deep breath then exhaled.
“Sit down and tell me everything.”
“Weel, ye took a wee tumble down the stairs.”
His conciliatory tone aggravated her. She was not a half-wit to be pacified with mediocre explanations. If she kept exhaling to maintain control, she’d pass out again, and at the moment, she didn’t have the patience to pander to his manly ego. Annoyed, she waved her hand in the air in a dismissive gesture.
“You have told me that. Start at the beginning. When did you meet Margaret?”
He ceased pacing. Eyebrows lowered, he frowned at her. After a moment of sullen silence, he yanked the chair over next to the bed and flopped down.
“Ye be a Campbell, and we met when yer father raised the ransom to exchange fer yer younger brother’s release.”
Her eyes widened. “You kidnapped Margaret’s brother and held him for ransom?”
Mrs. Bixby had told her of the Scottish tradition of kidnapping someone from another clan for profit. She thought the stories were folklore, an embellishment to make the old tales more intriguing. But who was she to criticize their customs? Guess they had to have some way to supplement their income. Sort of like a second job.
He scowled at her. “Nae, I dinnae kidnap yer brother.” The disgust in his voice raked over her like hot coals. “Yer father ask for me help when part of the conditions be that I deliver the ransom. The McGregor’s be the ones who took young Ian. It took days to finalize the arrangements, and ye and I spent most of that time together. Ye seemed a sweet biddable lass.”
She thought she heard a ‘then’ under his breath.
“We married with yer family to witness our vows. The church waved the reading of the banns so we could marry quickly. We traveled to me home the same day. I needed to return since I’d taken most of me warriors and left the castle unprotected.”
He leaned forward, his dark eyes glittered, and his lips twisted into that heart-tugging half-smile.
“Ye accepted the reason we traveled so soon after the priest announced us wed, lass. And said ye understood why we had to wait for our wedding night.” Voice low and husky, the implication left nothing to the imagination as to what he referred.
His words sent an intoxicating haze of desire soaring through her. Her bones melted. Heat pooled low in her belly. Her heart thudded in her chest before it nose-dived to her stomach then shot back up to lodge in her throat. Long fingers reached out and slowly meandered up her bare arm. She tingled at the trail of fire his touch left behind.
The story reminded her of the romantic fairy tales Mrs. Bixby read to her. Stories about ladies in distress, rescued by knights in shiny armor; stories that offered people’s romantic hearts an optimistic view of their life of drudgery.
She loved it.
“Go on.” Her voice sounded thready, wispy.
“That evening after we arrived home, we retired to the master’s chamber. Since ye were a mite nervous, I went down to get ye a wee dab of wine. Ye had yer accident while I be gone.”
Why had a slight tint of red fused his high cheekbones? He didn’t strike her as a man given to blushes. When she realized why a groom would want his new bride pliant and calm, she felt twin spots of color wash over her own cheeks.
“Aye,” he said then picked up the thread of his explanation. “No one kenned how ye fell. Me aunt discovered ye at the bottom of the stairs. Ursula did what she could, and we’ve waited for ye to mend. Today, be the first day ye’ve been awake.”
“That is all?” In four short sentences, he told of meeting, courting, marrying, and losing Margaret. No longer than she knew him, she realized he was a man of few words, but surely his acquaintance with the woman he married deserved more than these few meager words.
“Aye.”
She eyed him suspiciously. “How long did you know Margaret before you married her?”
The scowl on his face indicated he didn’t care for the way she
“Sit down and tell me everything.”
“Weel, ye took a wee tumble down the stairs.”
His conciliatory tone aggravated her. She was not a half-wit to be pacified with mediocre explanations. If she kept exhaling to maintain control, she’d pass out again, and at the moment, she didn’t have the patience to pander to his manly ego. Annoyed, she waved her hand in the air in a dismissive gesture.
“You have told me that. Start at the beginning. When did you meet Margaret?”
He ceased pacing. Eyebrows lowered, he frowned at her. After a moment of sullen silence, he yanked the chair over next to the bed and flopped down.
“Ye be a Campbell, and we met when yer father raised the ransom to exchange fer yer younger brother’s release.”
Her eyes widened. “You kidnapped Margaret’s brother and held him for ransom?”
Mrs. Bixby had told her of the Scottish tradition of kidnapping someone from another clan for profit. She thought the stories were folklore, an embellishment to make the old tales more intriguing. But who was she to criticize their customs? Guess they had to have some way to supplement their income. Sort of like a second job.
He scowled at her. “Nae, I dinnae kidnap yer brother.” The disgust in his voice raked over her like hot coals. “Yer father ask for me help when part of the conditions be that I deliver the ransom. The McGregor’s be the ones who took young Ian. It took days to finalize the arrangements, and ye and I spent most of that time together. Ye seemed a sweet biddable lass.”
She thought she heard a ‘then’ under his breath.
“We married with yer family to witness our vows. The church waved the reading of the banns so we could marry quickly. We traveled to me home the same day. I needed to return since I’d taken most of me warriors and left the castle unprotected.”
He leaned forward, his dark eyes glittered, and his lips twisted into that heart-tugging half-smile.
“Ye accepted the reason we traveled so soon after the priest announced us wed, lass. And said ye understood why we had to wait for our wedding night.” Voice low and husky, the implication left nothing to the imagination as to what he referred.
His words sent an intoxicating haze of desire soaring through her. Her bones melted. Heat pooled low in her belly. Her heart thudded in her chest before it nose-dived to her stomach then shot back up to lodge in her throat. Long fingers reached out and slowly meandered up her bare arm. She tingled at the trail of fire his touch left behind.
The story reminded her of the romantic fairy tales Mrs. Bixby read to her. Stories about ladies in distress, rescued by knights in shiny armor; stories that offered people’s romantic hearts an optimistic view of their life of drudgery.
She loved it.
“Go on.” Her voice sounded thready, wispy.
“That evening after we arrived home, we retired to the master’s chamber. Since ye were a mite nervous, I went down to get ye a wee dab of wine. Ye had yer accident while I be gone.”
Why had a slight tint of red fused his high cheekbones? He didn’t strike her as a man given to blushes. When she realized why a groom would want his new bride pliant and calm, she felt twin spots of color wash over her own cheeks.
“Aye,” he said then picked up the thread of his explanation. “No one kenned how ye fell. Me aunt discovered ye at the bottom of the stairs. Ursula did what she could, and we’ve waited for ye to mend. Today, be the first day ye’ve been awake.”
“That is all?” In four short sentences, he told of meeting, courting, marrying, and losing Margaret. No longer than she knew him, she realized he was a man of few words, but surely his acquaintance with the woman he married deserved more than these few meager words.
“Aye.”
She eyed him suspiciously. “How long did you know Margaret before you married her?”
The scowl on his face indicated he didn’t care for the way she
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