Page 16 of Tempted by a Highland Beast (Tales of Love and Lust in the Murray Castle #9)

Rowena turned and hurried toward the castle, her mind racing. What had just happened? She could still feel the warmth of his hands on her shoulders, could still see the way he’d looked at her in that moment before she’d pulled away.

Would he’ve kissed me if I had stayed?

She moved through the castle corridors in a daze, her thoughts consumed by the memory of Constantine’s touch.

It wasn’t until she reached the doorway to her chamber that disaster struck.

The heavy wool of her gown caught on a splintered piece of wood in the doorframe, and she heard the distinctive sound of fabric tearing.

“Nay,” she breathed, looking down at the damage. A long tear ran down the side of her skirt, exposing her shift beneath. It was the only decent gown Lilias had kindly given her, and now it was ruined.

Frustration coiled in her chest, directed as much at herself as at the splintered wood. She was growing weary of needing help for everything, of depending on borrowed kindness and offered hands. This, at least, she could manage. A torn gown was no great matter. She could mend it.

During her earlier explorations, Rowena had noticed that the laundry room was located in the lower levels of the castle, where the sewing supplies were. She made her way down the stone steps, her torn gown held carefully to avoid further damage.

The room was empty when she arrived, baskets of clean linens stacked neatly along one wall. She found what she was looking for in a small wooden box tucked into a corner—needles, thread, and a pair of small scissors.

She gathered the supplies quickly, then looked around for a private place to work. It was bad enough ruining a gown that wasn’t her own, the last thing she needed was an audience seeing her in nothing but her shift in an attempt to fix it.

The first empty chamber she found was small and sparsely furnished, with only a wooden stool and a narrow window that let in a thin stream of light. It would have to do. Rowena settled herself on the stool, spreading the tear across her lap, and began to work.

The stitching should have been simple work—she’d been trained in fine needlework since childhood, had embroidered tapestries that graced her father’s hall. But her hands trembled from lingering tension after the encounter with Constantine, and her usual steady fingers fumbled with the heavy wool.

The coarse thread caught and tangled where her delicate silks never would have, and the awkward angle of the tear made her usual precise technique impossible.

“Ye can dae this,” she muttered under her breath, pulling out yet another crooked stitch. “Ye’ve sewn far more intricate work than this.”

But every time she tried to calm herself, Constantine’s gaze flashed through her mind, making her hands quiver anew. Her stitches, normally neat and measured, came out puckered and uneven.

The tear seemed to mock her efforts, growing wider instead of narrower with each failed attempt born of her rattled nerves.

She was on the verge of throwing the entire dress across the room when she heard footsteps in the corridor outside. She froze, praying whoever it was would pass by without noticing her. But luck was not on her side.

“Rowena?” Constantine’s voice came from the doorway. “Are ye all right? I heard something?—”

He stopped mid-sentence as he took in the scene before him.

Rowena sat hunched, needle suspended in mid-air, her face flushed with embarrassment and frustration.

Scraps of thread littered the floor around her, evidence of her multiple failed attempts.

Her shift was showing through the tear in her gown.

Ah, the object of her ire .

“I am well enough, dinnae trouble yersel’,” she said quickly, not looking up. “Only mending me gown. I tore it, is all.”

Constantine stepped into the room, his eyes taking in the disaster of her sewing attempts, then landing of the exposed chest.

“So I see,” he closed the door behind him and cleared his throat. “‘Tis nae going well, is it?”

“Nae. ‘Tis going wonderfully,” Rowena replied through gritted teeth. “Can ye nae tell?”

Despite her obvious distress, Constantine’s mouth quirked in a small smile. “May I help?”

“I dinnae need help,” Rowena said stubbornly. “I can manage perfectly well on me own.”

“Aye, I can see that,” Constantine said again, gesturing to the mangled fabric. “But perhaps ye might allow me tae assist anyway?”

Rowena looked up at him, her eyes bright with frustration. “Ye ken how tae sew?”

“I dae,” Constantine said simply. “May I?”

After a moment’s hesitation, Rowena nodded for him to proceed, giving him the needle and the gown. Constantine examined the tear with the same careful attention he’d given his sword, then settled himself on the floor beside her stool. His movements were economical and sure as he began to work.

“How did ye learn? ‘Tis an unlikely skill fer a man tae have, ye ken.”

“Things dinnae mend themselves when ye grow up alone,” he said quietly, his fingers moving with practiced ease. “Ye learn tae dae whatever’s necessary tae survive, including sewing cuts.”

The comment was delivered without self-pity; it was simply a statement of fact.

But Rowena felt something clench in her chest at the casual way he spoke of his childhood.

She wanted to ask what he meant, wanted to understand the experiences that had shaped him, but something in his tone warned her away from the subject.

Rowena studied his profile as he worked, noting the concentration in his features. “Aye, but there’s a difference between cobbling a wound closed and... whatever it is ye’re daeing there. That’s proper needlework.”

Constantine’s eyes wandered back at her, a smirk on his face that made Rowena blush. “Are ye suggesting I’m too refined in me stitching, lass?”

“I’m suggesting ye’re making me look like a lass who’s never held a needle,” she said dryly. “Did survival include embroidery lessons?”

“Would ye believe me if I said I’m naturally gifted?”

“Nay.”

“Then perhaps I’ll keep me remaining secrets.”

Rowena laughed and watched in fascination as he worked. His stitches were small and even, far neater than anything she’d managed. His hands, so powerful and deadly when holding a sword, moved with surprising delicacy as he guided the needle through the fabric.

His fingers brushed against her leg as he worked, the contact brief but electric. It was nothing deliberate, just the natural result of mending a dress while someone was wearing it, but it sent heat racing through her veins.

She tried to ignore it, tried to focus on anything else, but she was hyperaware of every accidental touch, every brush of his knuckles against her skin.

“There,” Constantine said finally, holding up the piece of fabric for inspection. “Good as new.”

Rowena examined his work, amazed by the neat, nearly invisible repair. Unable to help herself, she leapt at him and drew him into an awkward hug.

Rowena felt Constantine stiffen against her, and she gasped. She had forgotten herself. As she moved to release him, his hands wrapped across her waist and he drew her in tighter.

“’Fergive me, but ‘tis perfect,” she managed to say. “Thank ye.”

“‘Tis naething,” Constantine said, but he made no move to release her or leave, and Rowena made no move to dismiss him.

“Ye’re full of surprises,” she said as she moved away from his embrace just enough to look up at him. “What other hidden talents dae ye have?”

Constantine’s smiled. “Ye would like tae ken, would ye nae?”

The words were lightly spoken, but there was something in his tone that made Rowena’s breath catch. She moved away from him slowly, the hem of her now mended dress clutched in her hands, and found herself once again standing too close to him.

“Perhaps I would,” she said softly.

Constantine’s eyes darkened, and she saw his hands clench at his sides as if he were fighting the urge to reach for her. “Rowena…”

“Aye?” she whispered.

“Ye should go,” his voice rough. “Before I dae something we’ll both regret.”

The words were a warning, but they sent a thrill through her rather than fear. She wanted to ask what he meant, wanted to push against the boundaries he was trying to establish. But something in his expression, a mixture of longing and restraint, made her nod instead.

“Aye,” she said softly. “I should.” She moved toward the door, pausing when she reached it. “Constantine?”

“Aye?”

“Thank ye. Fer everything.”

He nodded, his jaw tight.

Rowena left the small chamber with her heart racing and her thoughts in a state of turmoil.

She’d arrived at Duart Castle as a fugitive, seeking nothing more than temporary shelter.

But in even a few days, with each interaction with Constantine, she found herself wanting things she’d never dared to want before.

As she made her way back to her chamber, she couldn’t shake the memory of his gentle hands mending her dress, of the way he’d looked at her in that charged moment before she’d fled. Constantine MacLean was a man of contradictions, deadly and gentle, commanding and tender, ruthless and kind.

And despite every logical reason to maintain her distance, she found herself drawn to him like a moth to flame, powerless to resist the pull of something that felt dangerously close to desire.

The thought stopped her cold in the corridor.

What am I daeing?

She pressed her back against the stone wall, her heart racing from the sudden, sharp reminder of her predicament.

Constantine wasn’t courting her. And neither was she a foolish lass to fall for his commanding presence.

This place was a temporary shelter for her, and she needed to leverage the coverage it offered.

Rowena pushed away from the wall and continued to her chamber, her mind now sharply focused. Her father had cultivated alliances throughout the Highlands, bonds of mutual respect and shared interests that might not extend to her uncle.

Some of those men would be uneasy under Alpin’s rising control, perhaps even suspicious of his sudden ascension to power. Writing letters to them could help Rowena have support.

And if it all came back tae marriage…

The MacDonalds had sons of marriageable age.

The Campbells had always been wary of Alpin’s ambitions even before her father’s death.

Even the MacLeods might prefer siding with her rather than with her uncle, despite their own political maneuvering.

A strategic marriage alliance could provide her with the protection and, unfortunately, the manpower she would need to reclaim what was rightfully hers.

She reached her door and paused, her hand on the latch.

The irony wasn’t lost on her that she was considering marriage alliances while still warm from Constantine’s embrace.

But survival demanded such calculations, and she had been her father’s daughter long enough to understand that the heart was a luxury she couldn’t afford.

Not when everything she had left to lose was still at stake.