Highlander in Her Bed

By Cathleen Ross

Scotland 1308 Sir David McLaird is a prisoner of Sir James Bruce. When healer, Lady Arabel Bruce tends to his wounds he doesn't expect to fall in love. The trouble is Arabel is from the enemy clan.
Lady Arabel loves the wild highlander but won't betray her clan and marry him, until Sir David abducts and makes her his.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cathleen Ross
• Release date: Oct 10, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301410958

Cathleen Ross

Cathleen Ross likes to write about the quirky side of life. She loves writing erotic romance. Psychic Sex and Shift into Pleasure are her latest Harlequin Spice Brief releases. Psychic Sex was included in the Naughty Bits Anthology. When Cathleen's not writing for Harlequin, she's working on her Forbidden Fantasy self-published series.

Book preview

Highlander in her bed

Published by Cathleen Ross at Smashwords

Copyright 2014 Cathleen Ross

Chapter 1

Sir David McLaird, heir to Cancarrick Castle and prisoner of Sir James Bruce, jerked the chains at his wrist when his chamber door opened. He lay on the pallet, set against the wall, cold and next to naked, save for his shirt. Had his captor come to kill him? His muscles bulged as he prepared to defend himself, though he knew he'd be no more than sport with his wrist in irons and his thigh sliced from groin to knee by Sir James' sword.

Surprise, followed by relief hit him when he saw it was a veiled young woman carrying a basin filled with steaming water entered the room. Her dress was so somber he thought she was a nun until she turned. She stared at him with eyes the color of the ocean on a rare summer's day. They sparkled like gems, but the serious expression on her face was a sharp contrast. I'm Sir James's sister, Arabel. I'm told a warrior like you would never lay a hand on a maiden.

From his pallet, David turned his head as far as the stiffness in his neck would allow him to gaze at the woman who glided toward him. So this was his enemy's sister, and young by the look of her. Could he use her in some way to escape? The way he was feeling it would take effort to summon up enough energy to charm her, but it was his first day here and worth trying. God knew his life depended on it. I've never lain a hand in anger on a woman, if that's what you're asking, but if it's a hand you be wanting, I'm sure I can oblige.

You're spirited for a wounded man. She studied him, her gaze moving over him as if checking whether he were dangerous or not.

Aye I'm wounded but not unmanned and I've not seen such a pretty sight until you entered my chamber. His words were rewarded by a rose flush on her cheeks.

Arabel put the basin and what looked to be herbs and bandages on the table. She reached inside her mantle and pulled out a set of keys. Even with her body clad in the austere grey mantle and kirtle, a simple white veil adorning her head, he could see how beautiful she was. With her face near to his, he noticed her eyebrows and lashes were darker than her white-blond hair, which cascaded down her back, only partially covered by the veil. Her eyes were wide and innocent. Her nose was petite, her lips lush, but upturned at the sides, and her breath sweet. No doubt a woman like this would attract attention even dressed in this dour manner. A silver cross hanging on a chain around her neck was the only jewelry that adorned her. He wanted to grab the chain and pull her down toward him so he could kiss her, but that would frighten her. She was not one for ravishing.

Not the first time.

Do you vow to behave, for I wish to remove your irons?

Behave in what way? A man is entitled to a kiss before he goes to his death. He saw her cheeks color again at his words. Something stirred in his heart at the sight of this petite maiden, her composed expression rumpled by his teasing. Had a man ever caressed her bow-like lips with his? Something inside him told him no.

You're not going to your death. Sir James has plans for you. I'm under orders to treat you and I've no wish to tend such a chained, sorrowful sight.

Ooch and I'm offended that you find me sorrowful. In all my years I've not heard such an insult. A jug and that basin of water will make a fine difference. Then you'll find me a suitable swain.

Arabel's chin snapped up. A McLaird will never be a mate for a Bruce and well you know it.

I've not seen a Bruce that appealed to me until you walked into my room. Most of them are great hairy brutes. I never realized a Bruce maiden could be beautiful and here I was thinking they'd be hairy like the men.

Arabel's lips pursed, though her eyes sparkled. She looked down at him, moved a lock of his long, black curls from the crown of his head and examined it.

A shiver of pleasure passed through him at her touch. You'll need more than a bucket thrown over you to clean you up. You look like you've taken a blow to the head. There's blood here. It's stopped bleeding though, so I'll examine it later.

Sir David rubbed his hand along his crown noticing a large lump and matted hair. Aye, your brother destroyed my helmet. Nearly took my head off. That was the start of the end of me, he said ruefully. The soldiers who had carted him from the dungeon of the insurgent, King Robert the Bruce to his cousin, Sir James Bruce's Turnburn Castle, in the highlands of Scotland had made good with his armor. He'd only been left in his linen tunic and boots.

A line furrow her fair brow. It saddens me to see such a fine warrior felled when you could be fighting for Scotland's freedom from the Sassenach. My brother, Sir James says our side needs warriors like you.

To fight for the Bruce crown, you mean, David countered.

Your Balliol king has fled. You've backed the wrong contender for the Scottish throne. The Bruce is far stronger than Balliol. There's no one else who'll fight against Edward Longshanks who seeks to rule Scotland through a vassal king.

He bristled, wanting to argue against her but unfortunately he knew her words to be true. The maiden moved close to him, took his wrist and unlocked the cuff that held him on the pallet. She put her hand under his chin and tilted it upward, her fingers exploring under his jawline. Up close he saw how young she was. Not more than seventeen and yet her touch was sure, like an experienced healer. Just for a moment, he breathed in deeply, her presence sending away the tension that had eaten at him since he'd lost the last battle. She smelled of lavender, the fragrance soothing after the blood, guts and cries of his wounded men.

She rested her palm on his forehead and he noticed her frown in concentration. You'll find me more tender to touch if I shave, he said, "though I'm told some women love the roughness of a man's beard on their cheek. So soft. Her hands. Her body. To lie between her thighs. What would the scent of her woman's musk taste like? The thought was captivating, stirring his blood.

Such words. You're starting a fever. No wonder your mind has turned to parritch.

Where did you learn to be so cruel? He put his hand to his chest. He was rewarded with what he suspected was a rare smile.

I need to see your injury. Her gaze moved down his body until it stopped at his thigh where his blood had dried on his linen shirt leaving a watery reddish stain.

I've had a blade swipe my thigh. If you examine the wound you realize you'll see more of my manhood than is good for a maid. A man is built differently to a woman. He'd fended off Sir James' fierce attack until the experienced knight's blade had glanced downward off his breastplate and slid along the inside of his thigh, bringing him to his knees in agony, awaiting the death-blow.

It hadn't come.

The maiden turned, took a sponge, dipped it in the ewer and wet the place on his thigh where the tunic stuck to his body, gently separating the fabric from his flesh. His stomach muscles clenched at the pain.

"I know a man is different from a woman. I've tended my brother's wounds. He's as large as you.