Tamed by the Barbarian. June Francis

She had more grace and spirit and good taste than many a lady he had met in his Percy kinsman’s Northumberland castle.

      He felt out of place in his mud-splattered and smelly garments and a desire to improve his standing in Cicely’s eyes swelled inside him. ‘This tub?’ he asked, noticing his saddlebags had been unpacked by Robbie and raiment laid out on the bed.

      ‘Through here,’ said Cicely, casting a glance at the garments.

      She led him over to a small door that stood ajar in the corner of the chamber. As she did so there came a sound at the outer door and a discreet knock. They both turned their heads to see Tom, carrying a steaming bucket. ‘More water for his lordship, Mistress Cicely. Shall I top up the tub?’

      ‘Aye, Tom.’

      Mackillin held up a hand. ‘Nay, man. Just place the bucket inside the room. I’ll need to test the water first. Do you know where Robbie is?’

      ‘He’s seeing how the horses are doing.’

      Mackillin’s brow puckered. ‘I’ll need you then to help me off with my boots. Have you any skill with barbering?’

      ‘Aye, my lord, I used to shave my grandfather,’ said Tom.

      Mackillin nodded and flashed a smiling glance at Cicely. ‘My thanks, lass. I’ll not keep you.’

      She hurried from the chamber and forced her mind along different channels from that of him shaved and bathed. She had not seen her brother for a while and wondered if he had placed some of the goods that had been unpacked in his bedchamber. She knocked on the door. When there was no answer, she opened it and peeped inside. It was empty.

      She searched for him downstairs and when she did not find him, wondered if he was in the stables with Robbie. She hoped he had not done too much by using his damaged arm to cut cords. She decided to return upstairs, wanting to check with Tom that Mackillin had all he needed. On passing the chest in the passage, she noticed a tablet of soap on its lid and thought she must have forgotten to place it alongside the drying cloths in the tub room. She picked it up and hurried to the bedchamber. The door was ajar and she called Tom’s name. When he did not answer, she decided that most likely he was with Mackillin. She could hear splashing from the adjoining room, which surely meant his lordship was already in the tub.

      ‘Tom!’ she called. No response. ‘Mackillin!’

      She hesitated before knocking on the antechamber door and peering inside. She could see the tub and a few wisps of steam, but no sign of either man. A whooshing noise caused her to almost jump out of her skin. A head broke the surface of the water and then shoulders and chest. She gaped, staring at the double-wing shaped mat of dark coppery curls and the long silvery scar beneath the left collar bone. She felt such a heat inside her. As if in a trance, she watched him reach blindly for the sword lying on the drying cloth on the stool.

      She scooped up his dirty garments as he flicked back his trimmed hair and stood up, water streaming from his body. Cicely gasped and closed her eyes tightly. She had seen her brothers naked in a tub when they were tiny, but never a fully grown man exhibiting such masculinity. She opened her eyes, threw the soap in his direction and fled.

      Chapter Three

      ‘Cissie, where are you going in such a rush?’ asked Jack, passing her on the stairs. ‘You’ll break your neck coming down at that speed.’

      Thankfully diverted from the vision of the naked Mackillin, she placed the dirty garments behind her back and slowed to a halt, resting her free hand on a baluster. ‘Where’ve you been? I was concerned about you.’

      A crack of laughter escaped him. ‘Why? What do you think could happen to me when we’re snowed in? I’m not such a dolt as to attempt with a damaged arm to ride ten leagues or more in deep snow and the heavens throwing more of it down.’

      Alarm caused her to blurt out, ‘You’ve thought of doing so? You’re concerned about Matt?’

      A wary expression flickered in his eyes. ‘Aren’t you?’

      ‘Do you sense he’s in danger?’

      He hesitated. ‘I imagine he’s anxious and fearful, but that shouldn’t surprise either of us in the circumstances. Why don’t you sit by the fire with your embroidery and rest?’

      ‘What about the rest of the unpacking of the goods you brought home?’

      ‘They can wait. You’re always hurrying hither and thither. I’m sure the servants know well enough what to do about preparing our next meal without you overseeing them more than necessary.’

      Cicely considered his words. Sitting quietly by the fire with her embroidery held a definite attraction. But what if Mackillin should come down and find her alone? She did not know how she was going to look him in the face. Her eyes would travel south. No! She must not harbour such a thought. If only he had not come here, she thought fretfully. If only her stepmother had not died, she felt certain her father would not have set out on his travels again. If he had allowed Jack to go abroad with one of his agents, he would still be alive and Mackillin would not have hotfooted it here for a reward. She must keep telling herself that was his only reason for being here. Although, perhaps it would be best not to think of him. Instead, she would consider how they were to get the news of her father’s murder to Diccon.

      She went and placed Mackillin’s dirty clothing in the laundry room. Then she fetched her embroidery and thought to cover her hair with a black veil to complete her mourning attire before settling in front of the fire. She soon realised it was a waste of time trying to work out a way to get news to Diccon while they were snowed in. Instead she allowed her thoughts to drift to what it would be like to travel the seas on Mackillin’s ship and see those places that her father had visited. She regretted deeply that never would she be able to hear his voice describing Venice, Florence, Bruges and all the other cities she would have liked to have seen in his company; but she sensed that his lordship had her father’s gift for painting pictures with words.

      Mackillin was thoughtful as he rubbed himself vigorously with the drying cloth. His skin glowed and a wry smile creased his face. At least Mistress Cicely should be satisfied that he no longer stank of honest sweat and horse. Had it been she who had thrown the soap? He had glimpsed a whisk of a black skirt vanishing when he opened his eyes and his soiled garments had disappeared. Hopefully she had not seen enough of him to frighten her away. He smiled wryly, remembering on his travels how pleasant it had been to have a wench wash his back and generally make herself useful. Vividly, a picture came into his mind of Cicely behaving in a similar fashion and he imagined the soft swell of her breasts beneath silk brushing his bare shoulder. Desire rushed through him and he shook his head as if to rid himself of such longings. She was not for him, whatever Nat Milburn had promised.

      He must concentrate his thoughts on his intended bride. From what he remembered of her from their last meeting, Mary was as different in appearance to Cicely Milburn as could be, but then she had only been a child and would surely have improved. She had dark hair, not the colour of corn like Mistress Cicely. He had never felt it, but doubted it would be as silky as Jack’s sister’s was when he had seized a handful of it while he had kissed her. Hell and damnation, he must stop thinking of her! Marrying Mary Armstrong would provide him with all he needed. She was sturdy and strong and no doubt could produce healthy sons and pretty daughters. His elder half-brother had wed and sired children, but no offspring had lived beyond infancy. As for the younger one, Fergus, his wife had died in childbirth last year and the baby with her, poor lass.

      His lips tightened as he relived Fergus’s teasing and bullying, the challenges and hard-fought tussles on the battlements of their grandfather’s castle in the south-west of Scotland and his father’s keep in the Border country. The scar beneath his collarbone throbbed as if experiencing afresh the plunge of Fergus’s blade. Mackillin would never forget the hatred in his eyes for the son of the English woman who had replaced their mother. Now the three men were dead, killed in an ambush. His mother did not seem to know who was responsible. Due to his half-brothers leaving no heirs, Mackillin