Helen refused to let him scare her off when she might be a comfort to Abbott. "I'm staying here."
"Suit yourself. But if you swoon, I'll leave you lying where you fall."
"I never swoon."
Abbott attempted a jovial laugh. "Rest assured, sir, her ladyship is not one for hysterics. She never quailed the time we faced brigands in the Alps. She jabbed one in the belly with her umbrella, and the others ran away." The coachman fell silent, the corners of his mouth pinched with pain.
"Swallow that whisky," MacBrut said. "Every wee drop of it."
While the coachman was occupied with drinking, MacBrut turned his penetrating gaze on Helen. "Scared off the brigands, did you?" He looked her up and down, and lowered his voice to an undertone. "And here I thought Sassenach women had but one use."
His gaze ogled her bosom, leaving no doubt as to his meaning. Helen told herself to feel outraged, but a tingling warmth filled her instead. The sensation had little to do with thawing skin, and everything to do with a shocking awareness of him as a man. A big, bold rogue of a man.
MacBrut focused on the task of splinting the injured limb. " Tis a clean break, I trow. At least you willna be getting the fever."
Helen felt as if she were the one with the fever. The firelight caressed his clean-shaven cheeks and strong jaw. Melted snow glittered on the night-black hair that brushed his shoulders. For so large a man, he had a remarkably gentle touch. What a curious mix of barbarian and healer he was.
"Where did you learn to set a broken bone?" she asked.
"Here and there." His blue stare bored into her. "So far from the city, we canna send down the street for a doctor."
"I don't suppose you can." And that made him all the more fascinating. He had skills unknown to the civilized gentlemen of London. His rough-edged manner only made her wonder what other unique abilities he possessed. An insistent curiosity settled low in her belly. In truth, he was unlike any other man she had met in her travels.
She helped to lift Abbott's leg so that MacBrut could pass the strip of linen bandage around the splinted ankle. As they worked together, she grew more intensely aware of him. Aware of the quirk of his hard mouth. Aware of the lock of black hair that had tumbled onto his brow. Aware of the clever movements of his hands, and how perfectly her breasts would fit his palms-
"That's quite enough," MacBrut said.
Flustered, Helen moistened her dry lips with the tip of her tongue. "I beg your pardon?"
His gaze narrowed on her mouth, and his scowl deepened. "I'm finished. You can lower his leg, careful now."
"Oh." Helen saw that the bandage had been tied neatly. She eased Abbott's leg back onto the blanket. "How are you doing?"
The coachman sighed as if glad the ordeal was over. "Ready for that bite to eat, m'lady."
With the timing of a stage actress, Miss Gilbert trotted back with the provisions, and Helen helped her set up a picnic by the fire. She found herself seated beside MacBrut. A strange aching tension distracted her from any interest in food. While everyone dined on cold ham, bread, and cheese, she merely nibbled at her meal, feeding small bites to M'lord. She stole sideways glances at MacBrut, at the muscled bare legs beneath the kilt and the way his rough linen shirt and black and red plaid clung to his chest. He was so different from the elegant noblemen that Papa too often steered into her path. Was MacBrut thinking of her, too?
No. He had made it clear he despised her.
When she reached for the wine flask, their hands bumped and the contact prickled up her arm and into her bosom. His gaze jerked to hers, and for an unguarded moment she glimpsed a burning intensity in him, something vastly different from hatred, something deep and rich and mysterious. Elation swept like wildfire through Helen. She'd been around enough men to recognize the truth.
MacBrut desired her.
Though he turned abruptly away, she reveled in the feminine thrill of conquest. MacBrut wanted her. He wanted to take her to his bed. He wanted to do wicked things with her.
Things she wanted desperately to experience.
The heat within her flared into a pulsebeat. She had the spark of an idea so outrageous she doused it at once.
But the thought took hold like tinder, burning brighter until she could deny it no longer.
MacBrut was the perfect man to show her the secrets of physical love.
Chapter Three
The deep hush of night shrouded the castle.
As Helen slipped out of bed in the small upstairs chamber, she could hear only the whine of the wind down the chimney and the soft snoring of Miss Gilbert, who lay burrowed beneath the pile of blankets. Nestled at the foot, M'lord lifted his head and wagged his tail, but Helen whispered, "Stay," and he obeyed, his liquid brown eyes watching as she crept toward the door.
The fire had burned down to smoldering embers during the hour she had waited to make certain her companion was soundly slumbering. Helen had spent the time in dreamy romantic fantasy until her every nerve hummed and she could bear the suspense no longer.
It was now. Or never.
The icy floor caused her toes to curl inside her thin silk stockings. She'd left off her shoes, which were still damp from the snow. Luckily, she had retrieved her cloak when Abbott had been moved to a bedchamber, for the air held a frosty nip that penetrated her thin shift and petticoats.
When Gillie had innocently suggested she remove her gown and corset before retiring, Helen had complied. She had also unbound her hair and let it tumble to her waist. Now she felt deliciously daring as she opened the door and stole out into the gloomy corridor.
Where did the master of the castle sleep?
MacBrut would have chosen the best room for his own-the laird's chamber. This was his castle, after all. Questions clamored in her. Where were his servants? Did he have another home elsewhere? Who was he, really? Helen sensed there was more to him than he let the world see. Much more.
With one hand on the cold stone wall, she slowly felt her way through the darkness. A frisson of excitement scurried over her skin. She could scarcely believe she was on her way to meet a man in his bedchamber. Such scandalous behavior could ruin an unmarried lady.
And if all went as planned, who would ever find out? Certainly no one from her social circle. This was her one night of adventure, her one chance to learn the truth behind the mystery of the sexes.
After tomorrow, she would never see. MacBrut again.
She stumbled into a chair, and the legs scraped the floor with a loud screech. Helen froze, her heartbeat surging. The passage was pitch-black; belatedly she realized she should have brought a candle. She had the eerie sense of being watched by a ghostly presence, and the image of that dusty abandoned table in the great hall flitted to her. But she deliberately put it out of her mind. She would let no morbid thoughts intrude upon her quest.
Carefully she moved on until she reached the bedchamber. The door stood halfway open. Feeling giddy, she tiptoed closer. From within came the glow of a fire and the faint crackling of logs. Helen pictured MacBrut lying sprawled in the four-poster bed: His eyes would widen with surprised appreciation when she walked into his room. He would be stunned by her offer; then he would sweep her into his arms and kiss her and do the wicked deed and at last she would know…
It would be as simple as that. Or would it?
She paused, her palm frozen against the studded oak door. All she had to do was to push it open and walk inside. But her hand disobeyed the edict of her brain. Her legs had all the strength of frostbitten flower stalks. What if MacBrut scorned her overture? What if he gave her that stony look of his? What would she say to persuade him?
Hello, I wondered if you would mind taking my virginity. Too blatant.
Ithought you might be feeling as lonely as I am. Too dreary.