Read Online Kathleen Harrington by Lachlan's Bride - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Lachlan's Bride
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the rambling palace.
Looking over her shoulder, she saw a large rumpled bed, thankfully empty. A carved walnut chest stood against one wall, on which sat a silver basin and a man’s shaving brush and razor. A sword and dirk in their scabbards rested on an armchair beside the bed. A discarded red-and-black tartan lay draped across the settle, which stood at the end of the canopied four-poster.
Red-and-black plaid.
The distinctive MacRath clan tartan, as she’d learned to her surprise the previous evening.
The only thing worse than being caught in the bedchamber of a Highland clansman would be discovery by the English marquess searching for her on the far side of the door. If Lychester found her in this room with another man, he’d never be satisfied until he’d killed him. And quite possibly her, as well.
Pressing her hand to her chest, Francine turned to survey the rest of the bedchamber, searching for some clue to its occupant’s identity.
Opposite the wall with the armoire and its masculine accoutrements stood a large fireplace, the light of its flames casting a rosy glow on the chimney stones. A sturdy dressing screen had been carefully placed to catch and hold the warmth of the blaze.
Once again, the splashing of water caught Francine’s attention, and she stared at the patterned silk damask that decorated the screen. She put her hand to her mouth to stifle the laughter that rose up inside her. Though she should have been mortified by her shocking predicament, its very outrageousness tickled her sense of humor.
Never in her wildest dreams had she imagined herself in such a disgraceful, and yet comic, situation.
She’d just interrupted someone’s bath.
And that someone was male.
Which MacRath was it, who sat lolling about in a tubful of warm, soapy water?
There was no doubt that he’d heard her come in, for he called out now from behind the screen in obvious irritation. “I forgot the damn toweling. Give it to me, will ye, lad?”
Although the Scottish laird was unaware of her identity, Francine recognized that aggravated baritone immediately.
Not daring to answer, she pressed her ear flat against the oak panel. Through the closed door she could hear booted feet coming down the tiled corridor. Lychester was quickly approaching. If she stepped outside now, he’d likely crash right into her.
Kinrath must have thought she was his servant. His gathering impatience sharpened his tone, as he called out, “Roddy, toss me the cloth hanging on the footboard.”
Glancing about, she spied a swath of linen draped over the end post of the bed. She tiptoed stealthily across the room, grabbed the toweling, and flung it neatly over the screen. She congratulated herself on the accuracy of her throw as she tiptoed back to the door and pressed her ear against the polished wood once more.
Francine could hear Lychester pacing back and forth in the corridor, as though unsure if he should knock and chance disturbing the occupants of the various rooms.
“From whom are we hiding?” a deep male voice asked only inches from Francine’s ear.
She whirled to find the earl of Kinrath towering beside her. Without stopping to think, she reached up and clamped her hand over his mouth before he had a chance to say another word.
“Shush! Be quiet!” she commanded in a hoarse whisper.
His eyes lit up at her imperious manner. Not making any effort to peel her hand off his lips, he grinned in mute acquiescence. When he had the temerity to cover her fingers firmly with his own and press a kiss to her open palm, however, Francine yanked her hand away.
“What are you . . .” she started to ask, still in a whisper, then stopped and gaped at him.
Holy Savior.
He was nearly naked.
The toweling she’d tossed over the screen was now draped casually about his lean hips. Around both powerful upper arms, inked bands of unintelligible designs formed exotic armlets. The mysterious lettering contained powerful magic. For despite
Looking over her shoulder, she saw a large rumpled bed, thankfully empty. A carved walnut chest stood against one wall, on which sat a silver basin and a man’s shaving brush and razor. A sword and dirk in their scabbards rested on an armchair beside the bed. A discarded red-and-black tartan lay draped across the settle, which stood at the end of the canopied four-poster.
Red-and-black plaid.
The distinctive MacRath clan tartan, as she’d learned to her surprise the previous evening.
The only thing worse than being caught in the bedchamber of a Highland clansman would be discovery by the English marquess searching for her on the far side of the door. If Lychester found her in this room with another man, he’d never be satisfied until he’d killed him. And quite possibly her, as well.
Pressing her hand to her chest, Francine turned to survey the rest of the bedchamber, searching for some clue to its occupant’s identity.
Opposite the wall with the armoire and its masculine accoutrements stood a large fireplace, the light of its flames casting a rosy glow on the chimney stones. A sturdy dressing screen had been carefully placed to catch and hold the warmth of the blaze.
Once again, the splashing of water caught Francine’s attention, and she stared at the patterned silk damask that decorated the screen. She put her hand to her mouth to stifle the laughter that rose up inside her. Though she should have been mortified by her shocking predicament, its very outrageousness tickled her sense of humor.
Never in her wildest dreams had she imagined herself in such a disgraceful, and yet comic, situation.
She’d just interrupted someone’s bath.
And that someone was male.
Which MacRath was it, who sat lolling about in a tubful of warm, soapy water?
There was no doubt that he’d heard her come in, for he called out now from behind the screen in obvious irritation. “I forgot the damn toweling. Give it to me, will ye, lad?”
Although the Scottish laird was unaware of her identity, Francine recognized that aggravated baritone immediately.
Not daring to answer, she pressed her ear flat against the oak panel. Through the closed door she could hear booted feet coming down the tiled corridor. Lychester was quickly approaching. If she stepped outside now, he’d likely crash right into her.
Kinrath must have thought she was his servant. His gathering impatience sharpened his tone, as he called out, “Roddy, toss me the cloth hanging on the footboard.”
Glancing about, she spied a swath of linen draped over the end post of the bed. She tiptoed stealthily across the room, grabbed the toweling, and flung it neatly over the screen. She congratulated herself on the accuracy of her throw as she tiptoed back to the door and pressed her ear against the polished wood once more.
Francine could hear Lychester pacing back and forth in the corridor, as though unsure if he should knock and chance disturbing the occupants of the various rooms.
“From whom are we hiding?” a deep male voice asked only inches from Francine’s ear.
She whirled to find the earl of Kinrath towering beside her. Without stopping to think, she reached up and clamped her hand over his mouth before he had a chance to say another word.
“Shush! Be quiet!” she commanded in a hoarse whisper.
His eyes lit up at her imperious manner. Not making any effort to peel her hand off his lips, he grinned in mute acquiescence. When he had the temerity to cover her fingers firmly with his own and press a kiss to her open palm, however, Francine yanked her hand away.
“What are you . . .” she started to ask, still in a whisper, then stopped and gaped at him.
Holy Savior.
He was nearly naked.
The toweling she’d tossed over the screen was now draped casually about his lean hips. Around both powerful upper arms, inked bands of unintelligible designs formed exotic armlets. The mysterious lettering contained powerful magic. For despite
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