Highland Rogue

The Love of a Noblewoman

Drew grumbled as he pulled Aila in from the rain; she had followed him when he took to leave.

"You mustn't go," Aila said, desperation edging her words.

"Why not, lass?" he challenged her. "Why shouldn't I enjoy the same comforts as my fellow men? Continue on my path?"

"Because you're not...you're not..."

"Worthy?"

"I didn't say that..."

"Then why do you want to marry me?" he whispered, deep hazel eyes searching hers.

"I told you."

He shook his head. "You could find another man, a nobleman, one who would overlook your past indiscretion."

Aila pursed her lips, remembering their previous night together in the barn among the hay. "Perhaps I will."

"Nay, you won't," he told her in a voice as smooth as honeyed wine.

"How do you know that?"

"Because there's a bond between us."

Aila froze. Those had been her very thoughts, as much as she wanted to shut them out. But she could hardly admit it to herself. How could she possibly explain that no matter his birthright, no matter how little coin or hope of coin he had some days, no matter how course his manners were, in her heart she knew he was as good a men as her father had ever been? How could she reconcile the fact that she, a noblewoman, fell in love with a rogue? Yet how could she even imagine sharing the sacrament of lovemaking with anyone else?

Drew could feel the current between them even now as she stood shivering before him-- beautiful, vulnerable. She reminded him of a lost, wretched orphan he'd one brought in to his camp from the rain, allowing the little girl to warm her feet by the fire. He had other ideas about warming Aila.

The pail linen of her kirtle left nothing to his imagination, from the rosy hue of her nipples to the narrow column of her waist. The wet fabric clung and caught between her legs, and his heart quickened as he remembered the softness there. Aila felt his eyes upon her as if they touched her. The damp cloth covering him couldn't hide his evident budding desire. Suddenly she felt unguarded. She wrapped one arm protectively about her waist and trained her eyes on the floor.

"You want me," he murmured. "We both know that."

Her breath caught at the frankness, but she could not deny the truth.

"But I won't marry a woman," he continued, "who thinks I'm beneath her."

"I don't..." she began, and then realized that was exactly what she thought. She still believed it was a sacrifice she was making.

His eyes raked worshipfully down her body. She nervously licked her lower lip.

"You're not helping matters," she said haltingly. "No true gentleman would look at a woman...the way you do."

One side of his mouth curved up. "How would a gentleman look at a woman?"

She swallowed. "With respect. An honour."

"But, my lady, I do respect you," he assured her, humbly bowing his head, "and I intend to honour your wishes."

That was what she was afraid of. Lord, he looked so dangerously compelling with his wet hair slicked on the back of his forehead and his memorizing brown eyes trained on her like a wolf's on its prey.

He came closer, and she fought off the insane urge to flee. What was wrong with her? She acted as if she were about to be devoured. She was in her own home, damn it, she who had bullied dye-makers and battled reivers.