Page 23 of Tempted by a Highland Beast (Tales of Love and Lust in the Murray Castle #9)
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
C onstantine helped Rowena down from her horse at the edge of the village. Overhead, grey clouds drifted across the pale sky, letting through only slivers of sunlight, the air carrying the damp scent of an oncoming rain.
Three days had passed since their tour of the castle, and he’d found himself watching her constantly—the way she moved through Duart’s halls with growing confidence, how she listened when Lilias chatted about the harvest preparations, the thoughtful questions she asked about everything from crop rotation to trade agreements.
Now he wanted to see something else: how she’d fare among the people she might one day help lead.
“Nervous?” he asked, noting the way her fingers smoothed her dark blue riding dress.
“Should I be?” She lifted her chin, but he caught the slight tension in her shoulders.
“Nay. Just be yerself.”
The first cottage they approached belonged to Duncan, an older man whose wife had recently birthed their fifth bairn. Constantine made the introductions, watching as Rowena’s formal posture gradually relaxed.
“How is the wee one?” she asked Duncan’s wife, Mairi, who was hanging laundry despite the threatening gray clouds overhead.
“Growing like a weed, thanks be,” Mairi replied, wiping her hands on her apron. “Though he’s got a powerful set of lungs on him.”
Rowena laughed, the sound genuine and warm. “Me stepmaither says that crying is just a bairn’s way of making sure the world kens they’ve arrived.”
“Aye, well, this one’s made quite the announcement then.” Mairi’s eyes crinkled with humor. “Would ye like tae meet him?”
Constantine expected Rowena to decline politely, most noble ladies he’d been acquainted with showed little interest in common folk’s children. Instead, she stepped forward eagerly.
“I’d love tae.”
Inside the modest cottage, Rowena cradled the infant with practiced ease, cooing softly as the bairn fussed. “He’s a plump wee thing. Has a fine appetite, I wager,” she said to Mairi.
“Ye’re right about that,” Mairi laughed. “When we first had him, I couldnae keep up. I was still healing, and he’d latch on like a starved lamb every chance he got. But things are better now.”
“That must have been hard.”
Rowena gave Mairi a warm smile, but Constantine caught the passing horrified expression in her eyes.
Mairi must have seen it too because she laughed and drew Rowena closer. “It gets better. And Angus is a joy.”
Angus took the sound of his name as his opportunity to make himself known. He let out a scream that had Rowena reach for the child and gently patting him on the back. After a few minutes he quieted down, and dozed off into a nap.
“Ye’ve experience with bairns?” Mairi asked, settling into a chair by the fire.
“Some. I helped deliver a few when our clan’s midwife fell ill one winter.” Rowena adjusted the baby’s swaddling with gentle efficiency.
They spent another quarter hour with the family before moving on, visiting the blacksmith, the baker, an elderly woman who sold herbs and remedies.
At each stop, Rowena seemed to find common ground effortlessly.
She praised the blacksmith’s work on a particularly fine horseshoe, shared her knowledge of preserving winter vegetables with the baker’s wife, and listened intently as the herb woman explained the properties of various plants.
“Ye have a healer’s knowledge,” the old woman, Ishbel, observed as Rowena correctly identified several dried plants hanging from the cottage’s rafters.
“Me maither started teaching me before she died,” Rowena explained. “Said every lady should ken how tae tend the sick and wounded. Ye never ken when such skills might save a life.”
Ishbel nodded approvingly. “Wise woman, yer maither. We could use more ladies with such practical sense.”
As they prepared to leave Ishbel’s cottage, the old woman pressed a small bundle of dried lavender into Rowena’s hands. “Fer peaceful sleep,” she said with a knowing smile.
Outside, Constantine watched Rowena tuck the herbs carefully into her riding pouch.
She turned to him with a smile. “How are they all so familiar with ye?”
“How dae ye mean?”
“I ken ye havenae been here long. Yet, they all seem tae have grown accustomed tae ye.”
“Ah, well, me mercenary years have taught me that tae lead a group of people well, ye must ken them well. I’ll be laird here soon enough, ‘tis me duty. Thunder rumbled overhead, closer now, and Constantine glanced at the darkening sky.
They’d been in the village longer than planned, and the storm that had been threatening all day was finally moving in.
“We should head back,” he said, taking her hand to guide her toward their horses.
They’d barely made it halfway back from the village when the first fat drops of rain began to fall. Within minutes, the drops became a downpour, soaking through their cloaks and turning the road into a muddy mess.
“There!” Constantine shouted over the wind, pointing toward a small stone structure barely visible through the sheets of rain. “There’s an old shepherd’s hut!”
He spurred his horse forward, trusting Rowena to follow. The abandoned shelter was little more than four stone walls and a partially intact roof, but it would keep them from drowning in the sudden deluge.
They tumbled through the low doorway, both breathing hard and dripping wet. Constantine’s hair hung in dark strands across his forehead, and Rowena’s careful braid had come loose, sending curls cascading over her shoulders.
The hut was cramped, barely large enough for both to stand without touching. Constantine could smell the rain on her skin, could see how the wet fabric of her dress clung to her curves. When she shivered, his jaw tightened with the effort to maintain control.
“Here.” He unfastened his cloak, which had fared better than her lighter one thanks to its oiled leather. “Take this.”
“I’m fine?—”
“Rowena.” His voice was rougher than he’d intended, carrying an edge of command that brooked no argument. “Take the cloak.”
She looked up at him, something flickering in her hazel eyes at his tone, then nodded. When he stepped closer to drape the heavy fabric around her shoulders, his fingers brushed her neck. She drew in a sharp breath, and he felt the tremor that ran through her at the contact.
“Better?” His hands lingered on her shoulders, the warmth of her skin burning through the damp wool of her dress.
“Aye,” she whispered, but her voice was unsteady.
They stood there for a moment, the storm raging outside while a different kind of tension built in the small space between them. Constantine could feel the rapid beat of her pulse beneath his palms, could see how her lips had parted slightly as she looked up at him.
“There’s something... comforting about being with someone who takes control when it matters. Who makes decisions quickly and sticks tae them.”
The way she was looking at him made heat coil low in his belly. “Is that what ye think I dae?”
“I’ve seen ye dae it.” She tucked a strand of damp hair behind her ear, the gesture oddly intimate in the confined space.
“The way ye handled those men at the loch, how ye managed the villagers today, even just now. Deciding on shelter, getting us here safely.” She paused.
“It makes me feel... safe, protected. The way I felt with me faither.”
Constantine felt something shift in his chest at her words. “Tell me about him.”
A wistful smile crossed her face and she took a seat on the hay. “Storms like this one used tae be me favorite thing about winter.”
“Used tae be?”
“Me faither and I would race them home.” Her voice took on a dreamy quality, lost in memory. “He’d see the clouds building on the horizon and challenge me tae beat the rain back tae the castle. We’d ride hell-bent across the moors, laughing like mad things.”
“Sounds liberating,” Constantine observed.
“Aye, it was. That was half the appeal.” She looked up at him, eyes bright with remembered joy. “If we made it before the first drops fell, he’d declare victory and we’d celebrate with honey cakes in the kitchen. And if we didnae make it…”
“What then?”
“Then we’d arrive soaked and triumphant anyway, because the race was never really about winning. It was about feeling alive. Like we could outrun anything if we just rode fast enough.” The sadness crept back into her voice. “I miss that feeling. I miss... him.”
Constantine was quiet for a long moment, watching emotions play across her face in the dim light filtering through the stone walls. Finally, he lowered himself to sit beside her, careful to maintain a distance he needed despite the cramped quarters.
“What about ye?” she asked softly. “Did ye ever race storms as a lad?”
He almost deflected, as was his habit when conversations turned to his past. But something about her openness, about the vulnerability she’d just shared, made him want to offer something in return.
“Me childhood races were different," he said finally.
“How so?”
Constantine stared at the opposite wall, seeing not stone but the narrow alleys and muddy streets of his youth. “Less laughter. More blood.”
He felt rather than saw her turn toward him, her attention sharpening. “What dae ye mean?”
“After me maither died, I lived on the streets fer a while.” His voice was matter-of-fact, as if he were discussing the weather rather than the darkest period of his life.
“When winter came, food was scarce. Sometimes I’d have what another lad left, a piece of bread, a few coins I’d begged or stolen.
The bigger guys would hunt me through the alleys. ”
Rowena’s intake of breath was sharp, but she didn’t interrupt.
“So aye, I learned tae run. But it wasnae fer joy—it was fer survival. And there was usually blood at the end. Theirs or mine, depending on whether they caught me.” He glanced at her then, seeing the pain in her eyes and hating how it made him want to comfort her.
“Yer version of childhood sounds much better.”
“Constantine…” Her voice was soft, aching.