he studied the wall behind her.
Neither said a word, and yet a volume had been spoken.
She knew only too well what he thought of her. Men like the MacLeod were no strangers. Graced with aristocratic good looks, strength of body and firmness of resolve, they normally wanted only one thing from a woman. And usually experienced no difficulty obtaining it. Judith thanked the heavens that he didn’t seem to wish it from her. Yet, what if he changed his mind, and that look came into his eyes, and his stare focused on her chest? There seemed to be something magical about the size of her breasts which sucked the brains from even an intelligent man. Would he, too, make comments about her physical shape? Brush by her accidentally, liken her to a mare eager to be mounted?
Without a word, he was gone, down the curving staircase.
Moments later, she followed the route the MacLeod had taken, peering into the kitchen before she entered it. The room was empty, so Judith grabbed a grimy turnip for a solitary breakfast and sat upon one of the scarred wooden benches.
Would it be like this for three months? Her heart in her throat, her blood only pooling ice. How could she do it? How could she possibly do it? Three months stretched out in one minute increments. And yet, she had played that game before, hadn't she?
What other choice did she have?
She listed the alternatives in her mind the way a shop keeper would tally his profits, except the list was pitifully small and there was no joy at the sum. In the end, she had no other choice.
Seated upon the bench in the kitchen, with only the scrabbling sounds of vermin accompanying her thoughts, Judith Cuthbertson Willoughby Henderson MacLeod reluctantly conceded that there was, after all, only one option open. As much as it frightened her, she would have to remain married to the MacLeod.
But only for a little while.
CHAPTER 7
"Come on, man, we've almost got it!" Alisdair MacLeod shouted at his ancient clansman.
The faltering Geddes was no match for the plow that stubbornly skidded along the weed choked ground. A few moments later, Alisdair dropped the leather straps wound around his shoulders and torso and wearily walked back to where Geddes stood, bent over with age and the shame of being unable to contribute to even this simple task. Alisdair, well aware of the state of the old man's pride, clapped him encouragingly on the shoulder as he thrust his worn boot at the metal flange, stomping and kicking at it until it found purchase in the stubborn soil. Grasping the wooden handles of the plow between two large, callused hands, he showed Geddes how to hold them firmly as his laird acted as their draft horse.
Alisdair disliked having his ancient clansman help in the rough work, but Geddes needed to feel useful. That, coupled with the fact that there was no one else to do this chore adequately subdued Alisdair’s conscience.
The English woman was still on his mind, damn her, despite the plowing to be done.
Alisdair could not recall one instance when he had frightened a woman.
When he was young, studying at the University, he’d no complaints. The girls, well, the girls of Edinburgh and Brussels had thought he was a fine enough companion for winter nights and summer dreaming. And Anne, she was the most gentle creature of all; he’d never disquieted poor dear Anne.
Even lately, when care and worry was ever present on his mind, he was gentle with the women of his clan. He’d never frightened them, not even Fiona, who might have benefited from a good scold.
Yet, he’d managed to scare the English woman, hadn’t he? She’d jumped when he’d seen her this morning, dropping the skirts clutched in her right hand, paling so much that he wondered if she were going to faint. A pulse at her neck had throbbed so violently he could count the beats and his physician’s mind had discerned it too rapid not to indicate distress.
For a moment this morning, when Ian’s door
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