Page 6 of The Beast of the Highlands
Could ye be one of ‘em?
He eyed her. She did not look like a spy, but he supposed that was the point.
4
By the time the sun was beginning to rise, casting shards of bronzed radiance into the inky dawn, Flynn had shown Autumn to a guest bedchamber. The healing woman had been sent for, but he knew it would take an age for his men to rouse Mary. She slept like the dead and did not take kindly to interruptions.
As such, he had decided to begin the healing process with his own hands. He figured it might be just the tonic Autumn needed, to show her that not all men were brutes who wished her harm. And, perhaps, he would be able to garner more about her that might help him to decide if she was a spy or not.
“Can ye sit there for me?” He gestured to a high-backed chair which sat tucked underneath the alcove of a writing desk.
Autumn frowned. “I do not know—can I?”
“Is this what ye’ll be teachin’ me brother?” Flynn smiled. “Fine…Mayye sit there for me?”
Still wearing a puzzled expression, Autumn crossed to the chair and sat down. She perched on the very edge of it, fidgeting anxiously with the fabric of her coral-colored skirts. He might not have been a laundress, but he had a feeling the dirt and the blood that had seeped through the material would never come out.
Gathering together a basin of water and a small stack of cloths, Flynn walked over to Autumn and knelt in front of her. She stared at him as though he had grown three heads, and immediately shuffled further back into the chair.
“I daenae mean ye any harm, lass, but I need to clean those wounds before they fester,” he explained. “I ken ye willnae want a man touchin’ ye, after tonight, but I promise ye I’ll be gentle. I daenae mean anythin’ by it.”
He watched the bob of her throat as she swallowed thickly. “I thought you said you had sent for the healing woman? Or are you the healing woman in a rather detailed disguise?”
“She willnae be here for a while, and I daenae like the thought of ye sittin’ in those clothes, with all them scratches and scrapes,” he replied evenly, struggling to prevent his imagination from wandering.
Between the lace collar that draped over her neckline, her bosom heaved, and he could see her straining against her stays to draw a proper breath. If she would not have slapped him, he would have suggested she remove all of her clothing, so he could better access her injuries.
He set down the basin and cloths. “I can start with the cuts to yer legs, if it isnae too improper, and if ye daenae feel comfortable, we can wait for Mary.”
“I suppose that would be agreeable,” she answered hesitantly. “Though, make no mistake, it would be improper if you were not a Laird, and I was not a young lady in abject pain.”
He waited for her to cautiously raise her skirts to her knees before he began. First, he removed her shoes and set them neatly to one side, before untying the silky ribbons of her muddied stockings and rolling them down her shapely calves.
Daenae let yer thoughts wander, lad!
Still, he could not help his imagination from running a little wild as he drew her stockings away from her and dropped them to the floor. If they had met in some other fashion, perhaps she would not be so stiff in her demeanor, nor so wary in her gaze.
If they had encountered one another on the road, or at a gathering, or in the forest while walking, and they had taken a liking to each other after their witty repartee, she might have allowed him to trail his hand up beneath the edge of her skirts, to explore the lithe lines of her thighs, and the sweet silken warmth further up.
As it was, he could see just enough of her firm, surprisingly defined, and creamy pale thighs to tantalize him… which required a sterner scolding in the silence of his mind.
She’s been through enough without ye starin’ at her like a ravenous wolf! Do ye want her to think ye’re actually a “Beast”?
Concentrating on the task before him, instead of the inviting hoist and rustle of her skirts, he dipped the cloth in the water and set to cleansing away the muck and blood of her ordeal. He could not help but admire the texture of her smooth skin beneath the cloth, and how she gazed down at him as he caressed away the dirt. The wariness had ebbed, at least.
“It is… cold,” she murmured, their eyes meeting in an electric gaze. Her hands gripped the armrests of the chair, and she seemed to be holding her breath. As he watched her, he realized he, too, was holding his breath.
What are ye doin’, for cryin’ out loud?He scolded himself a third time, for there was little use in growing attached to this beautiful, feisty, intriguing woman. She was here to be tutor to his brother, nothing more. And he had yet to decide if she would take that position for, first, he needed to decipher if she was here with righteous intentions.
“I can warm some over the fire, if ye like?” He tore his gaze away, soaking the cloth in the basin and watching as the water turned pink and gray.
She shook her head. “I will endure.”
He resumed his caress, biting the inside of his cheek to stop the intimacy of the moment from stirring his loins, especially as the cloth skimmed the bottom of her thighs, just above the knee. Unbidden, he thought about how wonderful it would feel to trace the cloth up the inner line of her thigh… He bit his cheek harder in order to chase away such thoughts.
“Ye’re nae a spy for the English, are ye?” he asked bluntly, to distract himself but also to put to rest a genuine concern. They were rife in these parts, and he would not have put it past the English to start using pretty young ladies to do their dirty work.
Autumn barked a laugh. “Me? Is that a serious question?”
