Read Online Seduced by the Highlander by Julianne MacLean - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Julianne MacLean
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then, and Catherine sat back quickly. Abigail entered with a tray of food and a bottle of wine.
“Bowls of hot stew with dumplings,” she cheerfully said, “and a basket of bread with butter and cheese.” She set it all down on the table, then turned her flirty gaze to Lachlan, who observed her overall appearance. The girl was young and attractive, with dark, playful features. She grew instantly covetous while she stood there, caught up in the flattery of his attention.
“Is there anything else I can do for ye, sir?” she asked, sounding a bit light-headed as she admired him from head to foot.
“No, Abigail, that will be all.” He rested an elbow on the arm of the chair, his temple on a finger. His mischievous eyes smiled at her.
The maid’s lips quivered with excitement. She pointed at his bloodied shirt. “Perhaps I could launder that for ye, sir. If ye wouldn’t mind taking it off…”
Catherine rolled her eyes, and Lachlan gave her a spiteful look, raising a brow as if to say, See? See how you hold me back?
“A fine idea, Abigail,” he replied, returning his attention to the young barmaid. “I will place my shirt in your capable hands. Come back after supper, and I’ll remove it then.”
She uttered a nervous little giggle. “Very well, sir. I’ll be back.”
She spun around and walked straight into the wall.
“Oh my good gracious. I beg your pardon.” She giggled again and rubbed the red mark on her forehead, then skipped out of the room.
Lachlan leaned back languorously in the chair and inclined his head at Catherine. He peered at her with lazy, hooded eyes.
“I’m not going to say one word about that,” Catherine sighed. “Except that it turns my stomach to see a perfectly intelligent young woman behave so foolishly.”
But in fact, she understood it very well and was thankful for Abigail’s well-timed interruption, and the reminder that this man was a shameless rogue in plaid—for Lord knows what she might have said or done next, after he answered her earlier question. She, too, might have stood up and walked into a wall.
Feeling rather flushed all of a sudden, she rose and went to the table to eat. Lachlan remained in front of the fire, but she was intensely aware of his burning gaze while she inhaled the tempting aroma of the spicy, hot stew, and began to smear butter on both sides of her bread.
Chapter Seven
An hour later, Catherine stood at the window, peering out at the darkness beyond. The wind moaned like a ghost through the eaves. Rain pelted the glass like a pebble storm, and water streamed down the panes in shiny, jagged rivulets, like little knives of silver.
The storm showed no signs of letting up, and she could only hope that the squally weather had detained the magistrate at some point in his travels—for she did not wish to return to Drumloch. At least not yet. She wanted to recover her lost memories, and if that meant galloping into the Scottish Highlands with a volatile warrior who detested her, then that was what she would do.
It was unlikely, at any rate, that the magistrate had been able to follow their trail through the woods. The rain would have washed away their tracks, and besides, Lachlan had taken them south, rather than north, which was not what the magistrate would expect. It would take a bit longer to circle around in the direction of Kinloch Castle, Lachlan had told her, but they would reach it eventually.
Letting the curtain fall closed, she turned and faced the bed, just as he was climbing into it. Naked.
Her eyes darted to the hearth, where his tartan was draped over a chair, drying in front of the dancing flames. He had given his bloodstained shirt to Abigail a short time ago. He’d walked into the corridor where she was waiting for him and made a great spectacle of leaving the door open, so Catherine could watch while he pulled it off over his head.
Abigail’s eyes had gone wide as saucers, and Catherine was ashamed to admit that
“Bowls of hot stew with dumplings,” she cheerfully said, “and a basket of bread with butter and cheese.” She set it all down on the table, then turned her flirty gaze to Lachlan, who observed her overall appearance. The girl was young and attractive, with dark, playful features. She grew instantly covetous while she stood there, caught up in the flattery of his attention.
“Is there anything else I can do for ye, sir?” she asked, sounding a bit light-headed as she admired him from head to foot.
“No, Abigail, that will be all.” He rested an elbow on the arm of the chair, his temple on a finger. His mischievous eyes smiled at her.
The maid’s lips quivered with excitement. She pointed at his bloodied shirt. “Perhaps I could launder that for ye, sir. If ye wouldn’t mind taking it off…”
Catherine rolled her eyes, and Lachlan gave her a spiteful look, raising a brow as if to say, See? See how you hold me back?
“A fine idea, Abigail,” he replied, returning his attention to the young barmaid. “I will place my shirt in your capable hands. Come back after supper, and I’ll remove it then.”
She uttered a nervous little giggle. “Very well, sir. I’ll be back.”
She spun around and walked straight into the wall.
“Oh my good gracious. I beg your pardon.” She giggled again and rubbed the red mark on her forehead, then skipped out of the room.
Lachlan leaned back languorously in the chair and inclined his head at Catherine. He peered at her with lazy, hooded eyes.
“I’m not going to say one word about that,” Catherine sighed. “Except that it turns my stomach to see a perfectly intelligent young woman behave so foolishly.”
But in fact, she understood it very well and was thankful for Abigail’s well-timed interruption, and the reminder that this man was a shameless rogue in plaid—for Lord knows what she might have said or done next, after he answered her earlier question. She, too, might have stood up and walked into a wall.
Feeling rather flushed all of a sudden, she rose and went to the table to eat. Lachlan remained in front of the fire, but she was intensely aware of his burning gaze while she inhaled the tempting aroma of the spicy, hot stew, and began to smear butter on both sides of her bread.
Chapter Seven
An hour later, Catherine stood at the window, peering out at the darkness beyond. The wind moaned like a ghost through the eaves. Rain pelted the glass like a pebble storm, and water streamed down the panes in shiny, jagged rivulets, like little knives of silver.
The storm showed no signs of letting up, and she could only hope that the squally weather had detained the magistrate at some point in his travels—for she did not wish to return to Drumloch. At least not yet. She wanted to recover her lost memories, and if that meant galloping into the Scottish Highlands with a volatile warrior who detested her, then that was what she would do.
It was unlikely, at any rate, that the magistrate had been able to follow their trail through the woods. The rain would have washed away their tracks, and besides, Lachlan had taken them south, rather than north, which was not what the magistrate would expect. It would take a bit longer to circle around in the direction of Kinloch Castle, Lachlan had told her, but they would reach it eventually.
Letting the curtain fall closed, she turned and faced the bed, just as he was climbing into it. Naked.
Her eyes darted to the hearth, where his tartan was draped over a chair, drying in front of the dancing flames. He had given his bloodstained shirt to Abigail a short time ago. He’d walked into the corridor where she was waiting for him and made a great spectacle of leaving the door open, so Catherine could watch while he pulled it off over his head.
Abigail’s eyes had gone wide as saucers, and Catherine was ashamed to admit that
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