Midnight Honor

the bed. Harder still not to recall all that heat and strength crowding her against the wall of a booth at the fairground, his hands pressing boldly between her thighs, daring them to open that she might feel what else he had to offer.
    It did not help her concentration either that he was rather cavalier about his dress. In the comfort of his own home he favored little more than a long, loose fitting shirt and short breacan kilt. The former was often left unlaced, the edges parted carelessly over the reddish gold mat of hair that covered his chest. Nor was he reluctant to slip one of his large hands beneath the cambric and scratch absently at a rib or breast while he was engaged in a conversation with his men, and she suspected he was completely unaware of the effect when he raked his fingers through his hair and left the golden mane scattered and boyishly disheveled.
    He smelled wonderful as well, for it was a rare occasion that found John MacGillivray without a cigar clamped between his teeth. Pipes were as commonplace as dirks and dags in a man's belt, but cigars were an extravagant luxury, one of the few he indulged himself as a reasonably wealthy laird. It was also one he kept to himself despite the often blatant hints from the Farquharson twins that they might enjoy a draw with their evening tankards of ale. He ignored any and all appeals to his sense of hospitality, and in spite of a thorough—and decidedly ill-bred—search of the cabinets and cupboards of Dunmaglass, the lads could not discover where he hoarded his supply.
    Anne found the scent heady and at times uncomfortably arousing, especially if he happened to be seated at the table while engaged in a debate, his chair tilted precariously back on the two hind legs, a glare on his face like that of a lion contemplating his next meal. Or when he leaned close to look at something over her shoulder and she could feel the silk of his hair on her cheek, the warmth of his breath on her skin.
    Or when she was cold and tired and her legs ached with cramps from riding all day, and he stood beside her, his arm remaining around her waist for support while she wobbled and chose to lean against him rather than slide into a heap on the ground.
    “If ye'll come this way, Colonel Anne,” said Colin Mor, bowing awkwardly as he held a hand out toward the door of his cottage, “ma wife Rose will be glad tae pour ye a dram o' hot broth tae warm yer bones.”
    Anne started and looked guiltily away from the smile that had begun to cross MacGillivray's face. How long had she been staring up at him? Had she had another “Fearchar” lapse in concentration? The big Highlander was proving to be every bit as adept as Angus in reading her thoughts, and while it could sometimes be a wonderful thing for a husband to know when his wife was craving certain … attentions … she did not think it was particularly wise to pique MacGillivray's interest.
    Her hands, she noticed, were braced with easy familiarity on John's chest and she lowered them quickly before turning to follow Colin Mor into the cottage. His wife had already relit the lamp and a couple of thick tallow candles; she stood nervously back in the shadows, the children still clinging to her legs, peeking out from behind her skirts. A second woman, a year or so younger, was standing against the wall. She bore such a strong resemblance to Colin Mor it came as no surprise when she was introduced as his sister Glenna.
    The clachan was like a thousand others that dotted the glens and nestled into the hillsides. A bare earth floor supported timber walls fortified with muck and peat, and a steeply canted roof from which hung strips of dried, salted meat and fish. There was the usual assortment of household trappings. A rough straw divider at one end separated thenarrow sleeping pallet used by Colin's sister from the larger one he shared with his wife and children. The cooking fire was in the center of the room and on it, a tripod from which hung a black iron kettle. The Mors were better off than most, for in addition to several woven rag rugs, they had a table and two benches. In one corner a pen held chickens, and in another a milk goat was tethered to a post.
    “A thousand pardons for disturbing your evening, goodwife,” Anne said in Gaelic. “We were told your glen had a sweet burn running through it that would lead us right the way to the river. Unfortunately, we could not find the burn in the mist and were afraid our