TROTTERNISH CASTLE
Connor stood in his new bedchamber watching the men practicing with their claymores in the courtyard below. The room extended the full width of the two-story building that adjoined the old keep and skirted the edge of the sea cliff. He chose this chamber for its windows, which afforded him views in both directions from which an attack might come.
He raised his gaze beyond the castle walls to the green fields an enemy must cross to reach the castle by land. When he dropped his gaze to the men again, he sighed. They were sadly in need of training. Unfortunately, he did not see one good candidate to serve as captain of his guard. The best of them was Sorely, who had been one of his father's guards and was getting old for the task. What Connor would not give to find one man here who was the match of his cousins and Duncan. But then, they were matchless.
Despite the daunting challenges he faced, Connor could breathe here. His father had rarely brought him to this castle and never permitted him in this chamber, so Connor had no lingering memories.
He heard voices and turned toward the open door as two women entered with a wooden tub and buckets of steaming water.
"I can manage by myself," he said before one of them offered to wash him.
Being naked with any woman was far too dangerous in the state he was in, but the buxom lass with the chestnut hair had a gleam in her eyes that spelled temptation. As she poured a bucket of hot water into the tub, the rising steam enveloped her, sending dark, lusty thoughts swirling through Connor's head.
"Mind ye keep that door to the tower closed, Chieftain," the older woman said with a nervous glance at the small door at the far end of the chamber.
Connor had been warned not to take this chamber because the ghost of a nursemaid was rumored to haunt the tower. The nursemaid would not trouble him; he had left his own ghosts behind.
"So long as she stays in her tower," he said, with a wink at the old woman, "we'll get along fine."
The buxom lass laughed and gave him another look that led his imagination further astray. He was grateful - or at least he told himself he was - when the older woman pushed the tempting lass out the door before he changed his mind about needing help with his bath.
"Tell Sorely I want to see him when the men take a rest," Connor told the guard outside his door before he closed it.
After pulling his tunic over his head and tossing it on the bench, he unwound the strips of linen around his chest. He winced as he pulled off the last layers, which had become stuck to his wound. That was the price he paid for ignoring Ilysa's pleas to let her change the bandages during the journey from Dunscaith. Until he was certain he had rooted out Hugh's spies, he could not afford to appear weakened by injury in front of his men.
While the heat from the bathwater soaked into his muscles, Connor leaned his head back and rested his eyes. The wounds had taken more out of him than he had admitted to himself. When he awoke, the water had gone stone-cold.
He was drying himself when there was a knock at the door. Thinking it must be Sorely, he called out, "Come in!"
"I've come to see to your woun - "
Connor turned around. Jesu, 'tis Ilysa.
She made a high-pitched squeak, and the tray she was carrying fell from her hands with a crash. Her face went scarlet, and she dropped to the floor and scrambled to gather her things.
Though Ilysa probably got a good look at his bare backside, Connor had covered his essential parts with the drying cloth when he turned around. Her reaction seemed extreme for a lass who was both a skilled healer and a widow. He still found it difficult to believe Ilysa was old enough to have been wed. She was a tiny thing, and in the loose gowns she wore, he could not tell if she even had breasts.
"I'll come back later," Ilysa said as she frantically reached for rolling jars.
She squeaked again when he knelt to help her pick up the pieces of a broken clay pot.
"No need to go," he said. "Just let me pull on my trews, and ye can see to my wounds."
He stifled a laugh when she sprang to her feet and turned her back to him.
"'Tis safe," he told her once he had his trews on and had settled himself on a stool.
As soon as Ilysa leaned over to examine the arrow hole in his chest, her manner changed completely.
"Ach, ye should have let me do this sooner," she scolded. "The bandages were stuck fast to the wound, weren't they?"
He did not bother answering. Despite her annoyance, Ilysa's touch was gentle. In fact, her fingers felt like feathers over his skin.
Oh, God help him, even Ilysa aroused him. Ach, he felt like the worst sort of scoundrel.
"How old are ye?" he asked her.
"Nineteen," Ilysa said as she briskly mixed herbs into a paste.
Though she looked like she was twelve, Connor did not feel quite so disgusting for getting a throbbing erection from her touch.
"I'm nine years younger than you and my brother, same as I've always been," she added with her dry humor.
Of course, he knew that. He could still remember when Duncan's mother had returned pregnant after disappearing mysteriously for weeks. It had been the talk of the castle, but Anna had never enlightened any of them regarding where she had been or who fathered her babe. The ability to keep her own counsel was a trait Anna and her daughter had in common.
Ilysa's hands were on him again, spreading the poultice over his wound, and he could think of nothing else. Ach, he was a sorry man. When she leaned close, he felt her breath on his skin. He resisted the temptation to close his eyes and pretend a lass who was not his best friend's younger sister was touching him with a different purpose.
"Ye married young," he said. "Ye couldn't have been more than eleven when we left for France."
"Ye were gone a long time. Sixteen is not young to wed." She lifted his hand and placed it on the square of cloth that covered the poultice. "Hold that."
She commenced to wind a clean linen strip around his chest. She cupped his elbow and lifted it as she brought the strip under his arm, taking charge of his body with an assurance that both surprised and further aroused him. When she leaned forward, reaching around him to bring it behind his back and over his shoulder, her chest touched his. A jolt went through him as he discovered that Ilysa definitely did have breasts. Even through the thick layers of fabric, there was no mistaking the feel of the soft, rounded flesh.
He hoped to God Ilysa did not look down and see his shaft pressing against his trews. Considering how she had reacted to seeing his bare arse, he feared she would faint dead away.
"What made ye decide to wed M
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