The Outcast Page 3

  “’Twas naught,” she said with an insincere shrug. “I was only passin’ on a kernel o’ knowledge…somethin’ that could change the manner in which we view the entire universe. That’s all.”

  He stopped chewing and stirring and arched dubious brows at her. “What?”

  She couldn’t help herself then. ’Twas such an exciting piece of news. Keeping it secret was harder than keeping a jack in its box. Her eyes lit up as she told him about Copernicus’s latest theory. “’Tis quite possible—highly likely, in fact—that ’tis not the Earth which is at the center of our galaxy, but indeed the Sun, and that all the planets revolve around it.”

  He swallowed the bit of apple, and his expression went from dubious to amused. But ’twasn’t the sort of amused scorn to which she’d grown accustomed. ’Twas more like amused fascination. “Ye think so?”

  “Copernicus thinks so.”

  He resumed stirring. “Copernicus.”

  “Aye, the Prussian astronomer. ’Tis his heliocentric hypothesis.”

  He didn’t even try to repeat that. “How do ye know about matters of astronomy?”

  She straightened with pride and gave him a conspiratorial wink. “A woman o’ my profession has access to all sorts o’ men in high places.”

  His smile froze. His spoon suddenly slipped, and he burned his finger on the pot’s rim. Then, quickly popping the injured digit into his mouth, he mumbled, “Your…profession?”

  “Aye.” She hefted up her satchel. “I’m a spectacle-seller.”

  He seemed relieved. “A spectacle-seller. Oh. Aye. O’ course.”

  “I’ve sold spectacles to some o’ the most esteemed academics in Scotland,” she said proudly.

  “Is that so?”

  “Aye. Would ye like to see them?”

  He gave her a puzzled frown. “The academics?”

  “Nay,” she chided with a giggle. “My spectacles.”

  A soft shimmer came into his gray eyes, like a candle appearing in the fog, as she saw he was only jesting with her.

  Nobody ever jested with her. People usually thought she wasn’t quite right in the head. The fact that he was treating her like an ordinary person suffused her with a sweet warmth.

  Lachlan knew he shouldn’t encourage the lass. ’Twas pointless. Besides, he needed to send her away before…before he started getting second thoughts about sending her away.

  Still, when she looked at him with that damned sunny gleam in her eyes, how could he resist? He left the wooden spoon in the pot, wedged the crutch under his arm, and hobbled toward the bed.

  She popped up, pulled a small box out of her satchel, and opened it. A neat row of spectacles were nestled inside, between strips of cloth which he presumed protected the glass from scratches.

  “The lenses come in various strengths, dependin’ on the need,” she explained. “Most buy cheap leather frames, which can be replaced when they wear thin. But for the more affluent patron, they’re made o’ metal or ox bone or, like this pair…” She carefully lifted out a special pair of spectacles and handed them to him. “Polished horn.”

  Lachlan pretended to admire the spectacles. But in truth, he found the lass showing them to him to be far more intriguing. As he handed them back to her, he tried again to see through the spectacles she was wearing. Her eyes had looked grass green before. But now they seemed to twinkle like emeralds.

  She looked up to catch him staring. “Ah, ye’ve noticed my own spectacles,” she guessed incorrectly. “And ye probably want to know why the spectacle-seller wears simple leather frames.” She slipped him a confiding grin. “I’ll tell ye a wee secret. In fact, the true value is in the lenses. ’Tis no easy task…”

  She halted, probably because he was indeed staring at her, unable to tear his gaze away from her smiling face. How long had it been since a woman had looked at him without cringing in horror?

  “No easy task,” she repeated, “findin’ the perfect magnification.” Her eyelids dipped, and she gulped, speaking more slowly. “And once ye do…”

  She was staring back at him now. Her eyes looked like deep verdant pools. “’Tis best to hold onto them,” she said, her voice growing softer, “and…and…”

  He swallowed hard. ’Twas so rare—a moment like this when he didn’t feel like the village monster, when he felt like a man, whole and hale—that he didn’t want it to end. He was afraid to move, afraid to speak, afraid to look away. He scarcely breathed the word. “And?”

  “And replace the frames when they’re…” she trailed off, lowering the spectacles in her hand.

  He didn’t think. He didn’t plan. He simply reached up and gently removed the spectacles from her nose and looked deep into her eyes. Apple green. Fern green. The green of new leaves in May and soft moss in clear pools.

  His gaze lowered then to her rosy lips. How long had it been since he’d had that sweet taste, since he’d felt the soft caress of a woman? It seemed an eternity since he’d shared a kiss…and he doubted he’d ever have another chance.

  But his heart squeezed in pain even as he dared to hope. No matter how great his hunger, this lass wasn’t his to have. He didn’t deserve such sweetness anyway. And ’twas not his way to force himself upon a woman. He might have lost his leg, but he hadn’t lost his honor. ’Twas disrespectful and unchivalrous to…

  The lass suddenly dropped the expensive spectacles to the floor and surged toward him. Before he could blink, she caught his face between her palms and planted a hard kiss square on his mouth.

  What had possessed her, Alisoune didn’t know. ’Twas quite unscientific. All she could fathom was that there was a prime specimen of a man standing within reach, that he was mysteriously attractive to her, and that something about the way he was regarding her made every nerve in her body quicken.

  Her brain suddenly seemed to shut off, and she couldn’t summon up a single intelligent thought.

  Some other part of her took over then, thrusting her toward him, compelling her to try something she’d never experienced before—kissing a man.

  The sensation proved to be rather pleasant. His mouth was firm, his skin warm, and he tasted faintly of apple.

  She didn’t consider whether he’d like it. And indeed, considering his lack of response, ’twas possible he did not. His mouth was immobile. He seemed to be holding his breath, though she was too mortified to open her eyes to check.

  Now she was sure she’d done the wrong thing. Acting on impulse was seldom wise. But how could she extricate herself with grace?

  Her fingers trembled where she touched his grizzled jaw, and she started to pull away.

  Then she heard his crutch fall to the floor. In the next instant, his hands came up to caress her face. He tipped her head to the side. With a soft growl, he pressed his lips to hers and deepened the kiss. His warm breath sent shivers through her as he began to feast on her mouth like a beggar feasting on bread.

  A bolt of current speared through her then, driving the intense pleasure he bestowed upon her lips down through her body, straight through her heart, deep into her belly, all the way to the vulnerable spot between her thighs.

  She moaned at the curious heat building there as he kissed her with growing desperation. Her heart was pumping hard. Her nerves felt on fire. A shimmering buzz encircled her head. Breathless with yearning, she returned his passion, opening her mouth and daring to explore him with her tongue.

  He groaned, and for an instant, she imagined she’d hurt him somehow. But it must have been a groan of encouragement, for he swept one arm around her back to press her closer, crushing her breasts against him and letting his tongue tangle with hers.

  Now the hot, tingling desire traveled slowly up from between her thighs to her abdomen, up through her belly to her breasts. Her nipples ached with exquisite need where they contacted his solid chest.

  She wanted him even closer, though it seemed anatomically impossible. She weaved her fingers through his hair and drew his head down, arching u
p toward him at the same time, eager to be completely enclosed in his embrace.

  But she miscalculated. She pulled too hard and began to fall backward. Though he staggered and thrust out his arm to try to keep upright, he lost his balance as well. Their mouths were torn apart, but she foolishly clung to him, not wanting to be separated from him for one moment.

  Thankfully the bed was behind her. She landed with a painless plop on the feather mattress, and he twisted enough to wind up mostly off of her. The hound sat up and whined in concern, which made Alisoune giggle. But she wasn’t about to let her own clumsiness interfere with this most enjoyable endeavor. Giddy with delight, she wrapped her arms around the handsome man’s neck, eager to continue, and smiled up at him.

  But he wasn’t smiling.

  Chapter 4

  Lachlan had never been so mortified in his life. This was the reason Margaret had left him, why he never let anyone close, why he wasn’t deserving of a woman.

  For God’s sake, he couldn’t even stand on his own two feet.

  He’d utterly humiliated himself. He’d carried on like a lovesick cow, literally falling all over her, and now she was laughing at him.

  She was right to laugh. He was a disgrace. He couldn’t bring himself to look her in the eye.

  “I’m sorry,” he mumbled, shaking off her hands and trying to lever himself up off of the bed with as little ado as possible.

  “Ye are?” She sounded hurt.

  “I should never have…” he began, casting a glance over his shoulder for his fallen crutch. “’Twas a stupid mistake.”

  “’Twas?”

  “Aye, and ’twill not happen again.”

  “’Twon’t?”

  “I’m…” He couldn’t think of a better word to describe what a pathetic excuse for a man he was. “Sorry.”

  “Oh.” There was an awkward moment of silence, and then she said, “Well…I don’t think I am.”

  For an instant, his foolish heart fluttered. She sounded sincere. But that was just wishful thinking. Surely she was only being polite. Who wouldn’t be sorry to be knocked over by a clumsy cripple?

  He retrieved the crutch and got it under him, pushing back up onto his good leg. Though he tried to avert his gaze, his eyes couldn’t help but be drawn to the breathless beauty sprawled on his bed like a fallen angel. Her green skirts were askew and puffed up like a dark storm cloud against the pale cream sky of his bed linens. Her long chestnut-colored hair had mostly come undone and swept her face in loose curls. Her eyes looked smoky now, like mist over a green sea. And her mouth was stained a luscious shade of crimson, darkened by the pressure of his kiss.

  But ’twas pointless to admire her. He was only torturing himself. Clearing his throat, he withdrew and turned toward the hearth, grating out, “The porridge should be ready.”

  He set down the tip of his crutch, put weight on it, and heard an awful crunch.

  He wouldn’t curse in front of the lass. ’Twasn’t seemly. But he longed to spit out a string of the foulest words he knew.

  Her soft gasp as she saw her prize spectacles crushed beneath his crutch was like salt in his wounds. God’s teeth! He was an arse, an idiot, a fool unfit for company, better off alone where he could do no harm.

  He spoke through teeth clenched in shame. “I’ll…find a way to repay ye. I’m sorry for…” He paused and let out a sigh of regret. “For everythin’.”

  “Nae!” she hastened to assure him as he continued to limp toward the fire. She wriggled down off the bed and followed him. “’Tisn’t your fault. I’m the one who…who…”

  He lifted the bail of the pot and gave her a brief sidelong glance. She was blushing.

  “I shouldn’t have kissed ye,” she admitted, her hands clasped modestly before her. “But I’m not sorry. ’Twas a most… pleasurable experience, well worth the cost of a pair o’ spectacles.”

  He closed his eyes. Surely she wasn’t serious. She only felt sorry for him. ’Twas pity, not affection.

  And yet…a part of him was stupid enough to hope she was telling the truth.

  He opened his eyes again and lifted the pot from the hearth. He didn’t speak while he filled two crockery bowls with the porridge.

  She squeezed her clasped hands tightly together atop her stomacher and asked softly, “Are ye so angry with me then?”

  He frowned, unable to figure out how she’d come to that conclusion. “Angry with ye?”

  “For takin’ liberties with ye.”

  He glanced up at her. Faith, she was serious. She thought he was vexed with her for…for “taking liberties” with him? He bit back a smile. Taking liberties wasn’t usually the sort of thing a woman did to a man.

  She mistook his pause for condemnation. “Ye are angry.” Her shoulders sank. “But ye must know, kind sir, I meant ye no harm. ’Tis only that I’ve never kissed a man before, and I have a curious nature, so I—”

  “Never?” That was a surprise. She seemed awfully good at it for a novice.

  She shook her head and pressed a hand to her bosom. “I didn’t know what to expect. I didn’t realize my heart would pound so fiercely…my blood would run so warm…my whole body would burn with such a heat that I could no longer think straight or—”

  “I’m not angry,” he blurted out before she could say something to drive him even more mad with longing.

  She bit her lip then, effectively silenced. He slid the bowls to their respective places on the table. She located and replaced her own spectacles, and then collected the shards of the ones he’d broken and threw them into the fireplace.

  He had only one chair. Spotting his dilemma, she scooted the table over to the bedside and sat atop the mattress, leaving the chair for him.

  Fortunately, he had two spoons. He gave her one, kept one for himself, and eased down into the chair. Then he sat staring at his bowl of porridge.

  He had no appetite. All of his hunger was focused between his legs. It had been months since the beast in his trews had stirred, but ’twas most definitely stirring now. And now that ’twas awake and ravenous, there wasn’t a damned thing he could do about it.

  The lass spooned a generous mouthful of porridge into her mouth and closed her eyes in bliss. “Mmmm.”

  His groin tightened. He clenched his jaw, then stabbed his spoon into the porridge, shoveling it past his teeth.

  “Mm-mm,” she crooned.

  He swallowed the porridge in one giant gulp. It sank to his gut like a stone.

  “Mmmm.” She licked her lips.

  He gave her a pained expression. “Can ye not…that is…must ye…”

  She looked at him with wide eyes, her spoon poised between the bowl and her delicious mouth. “Aye?”

  He shook his head. ’Twas no use. The lass couldn’t know what she was doing to his insides. He’d have to suffer in silence. Soon enough they’d be done eating, and he’d send her on her way.

  Alisoune wasn’t sure why he looked so miserable. Aye, she’d overstepped her welcome, grabbing him and kissing him like that. But it had been most rewarding…at least for her. Until she’d knocked the poor man over, he seemed to be relishing it as much as she.

  She wondered if she could repair the damage she’d done. When men of science failed in their experiments, they usually scrapped everything and started over.

  “Perhaps we could begin anew,” she suggested. “Ye can forget my improper advances, and I’ll forget the broken spectacles.” She stuck out her hand. “My name is Alisoune, Alisoune Hay.”

  He stared at her hand in surprise as if she’d placed a dead mouse on the table. She withdrew it. Maybe she was being too forward again.

  He sighed, seemed to think it over, and then gave her a nod. “Alisoune,” he repeated. She liked the way her name sounded in his deep, rolling voice. “I’m Lachlan.”

  “Sir Lachlan, happy to make your acquai—”

  “Not Sir,” he interrupted. “Just Lachlan.”

  She glanced again at his battle
gear in the corner. She supposed if she’d lost her leg in a fight, she’d like to forget she’d ever been a knight as well. “Sorry.”

  “Nae,” he said with an apologetic grimace. “’Tis fine. I just…I won’t be donnin’ armor again. I’m just Lachlan.”

  Eager to move away from an obviously uncomfortable subject, she quickly said, “The porridge is quite tasty.”

  He gave a single soft bark of amusement. “Porridge is porridge.”

  “Not at all,” she countered. “Ye have to have the right proportion o’ solids to liquids, the right distance from the heat source, and the right time of exposure to the heat.”

  “Is that so?” The soft twinkle in his silvery eyes let her know that he found her engaging, if a bit odd. But then everyone found her odd. At least he didn’t seem to think she was Satan’s spawn.

  They both went back to eating. Finally Lachlan gestured toward her spectacles with his spoon. “Do those truly help ye see better?”

  “Oh, aye,” she said. “Without them, I’m as lost as a lamb in a snowstorm. But with them…” She studied his face for something she could point out. “I can see the tiny white scar ye have at the corner o’ your mouth there.” She nodded to the mark.

  He lifted his finger to touch the spot, as if he’d forgotten it.

  “Impressive,” he said. Then a roguish glimmer shimmered in his silver eyes. “Can ye see the whiskers on Campbell’s chin?”

  She whipped her head around toward the hound, who was sitting by the bed, licking his chops, waiting for scraps. “Aye.”

  “What about his eyelashes?”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Aye, just barely.”

  “And what about that flea perched on the end o’ his muzzle?”

  She squinted for an instant before she realized he was jesting. Then she erupted into bubbling peals of laughter.

  Chapter 5

  Lachlan knew he’d carry the sweet sound of her laughing with him to his grave. It had been a long while since there had been any joy in his life. ’Twould be a long while before he was likely to have any. So he stored the lovely sound away in his memory, to pull out on days when loneliness and despair got the best of him.