A Highlander's Temptation by Sue-Ellen Welfonder

Author:Sue-Ellen Welfonder [WELFONDER, SUE-ELLEN]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: FIC027050
ISBN: 9780446558808
Publisher: Forever
Published: 2009-10-01T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eleven

The wrong man loomed in the doorway when Arabella turned from the bedchamber window to see who she’d just bid welcome to enter. She stared, though she shouldn’t have been surprised. In truth, she’d expected him. She certainly couldn’t blame him for the squeezing pain in her chest. Or how her pulse had leapt only to slow again the instant she’d seen him. He couldn’t help any of those things. Indeed, he simply hovered on the threshold, the image of innocence.

Arabella smiled at him, her heart freezing.

He grinned, his face friendly as summer sunshine. Warmth poured off him, gentle and kind.

Even so, she had to fight not to show her disappointment. She’d so hoped the knock had been Darroc. He’d been avoiding her, she knew. Each hour rode heavy on her shoulders, bearing down on her and seeping into her substance. Then the rapping on the door had sounded so strong and confident. She’d been sure it was him. But the young man with coppery red hair and lively blue eyes was Conall, his cousin.

The one with the fire-scarred arms.

Shame pinched Arabella when, seeing those arms now, she remembered how he’d frightened her when he’d helped rescue her from the barrel raft. In her dazed state, she’d thought he was a man of flame, come straight from the pits of hell to seize and take her there.

Now she knew he was one of the most gallant men at Castle Bane. One of the few who hadn’t slid cold dark looks at her when she’d first started making brief visits to the hall. Ever cheerful, he’d faithfully brought her dinner trays, with Moraig often trailing on his heels, eager to help.

This time he’d come alone.

And instead of her evening meal, he clutched a large wicker creel that she knew held the table linens Moraig had promised her.

Linens she could use to make a decent gown.

“Here they are, the linen goods, fresh and laundered.” He confirmed as he came into the room and plunked the creel on the floor near the window. “Moraig tucked a small bag into the basket. It holds her sewing needles and better thread. She’ll surely be looking in on you later, wanting to help.”

He straightened and dusted his hands. “I can find something to keep her busy until you’re done,” he volunteered, a pink tinge staining his cheeks. “It’s no trouble if you prefer. She’d have no need to know.”

“But I would.” Arabella smoothed the front of Darroc’s borrowed shirt and his plaid, the latter wrapped several times around her like a great tartan skirt.

An overlarge, ill-fitting skirt she’d no doubt have had to wear for weeks if not for Moraig’s kindhearted suggestion that they stitch her some gowns from the keep’s store of fine linens and napery.

Moraig’s own prized collection of ribbons.

Arabella’s stomach knotted to think how the light would fade from the old woman’s eyes if she stitched the gowns without her assistance.

“I do not mind Moraig’s help.” She saw no point in lying. “I can fix whatever harm she does.

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