The coverlet moved. Padraig froze.
“Feasgar math, Maighstir Boyd.” Searrach’s exotic features flickered in the firelight, the covers around her waist, naught but a thin, white, sleeveless underdress covering her upper body. Padraig could clearly see the outline of her breasts through the gauzy material. Her dark hair was down over her shoulders.
“What are you doing here?” Padraig blurted out.
Searrach smiled. “Your voice is a salve to my ears.” She pushed down the covers and leaned forward to crawl toward the end of the bed, her heavy breasts swaying with her movements. “I’m sick of hearing these English, their stuffy ways, their foolish rules. You’ve the sound of the Highlands about you. Lord Hargrave has done me a favor.”
Padraig backed up a step as she reached the edge of the mattress. “You must be a favorite of his, then.”
Her smile flickered, but Padraig wondered if he’d only imagined it, for her expression immediately brightened once more. “He has given me my fondest wish.” She drew her legs around from beneath her and slid from the bed.
Padraig took another step back. “Your fondest wish?”
“Next best thing,” Searrach said, padding up to him on her bare feet and taking hold of his shirt ties. She looked up at him and then leaned forward until her breasts were pressed against him. “I want to go home. But…” She twirled the ties around her forefingers until the length of them was gripped in both her fists, and she drew Padraig’s head toward her upturned face. “There’s naught left for either of us in Scotland now, is there? We can be home for each other, for as long as you’re here.”
Padraig halted what had just a moment ago seemed his inevitable descent to her mouth. “I’m nae going anywhere, Searrach. Darlyrede belongs to my father, and soon it will belong to me.”
The woman gave a careless shrug and then rose on her tiptoes to press her soft lips to the corner of his mouth. “You’ll nae be able to prove that,” she scoffed lightly.
“I can, and I will.” Padraig was trying to remain focused, but Searrach’s mouth was moving along his jaw, and now down to his neck. Some physical comfort would be welcome after such a trying day.
“How?” she murmured against his skin. Padraig opened his mouth but then closed it again, remembering almost too late Lucan’s warning about enemies and allies.
“I will,” he repeated.
But she didn’t press him, only hummed against his skin while she pulled away the placket of his shirt and kissed his chest.
“We might enjoy each other’s company either way then, aye? Let me tend your wounds in a more pleasant manner.”
Padraig scraped together his meager reserves and took hold of the woman’s shoulders, stepping from the reach of that seductive mouth.
“I doona think it’s a good idea that we…have that sort of relationship.”
“Sounds like aught that haughty Beryl would say. Were you hoping I was her?”
“What?” Padraig winced and pulled the ties of his shirt from her grip. “Nay.” He moved to a chair to sit and take off his boots.
“Everyone’s seen you watching her,” Searrach continued, coming to sit in the other chair at the small table. She rested her chin on one fist and leaned toward him, her breasts propped on the tabletop and straining at the underdress. “Already, there’s talk. Surely you expected it after you demanded her to your service. But you’re a fool if you think she’ll bed you.”
Padraig paused in his actions and looked up at her sideways. “I’m nae trying to bed Beryl.”
“Well, that’s fine, then,” Searrach soothed. “Since she’s already spoken for.”
Padraig kicked off his boots. “Nae my concern.”
Spoken for by whom?
“It’s nae surprising, really,” Searrach continued. “Him thinking he’s so high-and-mighty, and Beryl the same—Lady Hargrave’s little French pet. The rumor is she got in trouble with a man in France and had to stay behind to bear the bastard. It wasna a full day after you’d come before she had lured his prissy self with that doona-touch-me manner of hers. Made for each other, they are.”
Padraig sat back in his chair with a sigh, as if he was bored with the conversation.
“Sir Lucan, you mean.”
“Aye, Sir Lucan. I heard them myself in her chamber while I was coming back from fetching bolts of cloth for that coo, Rynn.”
“Is that so?” he asked in a bored tone.
“I couldna help it. I had to pass her chamber. I heard them speakin’ that ugly language to each other.”
Padraig swallowed. It had to have been when Lucan foisted Padraig off on Rolf. And not long after that, Beryl had deigned to finally appear. It had obviously been Lucan who had convinced her to come—Padraig supposed he should be grateful.
“What Sir Lucan chooses to do is nae concern o’ mine. Beryl is only serving me as a maid.”
“As am I,” Searrach said with a mischievous grin. “But in a much more enjoyable…position is my hope.”
Suddenly, the passion Padraig had had to fight for the Scotswoman across from him was no longer there. His head ached; he was tired, and a little angry with Lucan, although he was not ready to explore the reason why just yet.
“I’m going to bed, Searrach,” he said, and then added, “alone, for tonight.”
Her pout deepened, but only for a beat of time. “Verra well,” she conceded. She got up in a fluid motion and seemed to pour herself across the space separating them to lean into Padraig. Her hand caressed the front of his trousers. “I’ll be back on the morrow, Master.” Her hand cupped him firmly and then she pulled away, strolling to the door barefoot and without so much as a wrapper against
