Highlander's Sword by Amanda Forester Read Free Book Online

her bath, yet the room was neat and orderly. And nothing in the room resembled the frightened looking lass he married that morn. He was unsure of what to do next. There were no tapestries on the walls and nothing of a personal nature to provide him clues to her disposition. Feeling an odd mixture of relief and disappointment but seeing no point in standing in an empty room, he went back to the staircase. Noting the stairs went farther up to what he guessed was the turret, he decided to take a look and orient himself to the terrain that may soon be host to his next battle.
       He bounded up the stairs, thinking of strategy, and reached the top of the turret before he realized he was not alone. He froze at the unexpected sight. A woman, dressed in nothing more than a linen chemise and a plaid wrap that hung loosely about her arms, was standing in profile, gazing at the valley below. Her figure, which he strained to see in the sunlight through the thin chemise, was perfect. The wind swirled around in teasing gusts, pressing the fabric to her skin, revealing her curves and then billowing out the material once more. In the late afternoon sun, her hair seemed to reflect the sun's rays with no lesser brilliance, shining like red-hot embers, as if her long ringlets were emanating a light of their own. The wind played with her hair, swirling it around her. She closed her eyes and arched her back into the sun.
       MacLaren's mouth fell open. He was reminded of the sirens who led men to their deaths. This one could certainly lead a man to destruction. Since he was a man newly married and she had not yet seen him, he endeavored to leave before notice. His boot scuffed the floor. She turned at the sound and made a small gasp, covering her mouth with one hand, her chest with the other. MacLaren also gasped. The beauty before him was none other than his wife.

Six

    SAINTS ABOVE, BUT SHE WAS BEAUTIFUL. MACLAREN stared at his wife, and she stared right back at him. He tried to think of something to say, but his mind grew ever more blank as the awkward silence continued. He was seized by the compulsion to kiss her, rejected the idea, but then remembered that with this lass, he had the right. He walked slowly toward her, the desire to thread his fingers through her hair and press his lips on hers growing with every step.
       "Sorry, sir, ye startled me. I dinna ken you were there," Aila finally said. She chewed on her bottom lip, her eyes growing larger with MacLaren's approach.
       "Hmmm," said MacLaren, because it was all he could think of to say.
       "I have been remiss in not stating this earlier," Aila's words tumbled on top of each other, her voice a little high. MacLaren drew nearer and reached out to touch her. Nothing could stop him now. "Please let me express my deepest gratitude for the return o' my beloved brother."
       Nothing but that.
       Painful memories came flooding back, and MacLaren's arm dropped along with his desire. He remembered the night he returned to the battle ground of Neville's Cross. There had been so many dead. It had taken hours, crawling body by body to evade capture, before he found the remains of William Graham. Will had been a good friend, quick with a sword, faster on a horse. It should not have ended this way. If only MacLaren had arrived in Scotland sooner.
       When MacLaren heard of King David's advance into England, he followed his path, intending to join his forces. He met the Scots when they were in full retreat. All he could do was to protect their retreating flanks and avoid a rout as they crossed back into Scotland. He had been a day too late. One day earlier, and he could have helped to turn the tide. Or maybe he would have joined his friend in the sleep of death.
       He nodded to Aila, accepting her words, and turned his focus to the waning sun casting its long shadows across the landscape. The vista from the tower was impressive, providing a view of some of Graham's