Read Online Kathleen Harrington by Lachlan's Bride - Free Book Online Page B

the many battles she knew he’d fought on the sea, there wasn’t so much as the tiniest scar on his broad chest.
    She took a cautious step to the side, wrenched her gaze from his bare torso, and looked up to meet his curious eyes.
    Clearly, he was neither shocked at her uninvited presence in his bedchamber nor ashamed of standing there in front of her like some fierce warlord just before battle, the bulging muscles of his chest, arms, and legs stripped bare in a wanton and barbaric display of male ferocity.
    She’d read that in olden times the Scots rode to war wearing nothing more than blue paint on their bodies and pagan tokens hanging about their necks. Ironically, a medal hung from a gold chain around his, its image hidden in the thicket of his reddish-brown chest hair. She prayed to God it was the image of a saint and not an enchanter’s rune.
    Francine felt the warmth of a flush suffuse her cheeks. But though she was embarrassed at being caught in his room without an invitation, hysterical laughter threatened to bubble up inside her. The merriment gleaming in his eyes and the fact that, though he leaned closer than was necessary, he hadn’t made any attempt to touch her, persuaded her that she was in no real danger. At least, for the moment.
    “Have you no shame?” she chided, determined to conceal the breathless reaction she felt at his unconscious virility. “Put some clothes on.”
    The light in his eyes seemed to dance with an unholy humor. “I’ll admit, lass, I’m not a pretty sight without my shirt,” he agreed. “Had I known you were coming to call, I’d have finished my bath sooner and donned my finest apparel.” He paused and jerked his head toward the dressing screen. A smile played about the corners of his mouth. “Perhaps I can convince you to join me in the tub?”
    “Certainly not!”
    But the thought of what he was suggesting fascinated her. She’d never entertained such a notion. Never even heard of such scandalous behavior. Yet, somehow she knew that, in spite of his grin and his mirthful tone, she need only give a nod and he’d be happy to . . .
    Great God in heaven, what was she thinking?
    Francine turned, fumbled for the latch, and tried to jerk the door open. It wouldn’t budge.
    By the simple expedient of planting one large palm against the solid oak panel high above her head, Kinrath effortlessly held the door closed.
    “Now that you’re here, Lady Walsingham,” he coaxed softly, “stay for a while. For all we know, that fellow may still be out there.”
    “What fellow?” she parried, lowering her lids to avoid his discerning gaze.
    “I assume he’s the hapless bloke you argued with last evening before departing the dance floor in a huff,” he replied with a knowing grin. “Did you have a lovers’ spat and then refuse to forgive him this morning? I’m sure he’d go down on both knees, should you require it.”
    “Would you?” she asked curiously. “Get down on your knees?”
    His reply came as soft and transparent as a bride’s nightdress. “That depends on how you intended to show your forgiveness.”
    In spite of herself, Francine burst out laughing. “You incorrigible man! Are all Scots so entirely without morals?”
    Lachlan watched the changing emotions that played across Lady Walsingham’s vivacious features. She’d been wide-eyed and incredulous at his suggestion that they bathe together. He was certain the idea had caught her by complete surprise. But something in the sparkling depths of her nut-brown eyes hinted at a playfulness that responded to his teasing.
    The sound of her unreserved laughter rising toward the ceiling seemed to pull his heart upward right along with it, like a signal rocket shot from the bow of a ship. There was a spontaneity about her happiness that called to the empty, jaded place inside him. The vibrant countess was nothing like his expectations of the proud, cold English aristocracy.
    “How can you accuse an entire race