Now she was trapped.
She stood frozen, her heart racing as she glanced around his bedchamber. Even in the dimness, she could tell his quarters were boldly masculine and entirely too sumptuous for an ordinary court bastard. Exquisitely embroidered and richly colored tapestries hung from the walls, and the floor was immaculate, the rushes fresh and scented with aromatic herbs. A heavily carved and polished trestle table held the remains of what had surely been a superb repast. Several iron-banded coffers drew her curiosity, making her wonder what treasures they contained. Above all, her eye was drawn to the large curtained bed at the far end of the room.
There, atop the massive four-poster, Sorley was stretched out on his back, one arm folded behind his head.
That he was nude stood without question.
What astonished her was her reaction to seeing him in such an intimate state.
Her mouth had gone dry and her heart beat too rapidly for comfort. She couldn’t deny that she found herself strongly attracted to him. Yet to accomplish what she must, she required her wits.
Unfortunately, she also needed Sorley.
Sir John Sinclair, an oily-mannered noble she couldn’t abide, was showing interest in her. Worse, he was wooing her father, a man who believed the best in others and didn’t always catch the nuances that revealed their true nature. Castle tongue-waggers whispered that Sinclair desired a chaste bride, requiring a suitable wife to appease the King’s wish that he live more quietly than was his wont. Mirabelle suspected he’d chosen her as his future consort.
She knew Sorley loathed Sinclair.
And that the bad blood was mutual.
No one was better suited to help her repel Sinclair’s advances than Sorley the Hawk.
Time was also of the essence. Mirabelle’s father’s work at court wouldn’t take much longer. As a scholar and herbalist, he’d tirelessly seen to his duties, assisting the royal scribes in deciphering Gaelic texts on healing. Soon, the MacLaren party would return home to the Highlands.
Mirabelle didn’t want to remain behind as Sir John’s betrothed. For that reason, she summoned all the strength she possessed to remain where she stood. It cost her great effort not to back from the room, disappearing whence she’d come. Harder still was not edging closer to the bed, then angling her head to better see Sorley.
He was magnificent.
Blessedly, the sheet reached to his waist, hiding a certain part of him. But the rest of his big, strapping body was shockingly uncovered. Mirabelle’s face heated to see the dusting of dark hair on his hard-muscled chest. She felt an irresistible urge to touch him. Well aware that she daren’t, she did let her gaze drift over him. Light from an almost-guttered night candle flickered across his skin, revealing a few scars. His thick, shoulder-length hair was as inky-black as she remembered, the glossy strands gleaming in the dimness. Even asleep, he possessed a bold arrogance. And now that her eyes had adjusted to the shadows, she could see from the bulge outlined beneath the bedcovers that his masculinity was equally proud.
The observation made her belly flutter.
Unable to help herself, she let her gaze linger on his slumbering perfection, at his darkly handsome face and oh-so-sensual mouth that, if all went well, would soon play expertly over hers, claiming her in passion.
The only problem was that she’d rather make her proposition when he was fully clothed.
Confronting him now would only compound her troubles.
So she pressed a hand to her breast and retraced her steps to the door. It stood ajar, the passage beyond beckoning, urging escape. Scarce daring to breathe, she peered from one end of the corridor to the other. Nothing stirred except a cat scurrying along in the darkness and a poorly burning wall sconce that hissed and spit.
Or so she thought until two chattering laundresses sailed around a corner, their arms loaded with bed linens. A small lad followed in their wake, carrying a wicker basket brimming with candles.
They were heading her way.
“Botheration!” She felt a jolt of panic.
Nipping back into Sorley’s bedchamber, she closed the door.
It fell into place with a distinct knick.
Before she could catch her breath, Sorley was behind her, gripping her shoulders with firm, strong fingers. He lowered his head, nuzzling her neck, his mouth brushing over her skin. She bit her lip as he slid his hands down her arms, pulling her back against him.
He was still naked.
She could feel the hot, hard length of him pressing into her.
Almost as bad, he was now rubbing his face in her hair, nipping her ear. His warm breath sent shivers rippling through her.
She gasped, her heart thundering.
“Sweet minx, I didnae expect a visitor this night.” He chuckled and closed his hands more firmly around her wrists. “Followed me from the Red Lion, did you?”