His Woman. Diana CosbyЧитать онлайн книгу.
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DUNCAN STEPPED FORWARD
AND CAUGHT HER ARMS
A mistake.
He was close. Too close. The moment was too familiar, as if no time had passed. As if he could blink and make the nightmare of the last three years disappear.
Her full lips had parted in surprise, but wrapped within the soft luminescence of moonlight, all he could think of was her taste. Of how she had once responded to his touch. Except he’d never claimed what was rightfully his—that she’d given freely to his enemy.
His WOMAN
DIANA COSBY
ZEBRA BOOKS
Kensington Publishing Corp.
For Skip—
I love you
Contents
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Epilogue
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My heartfelt thanks, respect, and love to Shirley Rogerson, Michelle Hancock, Karin Story Dearborn, and Mary J. Forbes.
Special thanks to my children and the Wild Writers for their continuous amazing support.
Chapter 1
Southern Scotland, 1297
He thought her a whore.
As if his opinion of her mattered now. But it did. Three years hadn’t begun to diminish Lady Isabel Adair’s love for Duncan MacGruder.
From the riverbank, she stared at the rush of water that cut through dense forest, the river a sanctuary she and Duncan had visited many times over. Where he’d drawn her into his arms and while his own hands had trembled with youthful nerves, he had claimed his first kiss.
Tears blurred her vision. No, Duncan hadn’t forgiven her or forgotten. Fate hadn’t been that kind. Except his loathing was but a pittance of what she had already served herself.
A stick cracked behind her.
Isabel whirled, her heart pounding. Had Frasyer followed her? Or had one of his knights? Shielding her hand over her eyes, she searched the tangle of elm, ash, and fir, straining to see through the strangled overgrowth and the shadows for the faintest sign of anyone.
Nothing.
A gust of wind swirled around her, thick with the scent of the oncoming spring, tainted with the last dregs of winter. She willed herself to calm. The self-serving Earl of Frasyer could not have seen her leave Moncreiffe Castle. He had ridden off a short while ago with a contingent of knights to investigate a rumor that William Wallace, the Scottish rebel leader, had been sighted to the south.
A lie. One she had ensured reached his ears.
She needed this afternoon to meet in secret with her brother, Symon. By nightfall she would be snug within her bed and Frasyer none the wiser.
After making the sign of the cross, she spared one final glance toward the river of her dreams, then turned and hurried through the woods along an overgrown path. A thrill shot through her as she caught sight of the neglected crofter’s hut, framed by the aged boughs of a fallen birch.
Fragments of pottery lay strewn near the door, tattered strips of cloth covered the sagging windows, and the nearby stable sat in shambles. Not even a wisp of smoke swirled from the hovel’s half-fallen chimney. To anyone passing by, it would appear abandoned.
Isabel scanned her surroundings one last time before stepping past the ruins to enter the dim, candlelit room. Warmth and relief rushed her as she saw her brother standing facing her father, his back to her.
“Symon.”
Steel hissed against leather, and Isabel found herself with a tip of a claymore pressed against her neck.
The tall, weapon-clad man sporting a full beard had spun toward her in a trice, his stance fierce, made more so by the shadows carved upon his face.
A smile, as quick as it was tender, curved his mouth. His body relaxed. “Isabel.” Symon Adair’s red hair shifted on his shoulders as he slid his weapon into a leather sheath secured on his back. He stepped forward and caught her in a fierce hug.
“You should not have come. It is too dangerous.”
“I had to see you.” Isabel glanced at her father, who shifted uncomfortably several paces away. “When Da told me of your visit—”
Symon shot their father a harsh look. “You should not have mentioned my coming. It is risky enough for us to meet on my way to pick up coin for the rebels. You know well it is death for anyone caught within my presence.”
Lord Angus Adair stiffened. “Blast it, lad, I—”
“I pestered him,” Isabel interrupted, not wanting to spend their precious time together arguing, especially if Symon discovered that their father had been drunk again at the time of the telling.
“It is no excuse.” Her brother caught her chin and scanned her face. “You have circles under your eyes. Is that bastard Frasyer treating you poorly?”
She winced. “Symon—”
“Is he?”
“No,” she lied, afraid if she admitted the truth Symon would endanger himself defending her honor.
“You would be deserving better. Duncan would have—”
“Leave the lass be,” Angus blustered as he stepped forward, his bushy brows at odds with his balding head.
Symon scowled at his father. “Aye, it is not Isabel who is at fault, is it? But your gambling that is the cause of all this.”
“Symon!”
At Isabel’s sharp tone, her brother’s eyes dulled with self-recrimination. “I know. I cannot change his losing our home to Frasyer on a bet any more than your decision to become Frasyer’s mistress in place of payment.”
“Nor would I be wanting you to.” Liar. If she could, she would change everything. She would take back the three years of living a lie—a series of lies—and follow the abandoned dictates of her heart. But she may as well lie upon a faerie hill and cast wishes into the wind for all it would help her. She’d already lost Duncan’s love. She refused to endanger the lives of her father and brother.
Symon brushed a strand of her hair behind her ear. “I had not meant to be badgering you. I love you, lass. My words are born of naught