candleflame flicker in one of the upper rooms of the royal building where Nora and her father lodged.
Lennox drew a harsh sigh. He wished he could have accompanied William Brodie, just to see for himself that Nora was all right. Lowering his head, he paused to rub the side of his jaw, wondering again what caused this sense of disquiet.
You barely know the lass, Fiona had reminded him. All your life, you have rescued those in need…but is it your place to intervene with Nora Brodie?
Nay, Fi was right. Lennox inhaled an almost painfully deep breath of night air and realized he must return to his own rooms. If he planned to travel to Falkland Palace on the morrow, there were preparations to be made.
* * *
Nora lay wide awake in the darkness, feeling as if someone had wrapped her entire body in cotton batting and now was attempting to split her skull with a dagger. Her mouth was so dry. Her legs tingled as if tiny pins were pricking her flesh, and she gradually became aware of a raw pain at her very core.
Bile rose again in her throat as the memories returned in jagged pieces. Sir Raymond kneeling beside her on the mattress, untying the strings of his codpiece. Lying on top of her, groaning, his weight forcing the breath from her lungs, as he pushed and pushed himself into her body.
Had it truly happened? Sick with dread, Nora drew her skirts up just far enough to touch between her legs. Her tender flesh burned, and a sticky fluid coated her fingers. She could have wept with despair.
Another memory returned, from the tapestry workroom in London’s Whitehall Palace. Nora’s young body was blossoming and one of the old weavers had noticed how some of the men were looking at her. The elderly woman pulled her aside one day, warning, “Keep your skirts down and your legs closed, young miss! If a man plants his seed in you, you’ll give birth to a bastard!” And in the years since, her father had muttered similar warnings, although no one had offered any clear information.
My God, Nora thought, what have I done?
Suddenly she was overcome with a need to wash. Her father might return and come in to check on her. The substance between her legs had a distinctive scent. What if her father should enter, see her rumpled bed, and detect the odor? Shame and panic swept over her as she imagined such a scene.
It was unthinkable.
How much time had passed since Sir Raymond Slater left her chamber? Gathering her resolve, Nora managed to sit up and bring her legs over the side of the bed. The room swayed up and down for long moments then gradually righted itself. Reaching out, Nora held on to the back of a chair and came up to a standing position. Nearby the candle beckoned weakly to her, its flame sputtering in a pool of melted tallow. As Nora lifted the candlestick, wax dripped down the sides, and the flame came alive again. She set it on the deep sill of her mullioned window and rested against the stone surface, trying to get her bearings.
In the courtyard below, radiant light continued to pour from the tall windows of the great hall, and the strains of music rose through the night air. Thank God the festivities continued! Perhaps her father was still inside, talking to the king. Tears stung her eyes. She hoped he would stay there and, for once, forget about her.
Just then, a flash of gold caught her eye from the shadowed courtyard. Leaning forward, Nora made out the back of a tall man, lean yet powerful, his fair hair agleam in the starlight. Her gaze touched the man’s snow-white shirt and the dark plaid belted at his waist. Her breath caught. Could it be Lennox MacLeod?
Nora leaned closer to the bright candle flame at the same instant the man turned and stared directly up at her window. Indeed, it was Lennox, and he seemed to gaze into her heart, piercing the distance and the darkness.
Hot shame flooded Nora’s body. At that moment, she couldn’t even face herself, let alone meet this splendid Highlander’s kind green eyes. As she turned away, clutching the candlestick, Nora prayed he hadn’t really seen her after all.
More desperate than ever to wash away Sir Raymond Slater’s seed, she stumbled to the chest, where a jug of water, a cake of lavender-scented soap, a soft cloth, and a