Highland Honor. Hannah Howell

to be her lover was, perhaps, not the best start, but at least he had been completely honest. There had been, as yet, very little time to begin his seduction, but she had been fairly warned. Nigel also knew that, as he attempted to pull her passion free of the fears that still held it captive, he would have to convince her that not all men were brutish swine who felt it was their godgiven right to treat a woman cruelly.

      He sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. Some would say that seducing a woman when he was not sure if he wished to claim her as his wife was cruel. He tried not to look at it that way. Gisele was a widow, so he would not be stealing her innocence. And if she had murdered her husband, then she was certainly strong enough and willful enough to accept or deny a lover. No matter how long or hard he thought on the matter, however, he could not shake the uneasy feeling that he might be allowing his strong desire for her to lead him astray. He could find himself adding to her pain instead of healing it.

      And how much of his passion was born of the challenge she presented, of a chance to turn a frightened woman made cold by betrayal and brutality into a passionate lover? He quickly shook that thought away. Nigel was sure that his vanity had little to do with his desire for Gisele, although it was probably the only thing he was sure of. Gisele was a puzzle, and the way she drew him to her was an even bigger one.

      “You may turn around now,” Gisele called, yanking him free of his unwelcome thoughts.

      Even as he looked at her she stopped rubbing her hair with the drying cloth, and Nigel had to bite back a grin. Her short hair was a mass of wild curls, several tumbling alluringly onto her forehead. No man could look at her now and think that she was a boy, despite her clothing. He reached into his bag and pulled out a cap.

      “I think ye had best put this on,” he advised.

      Gisele frowned as she took the dull, brown cap made of a rough, homespun cloth. “It is not cold.”

      “Nay, but I think that will now aid your disguise. Trust me, lass. Your hair now makes ye look verra much like a woman.”

      “Oh.” She reached up to touch her damp hair, felt all the thick, wild curls, and grimaced as she tugged on the cap. “I should have recalled how it grows after it has been cut. I had to have it all shaved off once when I was but a child, because of a wretched fever I was suffering with, and it grew just like this. It was most unmanageable until it gained some length and weight. Then these foolish curls became waves. Mayhap I should cut it again.”

      “Nay. Soon it willnae matter if all who see ye ken that ye are a lass. The cap isnae verra bonny, but it will do what is needed for now. Next I shall ask ye to allow me a wee moment or two of privacy.” He removed some clean clothing from his saddlepack.

      “Oh. You wish to bathe?”

      “We Scots do so from time to time.”

      “And from all I have heard of your land you should be well accustomed to cold water.”

      “Aye, it can be colder in Scotland. The weather doesnae pamper us there as it does ye French. Now, I best be about my bath. Turn your back, lass,” he said, as he started to walk away. Then he looked over his shoulder at her before she had completely turned around. “Of course, if ye wish to take a wee peek, I willnae fault ye for it,” he added, and winked.

      Gisele decided not to grace that impertinence with a reply, and completely turned her back on him. Despite her best efforts, however, a small grin crossed her face. It quickly disappeared when she realized that she was tempted to look at him, strongly tempted. It was that which made her hesitate to take ‘a wee peek’. That could be all that was needed to dangerously enhance an already growing attraction. His face was certainly pleasing to her eye. She knew it could be perilous indeed to discover that his body was, as well.

      It could, however, be a good test of how deep and pervasive her fears were, she mused as she idly stroked her horse’s nose. Her husband had used his manhood like a weapon, hurting her and debasing her. Gisele knew that the cruel things he had done to her had made her afraid of a man’s embrace. If that fear could also be stirred by simply viewing a naked man, it could prove that she was far more deeply scarred than she had guessed. When she realized that she could not recall a time since her husband’s death that she had seen a man unclothed despite her rough travels, Gisele wondered if she had been purposely avoiding such a sight. The fact that she had not glimpsed even one in the time she had been with the army—not even Guy, despite sharing a tent with him—seemed to confirm that. She did not like the thought that DeVeau had made her that much a coward.

      Although a small voice told her that she was just making excuses so that she could look at a man who intrigued her, Gisele moved to stand in front of her horse. With her side toward Nigel instead of her back, it would be easier to steal a look or two and not be caught. Curiosity also drove her to take the risk, she decided, and grimaced, for it had always been a fault of hers. Gisele just wanted to know what she would feel if she caught a look of his partly or fully unclothed form.

      She moved so that her horse’s nose was between her and Nigel, praying that that would be enough to hide her indiscretion. A deep breath steadied her, and she raised her gaze toward the river. She had dawdled for so long in deciding that he was already finished with his bath. He stood on the riverbank rubbing himself down with a large drying cloth. His tall, lean body shone gold in the sun. His broad back was toward her, and Gisele found herself wondering what his smooth skin would feel like beneath her hands. She quickly looked down his body, admiring his trim waist, his slim, well-shaped backside, and his long, perfectly formed, muscular legs. When she caught herself hoping he would turn around, she sucked in her breath so sharply she choked and began to cough.

      “Are ye all right?” Nigel asked, frowning toward a badly coughing Gisele as he hastily pulled on his clothes.

      “Oui,” she gasped, stumbling to the river’s edge and drinking some water from her cupped hands.

      Since she had ceased to cough, Nigel took the time to lace up his shirt, don his jupon, and tug on his boots. “Ye arenae ailing with something, are ye?”

      “Non.” She lightly splashed some of the cool water on her face, praying she did not look as warm or as agitated as she felt. “I but gagged on a bug, I am thinking.”

      He grinned at her as he laced on his boots. “If ye are that greedy for some meat, lass, I will go ahunting when we stop to camp for the night.”

      “What an amusing fellow you are, Sir Murray.” She hastily rinsed her travel-stained clothes in the water and wrung them out. “I assume you kept your drinking companions crippled with laughter.” She tied a strip of rawhide around her clothes and hung them from her saddlepack, hoping they would dry and not simply get filthy again.

      Nigel did the same with his clothes, then watched her closely as they mounted. “So ye heard a few tales about me, did ye?” he asked as he led her away from the small river.

      Gisele wondered if she should make a polite denial, then decided that it would be best if she were honest. “Guy said you favored wine and women. He also told me that he had seen none of that in the days that he watched you.”

      “He watched me, did he?”

      “You knew our secrets. He would have been a fool not to.”

      “Aye, true enough.” Nigel fidgeted with his reins. She had not asked for any explanation, but he felt compelled to say something. “I didnae leave Scotland simply because I had a hunger to kill the English.” He winked at her. “Although most of my kind would say that was reason enough.”

      “Most of my kind would, as well. In truth, at times I wonder how there can be so many men still left, for the killing has continued for many years.”

      “Oh, aye, and I believe ’twill continue long after we have turned to dust. But, e’en though ’tis much the same in my land, ’tis still not what brought me here.”

      “You owe me no explanations, Sir Murray,” she said quietly, for she could sense his discomfort and reluctance.

      “Weel, something must