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“Does it pain ye, remembering him?”

“At times. But my memories are mainly joyful and for that I am grateful. And lucky.” She tilted her head. “Do you think often of your wife?”

“Wives,” he corrected, shrugging sheepishly at her widened eyes. Christ, he sounded like an old lecher, having survived two young wives. “They were both fine lasses. Alas, my marriages were too brief to have many memories at all, joyful or otherwise.”

She wrinkled her brow, her expression wry. “How calmly we speak of our past lovers. Is that not cold?”

“Life goes on,” he said simply, brushing a long strand of her golden hair away from her eyes.

“As best it can,” she said in a sad voice.

Deciding that melancholy had no place in their bed, Gavin brushed his thumb beneath Fiona’s chin, tilting her head so he could reach her mouth and kiss her. She murmured something as their lips met and he pressed deeper.

Tentatively she reached out, extending her fingers to touch his chest. Slowly she worked her way across the wide expanse, rubbing in a circular motion with her palm. Gavin felt each tender stroke as it left a burning trail across his covered flesh.

Greedily, he moved his head lower, tonguing her navel, licking the curve of her hip. He playfully rubbed the stubble on his chin against her tender skin. Fiona jumped. Her fingers curled and she restlessly shifted her legs. Gavin smiled in satisfaction. There was fire inside his little English rose—all he need do was set the flint to the dry timber and let the flames engulf them both.

Removing his tunic, he let it fall to the floor, then hastily pulled his shirt over his head and tossed it aside.

“Touch me again,” he whispered.

Fiona’s hands rose up until they rested on Gavin’s bare shoulders. Lifting one arm higher, her fingertips lightly raced across his nose and mouth, down his chin and along his throat.

The tender gesture of intimacy made Gavin forget she was doing her job as his mistress. He groaned encouragingly, pressing her legs open with his knee, the blood pounding so loudly in his ears, he swore he could hear it.

The sounds in my head. In my head? Nay!

The loud, almost frantic knock on the chamber door had them both stiffening.

“Milord!”

“Go away,” Gavin snarled.

There was only a brief pause before the pounding started again. This time louder and longer.

“Are ye deaf, man?” Gavin shouted. “Leave me be!”

“I cannae,” came the quivering voice from the other side of the door. “Duncan says ’tis urgent.”

“If this is a prank, then ye best be preparing to meet yer maker,” Gavin shouted. He stomped to the door and yanked it open. “What?”

The squire leapt back, almost as if fearing he’d be struck. “They sent me to fetch ye. ’Tis Gilroy. He’s raided the grain at Kilmore.”

Gavin stiffened, cursing his bastard brother beneath his breath. The knave had the most incredible sense of timing in all of Christendom. Was he never to find a minute’s peace from his antics? “Have they caught his trail?”

“Aye. Duncan believes he’s heading fer Dunfield’s Cross. He knew ye’d want to be told of it straightaway.”

“Fine. Ye’ve done yer duty and told me.” The temptation to slam the door and return to Fiona’s warm body tore at his gut, but Gavin couldn’t resist adding, “If the men take the Sterling pass, they should be able to intercept the raiders.”

The young squire nodded eagerly. “That’s just what Duncan said they’re going to do.”

Gavin grimaced. “Have they left?”

“They’re gathering in the bailey right now.”

Gavin hesitated for a moment and that troubled him. No woman should ever come between him and his duty. Especially an English mistress.

“Call fer my squire and have my horse readied. I’m going with them.”