A Midsummer Wedding_The Scottish Relic Trilogy Read online

  He couldn’t bring himself to lecture her.

  Before going inside, she looked down at her muddy shoes. “I can’t track all of this into someone’s home.”

  He was going to remind her of the dirt floor in the cottage, but she’d already pulled the dress up to her knees and was trying to remove her shoes.

  Alexander found himself staring at her shapely calves and ankles, and thinking of the situation they were in. The two of them, alone in this hut for however long it took the river to recede. The rain and wind didn’t show any sign of letting up, but it didn’t look like the floods would reach the cottage. They’d be safe here.

  She was still struggling to untie the soaked knots on her shoes when he felt his loins tighten. He tore his eyes away from her legs. He was in trouble.

  Distance. And food. Those were the two things he needed most right now.

  “Go inside and stay there,” he told her. “I’ll check the barn.”

  “Are you sure that—?”

  “If I need saving, I’ll call you.”

  * * *

  In her entire life, Elizabeth never felt as great a need to impress someone as she was feeling now. Alexander had already upended many assumptions she’d had about him. Now she was determined to make him feel the same way. They might not have a future together, but she wanted him to realize she was not the prissy court brat he’d imagined her to be. And if he regretted not wanting her as his wife, she could live with that, too. It was matter of pride.

  Coming up to the cottage, she’d seen what looked like a kitchen garden behind it. She was thirsty and starving, but she wasn’t about to mention it to him. She watched him until he made his way across the ankle-deep water running down through the farmyard and disappeared into the largest shed. Leaving her shoes on, she went around to the back of the building.

  The cursed rain and wind continued to batter her as she made her way around. Weariness from the journey was catching up to her. Her sodden dress and cloak were as heavy as a knight’s armor, and she was certain her skin beneath was now permanently shriveled. She half expected her limbs, one by one, to unfasten themselves and drop into the mud.

  Her spirits lifted when she spotted the garden. The wicker fence of woven willow that surrounded it had been nearly destroyed, and many of the plants were flattened, but abundant green foliage held the promise of something to eat. The mud was thick between the rows. Her mood rose even higher when she also saw the line of rain barrels overflowing with clean water.

  Elizabeth only realized how thirsty she was after drinking three ladles of water. He had to be thirsty, too. For a change, she’d do something for him. She’d be useful. Carry water in. Harvest some greens from the garden. This entire misadventure was due to her, and yet Alexander continued to come to her rescue. This was the chance to earn her keep.

  She turned back to the garden and pulled a plant. The parsnip was of a good size. Not enough to feed a woman and a giant, but certainly a start. She reached down to pull a second one. But the root stuck. She pulled harder, with no success. And harder. The parsnip greens gave suddenly, breaking free and sending Elizabeth flying backward.

  Going down, her arse landed on a soft cushion. She looked down in horror at the cone-shaped basket she was sitting on.

  “Damnation.”

  Before she could move, angry bees were everywhere.

  The partially flooded shed had been built into the side of a low hill. A handful of animals were tethered there, up and out of harm’s way. A cow, three pigs, and a pair of goats barely gave him a second glance when he climbed the ladder and peered at them in the murky light. Up in the rafters, chickens eyed him with alarm. They must have sensed how hungry he was.

  Alexander was not about to slaughter any of these and take food out of the mouths of the cotters. Still, he was thinking about milk and eggs when he heard quacking coming from behind the shed. Going back down, he found a flooded pond behind the building with scores of ducks. One wildfowl would barely be missed, and the payment he intended to leave would more than compensate the farmer’s loss.

  A few moments later, he carried their future dinner to a bench beneath an overhang facing the cottage. He wasn’t naïve enough to think Elizabeth could handle plucking or cleaning the fat bird.

  As he began to work, he glanced across at the farmhouse. The door was ajar, but there was no sign of smoke from the opening in the roof. He should have started the fire himself, he realized. Right now, she was probably inside, stripping off her cloak and ruined dress. He imagined Elizabeth standing there, washing the grime from her naked body, rinsing her hair and skin with a bucket of clean water, perhaps even watching him through the partially open door. Tearing his eyes away, he forced himself to focus on yanking the feathers from the duck.

  Devil take him if he wasn’t losing control. He wanted her. He couldn’t deny it. The thought kept pushing itself to the front of his brain. And the more time they spent together, the less he could remember why he’d been against their marriage to start with.

  Alexander wondered if she felt the same way about him. He’d noticed how closely she watched him. And she was quick to reply to his teasing with her own barbs. Blast him, if that wasn’t another thing he liked about her. He enjoyed a woman with a sharp mind and words she wasn’t shy about using. And if Elizabeth was a wee bit loud, well, he could always . . .

  Loud. He focused.

  She was screaming.

  Dropping the half-plucked fowl on the bench, Alexander shot across the flooded farmyard, dagger in hand. Her cries were coming from behind the cottage, and he followed the sound of her voice. At the bottom end of a wrecked kitchen garden, he spotted Elizabeth standing rooted to the ground like a tree. Her cloak lay in the mud, and bees were buzzing like a cloud around her in the wind.

  “Get them off of me,” she cried when she saw him.

  Alexander sheathed the dagger as he approached. “Another skirmish with country life?”

  “Bees. They’re on me. Crawling all over me.”

  He saw the bees were indeed on her, and he was relieved that she had enough sense to remain still. Panicked noises came from her throat, and he wondered how long it would be before she ran for it. He’d seen many a man and boy tear off like a wounded stag when a single bee buzzed about.

  “Shite, shite, shite!” she moaned.

  “Bees don’t like the rain.” He glanced at the grass-woven bee skeps in the garden. One of the baskets lay almost flattened next to her. “You tipped over their hive.”

  “I fell on it. Landed on it.”

  “And the busy wee creatures took exception to it.”

  “It wasn’t intentional,” she keened. “A parsnip tricked me.”

  He glanced down at the vegetables near her feet. She’d been trying to get them something to eat.

  “Get them off my . . . off my face.” She shut her mouth and eyes but continued to make a moaning sound.

  “You’re doing the right thing. Don’t move,” he said in what he hoped was a calm tone.

  He was no expert. He was certainly no beekeeper, but he’d seen a great many people stung in his life. He’d been stung a number of times himself, but he’d also heard stories of folk dying from it. Alexander remembered as a lad seeing a priest who lived not far from Benmore working with his bees. The swarm never hurt him.

  What he needed to do now was to keep Elizabeth calm while he figured out what to do. The skep she’d crushed was filled with bees and broken wax combs that were oozing honey.

  The bees were on her face, crawling on her hair, but she hadn’t yet been stung, apparently. Actually, that was a bloody miracle.

  “Keep your mouth and eyes closed,” he ordered. “I’m right here.”

  He spotted a battered bushel basket that the wind had jammed up into a corner of the wattle fence. Retrieving it, he stood in front of her, turning it upside down. Rain continued to pelt down.

  He brought the basket closer and brushed gently at her face, trying
to encourage them to fly up into this offered shelter. They were slow to move. He couldn’t blame them.

  Alexander worked slowly and methodically, moving across her hair, her forehead, her nose, her dripping chin. They were even on the seam of her lips. He touched her gently, brushing away the intruders. He saw tears streaming down her cheeks, mingling with the rain, but she remained steadfastly still.

  “I have most of them off your face,” he told her.

  “My dress,” she whimpered.

  As he brushed the bees off her neck, his fingers caressed the silky skin. They were now following each other into the basket, out of the hard rain. It took time, and her courage was impressive. Equally impressive was his own patience, not becoming distracted by this beauty standing before him. With the exception of a few strays, most of them were off her. He propped the basket up on a rock under the hedge. She still hadn’t moved.

  He stared at the dress. The curves of her breast showed through the torn neckline, above the exposed shift.

  “They’re inside my clothes.”

  “Most of them are gone.”

  “They’re crawling down inside my shift. I feel them. You need to do something.”

  “Inside your dress?”

  “Do something,” she cried.

  There was nothing else he could do. There was no getting around this. “Keep perfectly still,” he ordered.

  The dress already had more holes in it than a tinker’s promise. The seams were torn open in a dozen places, but he took his time pulling it open at the neckline. His knuckles lay against the warm, firm flesh of her breasts, and one of the invaders crawled up onto his thumb before flying away.

  Alexander was glad she still had her eyes closed or she’d be far more frightened by the reaction of his body than the bees.

  As he peered down the front of her dress for others, raindrops splashed on her chest and formed sparkling rivulets on her skin. Two more bees crawled into sight and flew off toward the hedge.

  “You’re right. There are more,” he told her. The huskiness in his voice made his words sound more like a growl. “I have to strip you down.”

  “Do it. Do it now.”

  Alexander was lost. Last night, he’d been able to exercise some control. Now, standing here in the light of day, he had no choice. He had to see what he was doing. And what his eyes saw, his body reacted to.

  Devil take him, he was only a man, after all.

  He gently peeled the dress down her arms and pulled it over past her hips until it dropped to the ground. The shift was wet and it hid nothing. A bloody saint would have found it impossible not to stare at the perfect roundness of her breasts or the pink tips poking through the nearly transparent material. And he was no saint.

  He unfastened the ties down the front of the shift. As her body came more and more into view, he swallowed hard and tried to stifle the maddening urge to lean down and take her nipples between his lips. Making himself do what needed to be done, he pulled the shift down off her shoulders. As it clung to her hips, he shooed away the handful of insurgents beneath her breasts and on her belly. Moving around her, he drew the cloth away from the small of her back and saw a few had made their way there, working themselves down onto the curve of her buttocks. He reached down and brushed them away.

  Standing there in the driving rain with her shift hanging at her hips, she was exposed to him, to his eyes, to his touch. And Elizabeth was perfection in every sense.

  “I think I got them all,” he said in that stranger’s voice.

  When he looked into her face, her eyes were open. Her gaze was fixed on him. He gently pulled the shift back up onto her shoulders. Without saying anything, she threw her arms around his neck.

  He hadn’t realized it, but she was still crying. He was a villain being so focused on her body and not paying attention to how frightened she’d been.

  “Were you stung?”

  Elizabeth shook her head and continued to shiver. Whatever words she was trying to say were lost with her face buried against his chest.

  Rain continued to pound them. Her dress and cloak were lying in the mud. He lifted her in his arms and carried her around the cottage. She rested her face against him, still quivering.

  Inside, Alexander sat her on the edge of the bed. Untying the laces of the muddy shoes, he gently removed them. She peeled off her stockings and stared at the blanket he held open.

  “You’d be better off without those clothes.”

  She took a deep breath, but didn’t hesitate. Shrugging out of the shift, she pushed her drawers down, stepping out of them, as well.

  Alexander’s heart pounded in his chest. Her hair fell in wild, tangled cascades of burnished gold along her face and arms. Her body was streaked with mud, and long shapely legs descended from curved hips that matched the fullness of her breasts. Stunned by the vision, he hesitated for a few moments longer than he should have. She took his breath away. Finally coming to his senses, he placed the coarse woolen blanket around her shoulders.

  She sank down onto the straw mattress, dropped onto her side, and drew her knees to her chest. Her eyes closed.

  Damn me. Damn me. Damn me, he cursed silently. He was a pirate and one who’d earned his reputation. He lived by his wits and his love of a fight and his willingness to take what he wanted. But that had never applied to women. Never in his life had he ever mistreated or taken advantage of one.

  But right now, looking down at Elizabeth, her shoulder peeking out from beneath that blanket, he was wondering if he’d be able to say that before the day was out. He wanted her. He wanted to feel himself inside of her, regardless of the right or wrong of it. He’d ruined the chance of having her as his wife. She didn’t belong to him.

  Which meant only one thing. He had to get out.

  Alexander stomped to the door. He’d left a half-plucked fowl out there somewhere.

  He paused at the sound of a soft voice coming from the bed. “I’m not weak, Highlander.”

  He turned and looked at her. Even in the dim light of the cottage, her eyes were bright.

  “You’re not weak,” he agreed. “You’re the bravest woman I know.”

  Chapter Ten

  She awoke dry and warm. Lying there, Elizabeth couldn’t recall the last time she felt this way. She also didn’t recall falling asleep.

  Her stomach growled, and she realized it was the smell of roasting meat that roused her. As she stretched on the bed, her feet slipped out from beneath the blanket. She sat up and looked around the cottage. “Alexander?”

  There was no sign of him, but she saw the bird on an iron spit over a fire.

  Alexander. She lay back again and closed her eyes. The brave Highlander who’d come to her rescue over and over again. The honorable man who’d forgiven her error in judgment and not once reminded her that they were in this predicament because of her foolish blunder. The gallant hero who’d undressed her, seen her naked, touched her flesh, but not once taken advantage of her vulnerable condition. The courteous laird who’d even prepared a meal.

  Alexander. Not my Alexander. Not my Highlander. She remembered the wistful tone in Queen Margaret’s words about romance. Now she understood. Elizabeth now realized the extent of her error in judgment.

  Where was he?

  The crackling flames and the hiss of dripping fat were the only sounds. No wind whistled past the edges of the shutters or the door. No gusts of rain battered the walls of the cottage. Was it possible that the storm was over?

  Wrapping the blanket around her, she got out of the bed. He couldn’t be too far away.

  How had this happened? In her entire life, she’d always been in control. She was not prone to accidents. She was not clumsy. She’d never needed to be rescued, and here Alexander had saved her yet again.

  Recalling how she’d stood naked before him, Elizabeth felt the heat rise and spread across her skin. But she hadn’t felt the blush of modesty then. She’d simply wanted to be free of the bees and the wetnes
s that had seeped into her bones. But it was more than that. Something in her world had shifted. Something existed now that hadn’t existed before.

  Into her mind came the painting she had seen in Florence in the palace of the Magnifico. Botticelli’s vision of Venus. With the flood waters of the sea all around her, her golden hair flowing across her uncovered skin, the goddess showed no false sense of modesty. She was willing to share this intimate view of herself. Earlier, when Alexander had gazed at her, she suddenly knew how Venus felt.

  And she wanted him. After he’d carried her back into the cottage, she would have freely given up the blanket if he’d have stripped off his clothes and used his body to warm her. Skin to skin. Her hands all over his chest and back and arms. Holding him against her, belly to belly, thigh to thigh.

  She touched her flushed cheeks and tried to ignore the wobbly knees and the heavy, tingling sensation in her breasts.

  There was no sign of her undergarments or her dress or shoes. Near the bed, the wooden chest had been left open. She looked through the folded clothing. A man’s shirt and breeches. A woman’s woolen dress. She took it out and laid it on the bed. At the bottom of the chest, she found the partially sewn pieces of a tiny linen dress.

  “You have a bairn on the way,” she murmured to the absent mistress.

  Replacing the baby’s garment, Elizabeth glanced around the cottage. She’d overlooked the freshly sawn wood stacked in one corner beside a half-built cradle.

  As she stared at it, an unexpected thought edged into her consciousness. In recent years, she’d been fighting the notion of marrying this Highlander, hostile to the thought of finding herself deserted in a place where she’d be a stranger, away from everything she knew and cared about. She’d made herself believe happiness lay in the life she had with her father. Travel, grandeur, building, learning. She’d imagined it was all or nothing. One way or the other.

  She’d scoffed at thoughts of having a family of her own, of planning a future that encompassed anything beyond her own needs and desires. But here, wrapped in a coarse blanket of homespun wool, she realized this tidy cottage glowed with an aura of tenderness, of happiness that existed not in spite of life’s toil, but because of it.