little row of bottles and vials, and a few other trinkets and ribbons. The stone floors were softened with a woven rug.
“I’ll send up a servant with yer saddlebags, and another to light a fire,” she said, her tone suddenly more formal.
Gregor glanced at her and found her studying the contents of her own bedchamber as if seeing them for the first time. Mayhap she wondered what he made of her private space. Or mayhap she, like Gregor, had become acutely aware that they were alone for the first time.
She turned to him abruptly. “I’m no a wanton, ye ken,” she blurted. “I dinnae usually go around kissing strange men.”
Despite himself, Gregor felt his mouth twitch. “Is that so?”
“Aye.” She lifted her chin. “Obviously I wasnae going to fight ye in that alehouse. I could never match ye strength for strength.”
He cocked a brow at her, letting his gaze slide over her petite form. “Indeed.”
“I only kissed ye to catch ye off-guard,” she hurried on. “Which worked.”
“It was a clever plan,” he admitted.
“And ye may think me stubborn as a mule. Or foolish. Or rash. Or headstrong,” she careened onward, “but I’m no’—or, no’ usually. It is only that I care a great deal for my people, and take my responsibility to them verra seriously. I’m quite determined is all, ye see.”
Gregor absorbed her words for a moment. “I havenae been here long enough for my arse to quit aching from the saddle,” he began. She blinked at his blunt phrasing, yet he didn’t apologize. “But I can already see that ye care deeply for yer people and ye have devoted much of yerself to looking after them. I only wonder…”
Though he knew he shouldn’t, he took a step closer. An arm’s length still separated them, yet his skin prickled with awareness.
“What?” she said, her voice faint and her wide green eyes fixed on him.
“Who looks after ye, my lady?”
Her petal-pink lips parted, but no answer immediately came.
“I’ll send up those servants,” she said at last. She spun on her heels and made a hasty departure.
When the door thudded softly behind her, Gregor cursed himself for a fool. What the hell had possessed him to be so bold with her? It wasn’t his place, nor his concern, to ask such a thing. All of her talk about kissing and wantonness must have addled his wits.
Suddenly restless, he moved to her dressing table and picked up one of the vials. Some rash impulse urged him to remove the small cork and sniff the contents, but his big hands would likely crush the delicate glass if he tried.
He set the vial down and ran a finger along a discarded ribbon. Did she use this in her hair? Or mayhap to hold up her stockings?
He jerked his hand away as if the wee scrap of ribbon were a red-hot coal. His gaze fell on the soft, cozy-looking bed. No doubt the linens would smell of Birdie—sweet and faintly earthy, like heather after a rain. Her presence lingered in the room, as if she were still there. As if he were sharing the bedchamber with her.
The thought was tempting. Far too much so.
Bloody hell, this was a bad idea. Touching her things, staying in her chamber, sleeping in her bed—it was all far too intimate.
He shouldn’t be here at all—not in her bedchamber, not even on Morgan land. Why hadn’t he simply refused her ridiculous challenge? Or reneged on his pledge to help her after she’d tricked him with that dizzying kiss?
The truth was, he’d been far too intrigued by the fire of determination in her eyes. And those damn bonny lips that had proven even softer than they looked.
A sense of foreboding seeped through him like a blot of dark ink in water. This would be worse than the fortnight he’d spent in the stinking, cold dungeon in the belly of Scone Palace.
What the hell had he gotten himself into?
Chapter Five
Birdie had dallied in Tessa’s chamber long enough. It was time to face the day—or rather, time to face MacLeod.
Gregor. That was much better than calling him “the Black MacLeod.” It humanized the man who was otherwise so intimidating. And bold.
Birdie had been so flustered last eve to stand in her bedchamber with him—and face his knowing gaze and intimate conversation—that she’d fled without gathering a few of her possessions.
Like a naughty lass chased away from the honey pot, she’d scurried, warm-faced and short of breath, straight to her sister’s chamber.
Tessa had been