Page 53 of The Highlander Who Loved Me
Drat, drat, and drat. She pushed herself up, gave the pillow another wallop with her balled hand for good measure, and swung her legs off the bed. The piper’s melody slowed. Pensive now. Lovely, in fact, as though welcoming the morning with a musical interlude.
She pressed her feet to the cool wooden planks. Shivering, she dashed onto a rug by the hearth. She’d always been a bit of a ninny when it came to being chilled. If only she had strong arms to enfold her, the strong, daring man she’d dreamt of—the man who’d played the hero in her turbulent dreams. If only he did not look so very much like Connor MacMasters.
Thatman was not her hero. Oh, she believed he’d protect her. Heaven knew he’d proven that. He was courageous and confident and bold. He’d defended her against the brutal louts who might well have left her for dead. But he was neither noble nor chivalrous. She held no such delusions. Everything the Highlander had done to defend her had been motivated by his own agenda. He sought a treasure, while she wanted one thing alone—her niece’s safe return. The book was the key, the ransom her captor had demanded. Would MacMasters hold to his own purposes when a child’s life hung in the balance?
Snatching up a dressing gown, Johanna shrugged into the garment. Even combined with the thick flannel of her nightdress, the thin fabric offered little warmth. She wrapped her arms around her. What had come over her, dreaming of MacMasters? She knew better than to allow her fanciful thoughts to get the better of her judgment. Even so, she’d been so close to surrender. He’d stirred her senses to a frenzy. She’d craved his touch, his heat, his scent. Never in her life had she wanted a man as she wanted him.
Ah, her attraction to the Scot was intense and bone deep, a fierce hunger unlike any she’d ever known. A pure, instinctive wanting. She needed to rally her defenses. There was no disputing that. After all, she was not some whey-faced virgin fresh from the schoolroom.
She was not an innocent—at least, she did not consider herself as such. After all, she’d been engaged, a lifetime ago. Or so it seemed. Young fool that she was, she’d believed herself in love. She’d given her heart, freely and without reservation, never suspecting the man she had adored would leave her illusions of love in jagged shards beneath the heels of his well-polished boots.
Still, she was not unworldly. She’d known the touch of a man, cautious and controlled as it had been. Heaven knew her betrothed had conducted himself with restraint in all matters. Timothy had been reserved, a product of his dignified nature, or so Johanna had told herself at the time.
Of course, that was before she discovered her fiancéhad wanted another.
That was another time, so very long ago. She’d been naive. All too trusting. She’d never again make the mistake of surrendering her heart to a man.
But how glorious it would be to surrender her body to a powerful, magnificent Highlander for one decadent night.
Cautious.Controlled.Reserved. The words simply did not apply to MacMasters. Johanna suspected the brash Scot was as bold in his personal endeavors—most especially, in his bed—as he was when he acted the protector. The image of his large, muscular body, chiseled with a sculptor’s precision, strolled into her thoughts, sly and seductive as he’d been in his bedchamber. Even without so much as a stitch to cover him, the man exuded temptation, the likes of which she’d never known. He was a wicked one, with that cheeky smile and that delectable mouth.
Heat washed over her, rising from her neck to her cheeks. She struggled to banish the image in her mind’s eye, but the Connor of her thoughts met her gaze and winked, turning to reveal a strong, carved bum. Good heavens, she’d gone entirely wanton. Since Timothy had severed their betrothal on the eve of their wedding with an oh-so-civil farewell, she’d never been fanciful in her personal affairs. And this was certainly not the time to consider indulging her decidedly imprudent fantasies. Thank heavens her rational mind had asserted itself the night before.
A soft tapping against the door pulled her from her decadent thoughts. “It’s Mrs. Bailey,” the housekeeper called through the wooden panel. “I’ve come with a dress for ye.”
Still bracing herself against the stubborn memory of the night before, Johanna tugged the belt of the dressing gown tight around her. “Please, come in.”
The stout panel squealed on its hinges. Mrs. Bailey marched in, her manner direct. “Lady Kathleen asked me t’find a dress for ye, something more appropriate than the trousers Maggie provided ye last night. Sometimes, I dinnae ken what the lass is thinking.”
“I had no complaint with the ensemble. I found the pants quite comfortable.”
Mrs. Bailey gave a reproachful shake of her head. “’Tis kind of ye t’be so accepting, but we are proper, even here in the Highlands. Maggie marches t’her own piper, of that ye can be sure.” The housekeeper held out a gown. “I believe ye will like this.”
“Thank you.” Johanna’s gaze skimmed over the dress from hem to collar and back again. Deep blue silk, soft and smooth, trimmed with creamy lace around the demure high collar and sleeves. Pearl buttons adorned the darted bodice. Quite lovely, indeed.
“Is it to yer likin’?”
“It’s wonderful.”
Mrs. Bailey nodded. “Miss Maggie and ye are close to the same size. The lass’s wardrobe is overfull as it is. Since she’s developed her fondness for trousers, anything with skirts is sorely neglected. She’s happy to pass this onto you.”
“I will return it, once my traveling case is recovered.”
The housekeeper crooked a brow. “Ye left it behind in Inverness?”
“Unfortunately, there was no time to collect it.”
“There seldom is.” Mrs. Bailey’s sliver of a smile faded as her attention dropped to the rug. She shifted on her feet, ever so slightly. Did the housekeeper feel she’d said too much?
Somber notes filled the chamber, surrounded them. The piper had grown quieter, yet the sounds seemed closer. Mrs. Bailey’s gaze shot toward the door, and her eyes crinkled with amusement.
“That fool is at it again.” She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial tone. “’Tis bad enough he’s up with those pipes of his before the cock crows, but now he’s traveling about with his performance.”
Edging closer to the open door, Johanna allowed the sad yet beautiful tones to wash over her. “Who is playing?”
“Ah, that’s Archie…Lord Archibald, he’s calling himself now. Laird MacMasters’s uncle. The man’s at least eighty, yet he strolls these halls every morn, fit as a rooster, rousing everyone from their sleep.” Mrs. Bailey peeped from the room, quickly surveying the hall. “One can only hope…”
“One can only hope…what…Mrs. Bailey?” Johanna could not restrain herself from asking the question.
