every subtle movement of his powerful body.

“Nay.” Again he denied the rumors the whole of the Highlands had repeated for many moons. “She begged help from travelers who visited my keep, convincing them I abused her person, then demanded passage to one of her father’s far-flung holdings. I could not find her for weeks and by the time I did, she was sick beyond help. I brought her home to her mother, hoping they could save her, but her parents had grown weary of caring for her and demanded I fulfill my responsibilities.”

The cold fury in his voice made Helene lift her gaze. And though she fully expected to see that anger reflected in his expression, instead she saw a naked pain that would have been impossible to misinterpret.

“You could not save her,” she realized, understanding that he regretted that much at least.

His jaw flexed again, the muscle working ruthlessly as he mastered his expression into the impassive mask she’d seen so many times.

“No one could have. It is a unique pain to watch the anguish of someone who willed herself to die.”

They were the last words Léod spoke for many leagues. And because Helene was not sure how she felt about his version of events in his marriage, she remained quiet for the rest of their journey. For miles and miles of snowy trails and evergreens heavy with white, they travelled in silence save for the rhythmic beating of the horse’s hooves and the rush of the beast’s harsh breathing.

As darkness loomed and still no words passed between them, she wondered where they would stop to seek shelter for the night. She had heard the Mac Ruadhán lands were situated high in the mountains. They could not possibly reach their destination in one day. Her former home, however, was only a day’s ride. There were times when she’d checked the position of the sun and felt sure they were going in that direction. But as the sky grew more fully dark, she soon lost her bearings.

It was not until the stallion crossed an ancient Roman stone bridge over a little brook that she realized they were indeed right next to her home.

“My lord.” She straightened on his lap, her hair clinging to his hauberk and her cheek imprinted with the design of the embroidered fabric after hours cradled there. “We seem to be close to my father’s keep.”

“I know.” He steered the horse up a sharp hill as darkness settled fast on them. “He invited us to pass this night here so you would feel safe.”

Her heart eased after the fears of the day and the tears of the night before when she’d learned she would have no choice but to wed the man who’d tricked her. At the time, the union seemed impossible, but with the new possibilities tickling her brain about his last marriage, and his willingness to spend the night in the home of her birth, she wondered if she misjudged Léod in more ways than one.

Could there be more hope for her union than she’d thought possible?

As the horse climbed the high, walled passage that led to her father’s keep, Helene felt her heart ease by degrees. She waved to the gatehouse guard as she called out a greeting to a man-at-arms she knew well. The scent of a burning Yule log drifted on the breeze, the Twelfth Night festivities celebrated even though the lord and lady were absent. Though her parents were still at Domhnaill, Helene would be able to sleep in her own chamber. The thought soothed her somewhat.

Until she remembered she wouldn’t be sleeping alone.

The wide pallet she’d never shared with another would become her marriage bed.

Chapter 4

Léod could have toured the lands that would one day belong to his sons. The MacKail holdings were vast and with his marriage to Helene, he would gain some now and the rest would go to their children. So he had every reason to care deeply about the property. But instead of meeting with the steward or interrogating the chamberlain, Léod strode to Helene’s chamber as soon as he could reasonably free himself from a late Twelfth Night meal in the great hall. Helene had pleaded to take a more simple meal in her rooms despite the holiday, and he’d been inclined to allow it after the long day on the road. He’d eaten in haste with a handful of MacKail’s closest advisers.

Now, he rapped on the chamber door that a maid had pointed out to him. Helene was within.

He could not wait another second to have her.

From somewhere inside, he heard a soft response. Unsure what she said or what kind of reception he would receive, he entered.

And found utter darkness.

“Helene?” He wondered now if a maid had answered him when he called into the chamber. They would freeze tonight if someone did not lay a fire in the hearth. What kind of keep celebrated Twelfth Night with no blaze in the bedchamber?

“I am not of a mind to be seen yet,” came the reply in a voice that he almost did not recognize. The words, however, were immediately familiar. He’d spoken them himself the night before.

“Where are you?” He strained to see. Did she lie in wait for him with a dagger in hand?

Or did she have something far more interesting in mind than revenge? His pulse sped up at the possibility.

“Does it matter?” The cheeky response seemed to emanate from the far side of the chamber.

As his eyes adjusted, he could see now that there was a bit of firelight in a nearby solar, the dull glow flickering softly and casting a swath of illumination along one wall of the chamber. He could discern the shape of a pallet. A high arrow slit, the narrow opening wide enough for an archer to fire in defense of the keep. A washstand and a clothes chest stood nearby. But so far, no Helene.

“It matters a great deal.” His chest constricted at the thought of how much he wanted her.

“I am here to know the person you are within and not who the world assumes you to be.”

In the soft silence that followed he caught her scent. The sound of her breathing. His sharpened gaze narrowed to a bench beneath the arrow slit and he spied her in the chamber’s darkest corner.

“Truly?” She sat utterly still, her delicate form wrapped in a heavy wool blanket from the pallet. Her long, dark hair was unbound and damp from the bath. The scent of her soap permeated the chamber, mingling with the fragrant pine boughs that must be burning in the solar hearth next door.

“Aye.” He closed the distance between them, trying to read her mood. Did she feel forlorn and alone? Or was this conversation in the dark her way of establishing a new peace between them? “I meant what I said last night. I want you to come to me of your own free will. After what happened with Margaret, I cannot have another marriage where my wife fears me.”

“You tricked me.” She spoke her mind freely, just the way he’d told her he wanted a wife to.

She clutched the blanket to her tighter than she’d held the cloak and hood the previous night. Strange that she resisted him more as his wife than she had as his lover.

And just what did she wear beneath that armful of heavy wool? His mouth went dry at the possibilities that came to mind.

“I thought you judged me unfairly. I wanted to prove that you were wrong about me and that I could make you want me. But I tempted myself a hundred times more than what I did to you. Things turned too hot too fast and I couldn’t walk away.”

“But you did.” She rose to her feet and took a step closer. “In the middle of my first kiss, you stopped as if it was no matter to you.”

His heart hammered his chest. His teeth were clenched so tight they’d be ground down to nothing by the morrow. With an effort, he wrenched his jaws apart enough to speak.

“You mattered.” He didn’t touch her even though she was close enough for him to reach her. Once he laid a hand upon her, he would not stop until he’d wrenched every last shred of clothing from her body. “That moment between us meant too much to take that kiss without telling you the truth. It was bad enough I let things go on as long as they did. But I couldn’t let you give me kisses like that without you knowing who you bestowed them upon.”

Her wide blue eyes searched his in the darkness, her features more distinct as they stood a hand’s length apart and his eyes had fully adjusted to the room. The scent of her floral and spice soap hung in the air from her bath, so distinct he could imagine what her skin would taste like underneath that blanket.

“If I had known it was you when I kissed you that way—would you have stopped me?” Her breathing was fast. Shallow.

Her lips parted.

“Why don’t you see for yourself what I would do?” He lifted a hand to her cheek, gliding a thumb down her creamy skin the way he had once before. The way he wanted to a million more times in this life.

Slowing the caress at her mouth, he stroked along the plump softness of her lower lip and prayed for enough restraint to let her come to him.

Helene had wanted answers from her husband tonight and she found them now. In his eyes. In his answers. But the biggest question remained. Would he fulfill all the half-formed fantasies that he’d inspired the night before?

Would he appease the hunger she hadn’t known existed inside her?

She did not want to be frightened of Léod any longer. She wanted to find her mysterious stranger within the man she’d wed. But the search required this leap of faith in the form of a kiss. And Twelfth Night, her wedding night, seemed the time to do so.

Arching up onto her toes, she clung tight to the blanket about her shoulders and pressed her lips to his. Gently at first. Then, as her mouth remembered his, the kiss deepened. It grew fiery. Hot.

She groaned at the feel of it, her lips parting for a more thorough taste. It was as if none of the last day had taken place. She was right back in the brew house with her heart and her body on fire. Except now, she had the promise of a bed nearby and the thrill of knowing she could drop her blanket as soon as the moment struck her as right.

“Helene.” He growled her name against her lips, his arms going around her back to press her tight.

Heat expanded inside her like a flame at the whim of the bellows, leaping with new fuel.

He wanted her. There could be no doubt now. And she was going to love every moment of his wanting her.

“Léod.” She tested the name upon her tongue, knowing that he wanted to hear it. Recognizing his desire to be seen for more than his strength and fierceness. “Tonight we cannot walk away.”

“I took vows to ensure it.” He lifted her in his arms so that their bodies aligned hip to hip. Chest to breast.

His manhood strained against her stomach, his braies doing little to restrain the hard length of him. A shiver trembled over her skin and she undulated against him. The motion felt so good she did it again, her hips rolling in a way that felt sinfully delicious.

She dropped her blanket without thought, the heavy wool stirring the rushes at their feet and wafting the soft scent of dried roses as it fell.

Léod’s head snapped back, his dark eyes fixing on her as keenly as if she were bathed in noonday sun.

“You’re—” he shook his head, his voice cracking on a dry note “—so much more than I deserve.”

Her heart swelled at the words and she rained kisses on his face. Her breasts tightened at the contact with his chest, the crests beading at the abrasion of his skin on hers. He swept her legs out from under her and took her down to the pallet in a gentle tackle.

The sheets were unbearably soft beneath her when she wanted to feel Léod’s hard heat everywhere at once. His mouth trailed kisses down her neck to her breasts and she arched high off the bed to feel that tantalizing slide of his tongue and mouth over the soft swells. First one, then the other, teasing the taut flesh without taking the tight peaks until finally, she threaded her fingers through his hair and guided him right there.

He suckled and drew on her, his teeth nipping lightly and raking gently while her hips twitched restlessly under his. She worked on the laces of his tunic, and hauled the fabric of it out from his braies, but she wasn’t sure she contributed much else to her wedding night. Léod knew precisely what to do to please her, his every touch firing her higher. Hotter.

She spanned as much of his flesh as she could with her fingers, savoring the feel of his bare skin. The muscle that had frightened her now fascinated her and she could not stop her busy hands from absorbing the feel of him as he stretched out over her. When he finally nudged her thighs apart with his knee, she was more ready than she would have ever imagined. He was a skilled, thoughtful lover. Her mystery stranger. And he was all hers.

Forever.

The notion was as heady as any caress, the realization that she would have this to explore and enjoy for the rest of her days. By the time he touched the secret place between her legs she was as dewy as a flower in springtime, her body ready for him. When he stroked the slick folds, sensation rocked her so hard she had to hold onto him or she might have flown apart. The tremors continued and continued, his skilled fingers helping her to ride out the delicious contractions.

By the time they were done, he was naked and poised above her. The thick length of him fit between her thighs, coaxed by the dampness there. She had heard it would hurt the first time. Knew he was an uncommonly large man. But after all he had done to ready her and all the ways he had proven the stories about his last marriage were false, she did not fear what was to come.

“It will be easier for you if it goes quickly. All at once.” The whisper in her ear was like an anchor in a storm, keeping her steady in unfamiliar waters. She had half fallen in love with that voice before she’d known who it belonged to.

It only made sense now that it was his voice that gave her the courage to nod. To lift her hips so he could take her.

At first, the contact felt delicious. He started slow and sweet, giving her time to adjust. And then, when she was relaxed and loose-limbed, he pushed deep inside.

Pain ripped through all those sweet feelings and she cried out with the hurt. She would have moved back and away, but he held her tight. Utterly still.

“I’m sorry.” His fingers pressed into her back, his voice rough and tender at the same time. “I swear to you, it’s never going to hurt again after this.”

She nodded, hurting too much to believe him. But as he held her there and the moments ticked by with their heartbeats, she could feel the pain recede in increments. Soon, she realized that he continued to hold her in a death grip and it occurred to her that he’d been even more fearful of hurting her than she’d been of being hurt.

“It has passed,” she assured him finally, edging enough space to breathe against his neck.

“I will be fine.”

“You’re certain?” His lower body remained perfectly immobile, though he edged back from her with his chest. “I do not want to move too suddenly and make it worse.”

“Nay.” She shook her head, liking the way his body looked over hers, the powerful muscle under his ruthless control.

He would never hurt her. Not intentionally.

The truth could not have been more obvious to her in the way he remained solicitous of her feelings. Her powerful Highland laird was no brute at all. In marrying the strongest man in all of Scotland, she had gained the fiercest protector imaginable. And her heart swelled with soft sentiment for him, her feelings undeniably tender.

“Are you certain?” he asked again in a way that would have sent her running for her chamber just days ago, never knowing his glower was his way of showing concern.

Caring.

A slow smile tugged at her lips and kept on pulling, a happiness that couldn’t be contained filling her heart and soul and surely as her husband filled her body.

“Absolutely positive.” She kissed his neck, tasting the clean saltiness of his skin. “I want nothing more than for you to claim me as your wife.”

Her words seemed to free him, his long limbs easing until he unclenched his tight hold. Slowly, he tested the fit of their bodies together, withdrawing slightly and then pressing deep. His hips began a slow, rhythmic dance that made her forget everything else but this moment and this connection.

The heat built in her all over again, the sensations tightening more and more until she felt that same wild release. Pleasure flowed through her like a river, washing her in sweet bliss she’d never envisioned in the marriage bed.

“I love you, Léod mac Ruadhán.”

Chapter 5

The most fearsome knight in Scotland had been vanquished by a woman.

Not in battle, obviously. But as Léod lay spent beside his new wife at dawn, he acknowledged Helene would forever hold sway over his heart.

He had been speechless in the face of her declaration of love at first, overwhelmed by the moment and the woman. Now, while the sun’s early rays crept through the arrow slit and bled around the edges of the tapestry that covered it, he found his heart full of tender emotions for her in return. Still, she was new to the intimacies they had shared and he was not sure she understood the way they could tangle with a person’s feelings.

She’d awoken him once during the night to make love to her, but he’d introduced her to another sort of pleasure instead, allowing any maidenly soreness more time to heal. Yet an hour ago, when she’d attempted to return that decadent pleasure he’d taught her in kind, he’d been powerless to decline. He’d taken her then, and his body had never been so sated.

“During the night, you spoke of love.” He turned on her in the warmth of the thick pallet they shared, broaching the subject that had played through his head so many times in the long hours before dawn.

“I remember.” She smiled, and then, perhaps catching his more serious expression, she sobered. “I thought you wanted me to come to you freely?”

Propping her head on her elbow, her blue eyes fixed on him. The long, dark waves of her hair covered her naked body like a siren’s wherever the blankets did not touch her. So beautiful, outside and in.

“I do. Always.”

“Then I assumed I could express myself freely as well.” She shrugged, one creamy shoulder lifting casually, the movement bringing the swell of a perfect breast into view for one heart-stopping moment. “When I felt such feelings for you, I thought you would want to know.”

“That is passion,” he clarified, understanding how the two could be confused. Still, a part of him mourned the loss of a declaration that had brought him a surprising amount of deep- seated joy. Yet he would endeavor to make Helene experience that feeling so many times she would soon love him for real. Forever. “Sometimes the heat of the moment inspires a depth of feeling that can be mistaken for love.”

She straightened in bed, taking the covers with her.

“Would you become the fearsome laird who would seek to know better than a mere maid again?” Her eyes flashed with annoyance. Anger, even.

“What do you mean?” Warily, he lifted himself higher on the pallet to handle whatever new bump in the road had arisen in his marriage so suddenly.

“I mean that I know whereof I speak and you must allow me to say it.” Releasing the blanket she’d held up to her breasts, she gripped his shoulders with tender hands. “I know love, Léod. I feel it for you because of how you wooed me in spite of all my fears. If not for your game in the darkness, I might never have seen you for the man you are. And now that I have, I admire him.” She caressed his cheek. “You.”

He could have drowned in that blue-eyed gaze. She was so sincere. So passionate.

“Thank you.” He pulled her into his lap and yanked the covers up high to keep her warm. His body stirred immediately despite all they’d shared the night before. He would never get his fill of her. “For loving me and for telling me what you feel. I am long accustomed to deciding what is best for everyone around me, so if I am inclined to lead, it is only force of habit.”

Her posture softened, her body easing against his more fully. A smile curved her lips.

“Sometimes, I have enjoyed your vast experience.” Her hip wiggled meaningfully against his hardening shaft.

But no matter the need for her that rose again, he wanted to address an even more pressing concern.

“I have not understood that kind of deep caring in the past.” He’d achieved his goals in life alone, a bastard raised to power on the strength of his arm and his blade. “But with you, I am beginning to see.”

Helene wrapped her arms around him, drawing him down to the bed to cover her beautiful body.

“You will not see it, my lord. You will feel it.” She placed a kiss upon his chest above his heart. “Right here.”

His heart pounded so loudly she must have heard the reply. She rubbed her cheek over that same place.

Speechless for a moment, he could only praise God and all his saints for sending him such a blessing. Twelfth Night had rewarded him richly.

“I have all the response I need already,” Helene assured him, her hands wandering over his body as if they had all the time in the world. And indeed, they did.

“But you shall have the words too, my wife.” He raised her up to kiss her mouth, understanding the vows they’d spoken the night before. “For my heart is yours, now and forever.”

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Three time RITA-nominee Joanne Rock became fascinated with the Middle Ages during her undergraduate years when a dedicated history professor made the period come alive. Today, Joanne indulges her love of all things medieval through her books, and she continues to pen both sexy contemporary and historical romances. Her work has been reprinted in twenty-four countries and translated into nineteen languages. A former college teacher and public relations coordinator, Joanne has a Master’s in English from the University of Louisville where she adored all the works of Chaucer despite a tongue-twisting struggle to read the poems in Middle English.

Visit her at http://www.joannerock.com to enter monthly contests and learn more about her work.

ISBN: 978-1-4268-8229-6

Summoned for Seduction

Copyright © 2010 by Joanne Rock

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