Page 29 of A Sinful Night with a Scot
“Oh,” Elsie sucked in a gasp.
“She left the castle last year after she was married to Owen Sinclair, the son o’ Laird Sinclair.”
“I see,” Elsie said.
The idea that the laird had any siblings had not even occurred to Elsie. It surprised her even further that he had a sister, though she did not know why. Perhaps it had to do with the way he had treated her.
Well, ye dinnae ken that he treats his sister any better.
But Elsie dismissed that thought as quickly as it arrived. She had seen the laird in action with his people. It was clear that she was the only one rewarded with his brutish behavior. He didn’t want her there. In fact, he didn’t want her at all.
That’s nae true, and ye ken it.
Fine. There had been some moments between them. But his hot and cold conduct was driving her mad. One minute, he was kind and caring, the next he was snarling at her. She wished he would just make up his damned mind.
They eventually slowed outside one of the many wooden doors they had passed, and, taking a key from a chain in her pocket, Anna unlocked the door.
“I’ll be right back with some hot water, me lady,” Anna declared, before closing the door again, and leaving Elsie alone.
Elsie slowly entered the laird’s bedchamber, her eyes taking in the large room. His four-poster bed and canopy were situated over on the left wall, and opposite, on the far side of the room, was a large fireplace with logs burning, the flames reaching upwards, as though trying to escape up the chimney, but never reaching far enough.
Directly ahead were two large windows draped in heavy cloth, separated by a thick stone wall that housed a dresser with drawers. A tin bath sat to one side of the fire, while a large throne-like chair was situated on the other.
Taking her time, Elsie slowly moved around the room, running her fingers over the intricate carvings of the furniture, eyeing the manly items that sat upon his dresser, and noting the distinct lack of any female influence at all. She then eyed the huge portrait above the fireplace. The man who looked back out of thecanvas at her, though, was not the laird himself, as one might expect, but an older man. Yet, his features were familiar.
“Keane’s faither,” Elsie breathed.
She gazed at the portrait for a long time, catching the soft features that the artist had captured. She had never met this laird, and yet, just by looking at him, she could surmise that he had been a good and kind man.
“Unlike yer son,” she murmured.
But then, she caught herself. The very reason she was there was because this man had been struck down. Murdered by the man she had been promised to by her father. And the fact that the laird had a portrait of his father above his mantle and not himself spoke volumes. Laird Mackay had clearly loved his father very much.
Even so, his revenge is consuming him.
Indeed, it was.
Not long after that, Anna returned with two more maids, each carrying buckets of hot water. When the tin bath was full and the other maids had left, Anna helped Elsie undress. She then slipped into the hot bath, breathing out a long moan of delight.
Anna helped her bathe, and then, holding out a linen towel, the maid wrapped the covering around her.
“Stand in front o’ the fire tae keep warm, me lady,” Anna said. “I will away and gather yer clothes.”
Her skin tingled as the searing heat from the fire licked away the droplets of water that clung to her, like lichen to rock. Elsie opened the towel and let the heat bathe the whole of her, tilting her head back and letting her hair hang loose.
When the door opened again, Elsie was a little surprised that Anna was back in such a short time, and glancing over her shoulder, she let out a shriek.
“What are ye daeing in here?” she gasped, throwing the towel haphazardly around her, while, at the same time, feeling a searing heat travelling from her neck up into her face.
A tick at the side of the laird’s mouth told her he was struggling to hold back a smile as he closed the door behind him.
“This is me chamber,” Keane said nonchalantly.
“I am in a state o’ undress,” Elsie cried, seemingly frozen to the spot. “Ye didnae even knock.”
The laird took several steps toward her, but did not speak. Instead, his eyes moved from her face and slowly travelled down her body. So slow and intense was his gaze, Elsie could nearly feel it on her skin, a burning trail as he moved over her collar bone, down over her breasts, across her stomach, and then to her uncovered legs. Inch by agonizing inch.
Her stomach clenched, and heat formulated at the apex of her thighs, for his eyes practically smoldered as he continued. She could feel her blood pulsing through her neck, and the thud of her heart banging against her ribs.
