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Cover art (c) Dan Skinner 2007
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Angela Evans has what every woman in the world wants: twenty-four hour a day access to Rory Fallon, the Sexiest Man in Cinema. Being hired as the handsome Scottish actor's housekeeper will put her in close contact with him, catering to his needs, traveling the world at his side as she looks after his numerous residences from London to Los Angeles and taking care of his motor home on movie sets. It is a dream come true job any woman would kill to have.

Tempted:

WINDSTAR

By

Charlotte Boyett-Compo

© copyright April 2007, Charlotte Boyett-Compo

Cover art by Jenny Dixon, © copyright April 2007

New Concepts Publishing

Lake Park, GA 31636

www.newconceptspublishing.com

This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, and places are of the author's imagination and not to be confused with fact. Any resemblance to living persons or events is merely coincidence.

Chapter One

Angela Evans was stunned when she rang the bell and Rory Keith, himself, answered the door. She actually took a step back in surprise--her face turning red--as she encountered his world-famous cocky grin and the blue-green-gray--what the heck color were his eyes?--that crinkled so merrily at the corners.

“Angela?” he asked in the Scottish brogue that set the hearts of women young and old racing recklessly.

“Yes, sir,” Angela managed to say, taking the strong, tanned hand he held out to her and feeling positively fragile as he encompassed it within his own.

“Come on in!” he said, drawing her with him into the airy expanse of his New York loft apartment. “Terrible day to be out interviewing, isn’t it?”

She could only nod, for she was lost in that handsome face she’d spent hours watching on movie and television screens. His hand was warm covering hers, and that smile--oh, God that smile--was doing shameful things to her libido.

“I love bad weather, myself,” he said, finally releasing her hand as he fanned it toward the sitting area of the loft. “You can’t be born in Scotland and not like the rain.”

A tremulous smile hovered on Angela’s lips as she followed him to the plush sofa and took a seat at his urging. She couldn’t look away from the crisp white cotton shirt and black jeans that hugged his muscular frame so lovingly. That he was barefooted just made her melt inside.

“How ‘bout you?” he asked in that brogue that sent shivers down her spine.

“I’m not fond of bad weather,” she said, “even though I grew up on the Gulf Coast of Florida and we have more than our share of storms coming in.” She flinched, telling herself she had given far more detail than he’d required.

His eyes lit up and his expressive mouth did the cute little quirking of his upper lip that was his trademark. “You’re a southern woman!” he exclaimed. “God, I love your accent!” He took a seat across from her, leaning forward so his elbows rested on his knees. “Please tell me you know how to make good sweetened tea.”

Angela’s left eyebrow crooked upward. “You like sweet tea?”

He was like a little boy as he sat hunched there, his smile bright and his eyes dancing. “When I was in Pensacola filming, I fell in love with southern food. God, barbeque ribs and cornbread and ….” He groaned. “When I asked the agency to find me a housekeeper, I wanted to make sure she knew how to cook fried okra and make sweet tea.”

“It’s fried okrie,” she corrected, unable to keep from grinning as broadly as did he. “Tea with or without lemon?”

“Oh, with! Definitely with!” he replied. “When can you start?”

She laughed. “To make the tea or as your housekeeper?”

“Both!” he answered and was on his feet, holding out a hand. “Let’s go do it now!”

His words drove straight through Angela’s soul. Making tea wasn’t what she would have liked to be doing with him, but as he pulled her up and began walking her to the kitchen part of the loft with her hand cupped in his, she followed willingly, looking up at the nape of his neck where the curly brown hair just brushed his collar.

“I’ve Earl Grey,” he said. “Will that do?”

She hated to tell him that it wouldn’t. “Actually Tetley loose tea would be ….”

“Let me get my shoes! There’s a market ‘round the corner,” he said, letting go of her hand and practically sprinting away from her to disappear down the hallway.

She laughed as she heard him rummaging around in his bedroom. The man was a vortex of nervous energy and everything he did, he did at breakneck speed.

Outside it was pouring rain with lightning flashing now and then to light up the large expanse of windows in the loft. When he returned, he had on a baseball cap, tennis shoes without socks, and what she had come to realize must be a favorite leather coat for she’d seen him wearing it in several of his movies.

“I’ll ring down and have the car sent for us straight away,” he said, picking up the receiver.

She watched him, thinking he had to be the handsomest man she’d ever seen. Tall and thoroughly masculine, she could imagine he broke at least a dozen female hearts a week just by flashing those mesmerizing green eyes and that crooked grin. Single--and supposedly quite content to remain that way--he had been linked with every Hollywood goddess coming down the pike and the paparazzi pictured him with women who were constantly hinting marriage was in the works. It was going to be a challenge to work for a man who she wanted to throw down on the rug and have her way with.

“That was a strange expression,” he said, cocking his head to one side. “What were you thinking?”

Angela felt the heat branching up her neck and into her cheeks. “I’ll never tell,” she said and when he slowly grinned at her, she knew damned well he had some idea of where her feeble mind had flown.

“Don’t fall too deeply in love with me before you make my tea, wench,” he teased, opening the door for her.

“I’ll try not to,” she countered.

“Good, ‘cause it gets so bloody boring, you know?”

“Having to fight off the girls?” she asked as she walked out into the hall.

“Girls, guys, damned Labrador retrievers, too!” he replied with a hand to the small of her back.

She reached for the umbrella she’d propped outside his door, but he tugged her away from it.

“You won’t need it,” he promised.

She stumbled along in his wake, for he was like a tornado of nervous energy as he stabbed repeatedly at the button on the private elevator, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet. He reminded her so vividly of her sons when they were boys.

“Trying to quit,” he said, “and I’m climbing the walls.”

She knew he meant smoking. “Have you tried hard candy?”

He snapped his fingers. “Lemon drops! Aye, remind me to grab a few hundred bags at the market!”

Angela laughed.

“Ah, now that’s just cruel,” he said. “I bet you don’t smoke.”

She shook her head. “Never have, never will.”

“Evil woman,” he pronounced in that sexy brogue. “Rub it in, why doncha?”

“Mind over matter,” she told him.

“If you don’t mind, it don’t matter, huh?” he queried, wagging his dark brows.

The elevator door opened and he ushered her inside, standing so close to her she could smell his expensive cologne. She felt him looking down at her, and she looked up to see him staring at her, his eyes dancing with merriment, his lips twitching in a reckless grin.

“So, tell me about you,” he said. He leaned over. “I don’t see a wedding band.”

“Divorced,” she said.

“Ah …,” he drawled, nodding sagely. “Kids?”

“Two grown sons and two grandkids,” she replied.

“Whoa!” he said, sparkling eyes flaring wide. “I’ve got meself a real live Granny! What are the odds of that?” He slipped his arm around her shoulders and hugged her. “Just what I’ve been needing! Someone to take me in hand and make me a good boy.”

Angela felt his touch all the way to her toes. She was pressed up close to his side as he briefly hugged her then let her go. His entire attitude was so infectiously, almost manic, and she found herself relaxing with him as though she’d known him for years.

“Did they tell you at the agency that you’ll have to sleep with me?” he asked, his gaze wicked, his lips twitching with humor.

“I believe they mentioned it would be a live-in job,” she said.

“Noooo,” he said, drawing out the brogue. “I mean sleep with me?” he said, nudging her with his hip.

“I don’t think so. I imagine you snore,” she countered, knowing he was teasing.

“I do not!” he said, highly offended. “I might breathe heavily but I don’t snore, wench!”

She shook her head at his playfulness. When the elevator settled and he once more put a hand to the small of her back, she felt like the sexiest, prettiest woman alive. She knew damned well she was very lucky, for millions of women would give their left teat to be where she was at that moment.

He was as friendly and personable to those in the lobby of the building where he lived and to the doorman, who held the car door for them beneath the sweep of a huge umbrella. As he scooted into the backseat with her, he waved at several women who had stopped to stare with open mouths.

“Think they’ll drown if they stay that way?” he asked with a boyish chuckle then made a gurgling sound.

“How old are you?” she asked, laughing at his antics.

“Thirty-seven going on ten, my mom says,” he replied and then began tapping out a rhythm on his knees. “I need them lemon drops.”

“Yes, you do,” she said and fished in her purse for a piece of peppermint candy, which she handed over. “Here, suck on this.”

He stunned her by grabbing her hand and sticking her thumb in his mouth. The warmth and wetness of his mouth made her womb clench and heat flood between her legs. She could only stare at him as he sucked hard on her thumb, and then took it out of his mouth with a loud popping sound.

“Oh, you meant the candy, didn’t ya?” he chortled, plucking the candy out of her hand to unwrap it. He tossed it into his mouth with a wide grin.

“Are you always this strange, Mr. Keith?” she asked.

“Mr. Keith was my Dad. I’m Rory,” he replied. “And I’m not strange, just a bit daft. Ask anyone.” He leaned over the front sea and pointed at the market. “Over there.”

Their time inside the market was like a trip to a fun house. He took charge of the cart and piled things into it that caught his eye. Questioning every purchase she made, wanting to know what it was for and how she’d use it, he was like an inquisitive toddler who--at one point--shook his head firmly when she put a bunch of asparagus in the cart.

“No,” he said. “I draw the line at vegetables with names I can’t spell. Besides, that shit is slimy when it’s cooked.”

“I’m not going to cook it,” she told him and put the asparagus back in the cart.

He narrowed his eyes. “Then whatcha gonna do with it?”

“You’ll see,” she said and continued on down the vegetable bins.

“Something evil, I bet,” he said, thrusting his hands into the pockets of his jeans.

“Utterly wicked,” she agreed.

“Are you gonna make me eat healthy shit?” he asked with a sniff.

“I’m gonna make you eat healthy food,” she replied. “If you want to eat shit, you can do so when I’m not looking.” She stared him in the eyes.

The left side of his mouth quirked up and he stunned her again by bending over and kissing her on the cheek. “I like you, wench,” he pronounced then strolled off, abandoning the cart, looking for the gods only knew what among the aisles.

By the time Angie pushed the cart to the checkout, he was surrounded by three women and a little girl who were all looking up at him with complete adoration. You could almost hear the estrogen bubbling away.

“Gotta go, now,” she heard him say. “The warden is shooting daggers at me.”

All four females turned to glare at Angie, and she could have sworn one of them actually growled at her. She rolled her eyes as he came strutting up to her and dropped something into the cart. She looked down at it then up at him, one eyebrow arched.

“A man has his needs,” he defended his purchase.

“Umm,” she said, eyeing the issue of Playboy with a smirk.

“I buy it for the articles,” he said with a straight face.

“Sure you do,” she agreed.

As they waited to checkout, he plundered through the cart. Spying a bottle of Bloody Mary mix, he picked it up and the smile left his face. “I can’t have this in the apartment.”

She frowned. “Why not?”

“I can’t have booze in the …”

She had read all about his drinking problem and how he’d spent several months in a rehab center earlier in the year. He was upfront about the boozing whenever he was interviewed.

“The mix is for the asparagus and the green beans,” she told him.

“Ugh,” he said with a snarl, his upper lip quirked. “You’re kidding, right?”

“Trust me,” she said, taking the bottle out of his hand and putting it back in the cart.

“I think I’d rather have the shit,” he mumbled, then winked at the cashier who was staring at him with lust in her eyes. “Gimme that bag of lemon drops, darlin’.”

The cashier obediently handed over the candy and laughed when he broke the bag open and crammed several into his mouth.

There were things in the cart Angie had not seen him sneak in there, and when he crammed his hand into his pocket to pull out two hundred dollar bills, she was amazed at the total. Happy to hear the groceries would be delivered to the loft and they wouldn’t have to lug them out into the rain, she took the hand he offered and started out the door.

On the sidewalk, several fans rushed him wanting autographs and he obliged every one of them, posing for several throwaway camera shots with the giggling, salivating females. With his long arms draped around the girls’ shoulders, he mugged for the shots then kissed each girl on the forehead before finally grabbing Angie’s hand and sprinting for the car, squealing girls close behind. They barely made it inside before the driver--used to squiring Rory around town--pulled away from the curb.

“How ‘bout I buy you supper tonight, then you can start cooking for me tomorrow?” he asked, popping a few more lemon drops in his mouth.

“What are you in the mood for?” she asked, shaking his head when he offered a lemon drop.

“Wild, passionate monkey sex in front of the fireplace on me bear skin rug,” he answered.

She chuckled, getting used to his teasing. “Before or after we eat?”

He leaned over, his broad shoulder bumping hers a couple of times. “I was thinking of having you as the meal. How’s that?”

“Behave!” she said, shoving him away. “You are incorrigible.”

“I can’t be something I can’t spell,” he countered, crunching the candy noisily.

Angie shook her head at him. She knew he’d graduated with honors from Glasgow University, so his self-deprecating comments were comical.

“I like Chinese food,” he said. “Mexican, Italian, some Indian, and barbeque ribs.” He twisted around in the seat to face her. “How ‘bout sharing a poo-poo plate?”

She pursed her lips, not about to let him get that one past her. “I don’t share my poo-poo with anyone, mister. I want my own.”

He grinned. “You got it!” Snaking out a hand, he gripped the driver’s shoulder. “You know that place we went a few weeks ago?” At the driver’s nod, Rory told him to head over there. “Will you go in for us?”

“I think I’d better this time,” the driver said.

Angie looked at Rory as he sat back in the seat. “What happened last time?”

Rory shrugged. “I practically got raped,” he said. “Walked funny for a week.”

The driver laughed. “I’ve never seen anybody run as fast as he did and dive into my backseat!”

“Damned women nearly tore me clothes off!” Rory complained.

He kept up a constant barrage of silliness, asking questions about her that she felt uncomfortable answering while the driver went in and ordered their supper.

“How old are you?” he asked at one point when she reminded him she was old enough to be his mother.

“Twenty years older than you,” she answered.

He gawked at her, eyes wide. “God, that is old! Should we stop and get you a walker on the way home? Do you need an oxygen tank or something? How ‘bout a new pair of support hose?”

She rolled her eyes at him.

“Did you buy some fiber ‘cause I ran out when me own Granny was here last?” he queried. “Oh, oh, oh … and did you remember to get some Depends? We can’t have you pissing all over the place and …”

“Will you shut up?” she asked and dug her elbow into his ribs.

He shot out an arm to capture her shoulders, bringing her beneath his arm to plant his chiseled chin on the top of her head. “Don’t worry, Granny. I’ll take good care of you in your declining years.” He placed a kiss on her hair.

All the way home, all the way up in the elevator, he kept cracking her up with his antics. In the lobby of his building, he acutely embarrassed her as his driver and a bellman took possession of their purchases and brought them up in the elevator. He had a tight grip on Angela’s hand, swinging it like a child would.

“Me Granny’s gonna cook me supper and we’re gonna eat it on the floor!” he told the bellman who was apparently used to his famous resident’s quirky nature.

“Is that so?” the man asked. “And just what is your Granny gonna cook you, young sir?”

“Anything I want!” Rory stated, bumping his hip against Angela.

“Will you behave?” she whispered out the side of her mouth.

“Your Granny’s gonna take a switch to you if you don’t,” the bellman said with a twitch of his lips.

The sexy actor put his head on Angela’s shoulder. “I’ll be a good boy, Granny!”

“Stop it!” she laughed, pushing him away.

Once inside the apartment, he let go of her hand but ushered her with a gentle push on her back into the kitchen.

“I’m a growing boy and I’m starving,” he announced.

“I thought you only wanted a glass of tea,” she complained as the bellman and driver placed the purchases on the counters.

“I’m hungry!” her new boss said with a pout of his world-famous lips. He stomped his foot. “I’m hungry, I’m hungry, I’m hungry!”

“Better feed him, miss,” the driver suggested dryly. “He can be a real corker when he’s like this.”

“Well, he could get down on the floor and kick his heels but I won’t ….”

And the award-winning matinee idol whose sexy body and soulful eyes haunted the dreams of women throughout the world did just that, stretching out on his back and kicking his heels, bawling like a baby, fists to his eyes.

“I’m hungry! I’m hungry! I’m hungry!” he repeated. “I ain’t never had no fried potatoes and salmon croquettes!”

“Will you stop?” she gasped, laughing so hard tears had come into her eyes. “I’ll cook the darn food, okay?”

He shot up from the floor with a ridiculous grin plastered on his chiseled features and wrapped his arms around her and nudged his chin into the hollow at the side of her neck. “You’re such a good Granny. You’re so good to little Rory John.”

“I’m gonna spank little Rory John’s fanny if he doesn’t stop pestering me,” she told him.

His hands went to her shoulders. He pulled her against him and with his lips to her ear whispered in a sensuous voice, “Can I hold you to that?”

She wriggled out of his light grip and swatted at him. “Out! Out of my kitchen right now or you’ll end up with takeout tonight!”

He held his hands up in surrender. “I’m going. I’m going!”

As she prepared their supper she could hear him in the living area. He was running dialogue with the bellman. It must have been something the two did often, for they seemed very comfortable in the roles they were playing. Only once did Rory venture back into the kitchen to check on her and she ran him out of the kitchen, with a snap of a dish towel.

By the time she brought the crisply fried croquettes, chunky fried potatoes smothered in diced onion and green pepper, sliced tomato and cucumber salad and piping hot slabs of Texas toast slathered with garlic butter, Rory was stretched out before the fire on a plaid blanket, propped up on a mound of pillows.

“Where’s me sweetened tea, wench?” he demanded.

“Hold your horses, Attila,” she quipped. “Here, take this.” She handed him the tray then went back in the kitchen for the tea.

“It’s Mr. Attila to you, you saucy girl!” he called out.

He was sitting tailor fashion on the blanket when she came back, a plate of food already in his lap, another he’d prepared for her sitting beside him.

“I can’t eat all that!” she protested as she dropped to her knees. She eyed the mound of potatoes and the three croquettes.

“I can,” he stated and plucked two of the croquettes from her plate and dropped them onto his. He was about to scoop up some of the potatoes but she slapped at his hand.

“Touch my taters and die, bagpipe boy!”

Rory Keith laughed like a school boy. He watched her pick up her plate. “Want me to say Grace?” he asked.

She looked at him with surprise. “Would you?”

“Sure,” he said. He closed his eyes, bowed his head and in a soft, gentle voice said, “Grace.” He wedged one eye open, looked at her and then grinned.

“You’re incorrigible!” she pronounced.

“Don’t know what that means and can’t spell it,” he said, then proceeded to say the Catholic blessing over the meal, surprising her even more. When he made the sign of the cross, she echoed the action.

“You a Papist, too, wench?” he asked, digging into the potatoes.

“I am.”

“Good. I need somebody to remind me about Holy Days.”

She glanced down at the blanket. “Is this your tartan pattern?”

He made a rude sound. “Hell, no! I wouldn’t eat on me own colors, wench.” His mouth crooked into a smirk. “This is the heathen Ferguson plaid, Protestants as they be.”

“I see,” she said, knowing his best friend was the late-night talk show host who was part of that heathen clan.

She took a bite of her croquette. “Do you have a kilt?”

“And a ghillie shirt, a jabot, Balmoral hat, flashes, sporran and all the other stuff,” he said and then explained what each was.

“I’d like to see you in full highland dress,” she said, thinking that would be quite the sight.

He picked up the croquette and chomped off a large piece, his eyes lighting up with pleasure. “There are onions in there!”

“Only way to cook them,” she replied.

He munched away, eyes rolling with pleasure, and then swallowed loudly. She knew he was about to say something irreverent and adorable when his eyes widened and his expressive lips arched. “I don’t wear highland dresses, by the way. The long skirts get in the way of me running and the bodice is too tight on me chest.” He grinned nastily. “That’s why I wear me kiltie although ...”

She cocked a brow. “Although what?”

“I’m at me best when I’m wearing nothing at all,” he said with a wink.

It was that way the rest of the evening as they ate in front of the fire on the bear skin rug. He kept her in stitches and when she told him she needed to go home, he seemed reluctant to allow her to leave.

“You can stay here tonight and we’ll go get your stuff in the morning,” he suggested.

“I don’t have anything to sleep in,” she said and realized as soon as she’d said it that she’d played right into his game.

“I sleep in the buff, so you can too,” he said and when she would have chastised him, he held up a hand. “Or you can borrow one of my shirts.” He wagged his brows. “There are women the world over who’d love to get in my shirt.”

“I don’t doubt that,” she said and gave him an arch look. “Your pants, too.”

“Damned straight,” he said with a smirk.

They took the remains of their supper into the kitchen and disposed of the Styrofoam plates.

“You know what you didn’t do?” she asked.

“Have wild monkey sex?”

“Show me where I’ll be staying,” she said.

He took her hand, pulled her toward the back of the loft. “Bad Rory,” he labeled himself, slapping the palm of his other hand against his forehead. “Bad, bad Rory.”

The room to which he took her had a lovely queen-size bed, a large armoire, a dresser, two night tables and a wall-hung plasma TV next to a very comfortable sitting area with a sofa, loveseat, two chairs, a desk with a credenza and occasional tables. The room had its own bath and a little balcony that faced north.

“If you don’t like the colors, you can paint it whatever you like. Don’t like the furniture, you can change it. Don’t like the room period, tough shit. Unless, of course, you want to bunk with me.”

“This will do nicely, thank you,” she said. “I wouldn’t change a thing.”

He walked her to the door, scuffing his bare feet on the polished parquet flooring. “I wish you’d stay,” he said and she finally understood that he didn’t want to be alone.

“I’ll be back first thing in the morning,” she said. “What time do you get up?”

“Whenever I wake up,” he replied, then held up a finger. “Wait a minute.”

She watched him jog over to a credenza in the dining area of the loft. He came back with a key.

“I’ll see you tomorrow then,” she said.

“Yeah,” he agreed and for the first time he didn’t smile.

“And we’ll have a very healthy breakfast.”

He nodded and reached behind her to open the door for her. As she went out, he stood in the doorway and watched her until the elevator door opened and she was inside. There was such loneliness on his face, she was almost inclined to stay, when the doors slid shut.

* * * *

Rory closed the door and leaned his back against it, his head down, hands behind him on the doorknob. He hated being alone and avoided it every chance he got. Not for the first time, he thought of getting a pet but with his erratic schedule, he hadn’t felt it would be fair to the animal. But when the night closed in and the walls seem to shrink it around him, he longed for someone to talk to. It was the nights that were the longest for him and that was the time he’d spent years drinking himself into a stupor to blot out the loneliness.

The youngest of nine children, he had never spent a day or his life without tons of relatives surrounding him until he had graduated from the university and took a job he had hated with a passion. They’d stuck him in an office without a window and he had developed an acute case of claustrophobia. Had he not been dating a girl who insisted he try out for a play in which she’d been given the lead, he would not have discovered his love of performing, and the world would never have known he existed.

Sighing, he pushed away from the door and went into the living area, turning the CD player on as loud as his ears could stand it. There were scripts his agent had sent over but he wasn’t in the mood for reading. He stared at the TV for a moment then decided he preferred the sound of rock and roll blaring at him. Flopping down on the sofa, he stretched out with an arm over his eyes, bringing one knee up so he could tap out a rhythm to the beat.

“I like her,” he said aloud, thinking of the overweight woman with the short salt-and- pepper hair who the agency had sent to him. She had a sweet smile, a wicked grin and she gave as good as she got.

“I don’t want a beauty queen or someone who’ll get notions,” he’d instructed the woman at the agency. “I want a middle-aged lady who will be hard working and honest and sensible. She has to know how to make fried okra.”

Angela Evans had been that and more. She had a sense of humor and he desperately needed that. His personal assistant, Bobby, had been born with a stick up his ass and rarely smiled, much less joked.

“She can’t be encumbered ‘cause she’ll be traveling with me,” he’d demanded. “She has to be really organized because she’ll be taking care of four different houses on two continents.”

Angie could handle that, he decided, and not break a sweat.

He wished she’d stayed, for the evening was beginning to close in on him despite the loud noise of U-2 in the background. Letting his arm fall behind his head, he stared up at the loft’s ceiling, tracing the pipes that had been turned into a form of artwork by his decorator. With a hiss of irritation, he got up and headed for the pack of cigarettes he’d tried desperately to stay away from all day.

“Mind over matter,” he heard Angie—and that was how he thought of her—saying and his hand trembled over the pack. He closed his hand, flexed it, running his fingers up and down the palm, and then snarled before turning around and heading for the bag of lemon drops.

For almost an hour he sat there with his legs crossed on the cocktail table, his ass nearly falling off the edge of the sofa, slumped with the candy bags in his lap until he had consumed enough lemon drops to give himself a royal belly ache. Z-2 became the Korrs and he mellowed out to the Celtic music, closing his eyes to concentrate on the words. His breathing slowed and he drifted off, his overly active mind taking him into a dream world he hadn’t planned on entering. ...

* * * *

“Whatcha looking for?” he asked as he caught up with Angie.

“Stuff,” she answered and kept walking, ignoring him.

He turned to face her, walking backward so he could look at her. “What kind of stuff?”

“Granny stuff,” she replied. She was wearing a long calico gown and perched atop her head was an old fashioned sunbonnet.

“You need to act your age,” he informed her and moved directly in front of her so she had to come up short, lest she bowl him over.

“I am acting my age,” she said. “You need to act yours.”

“I have an old soul,” he said and put a hand to her cheek to cup it gently.

“I have shoes older than you,” she sniffed.

“Not the kind of soul I meant,” he countered and ran his thumb over her lower lip.

She batted his hand away and stepped around him. “I have stuff to get.”

Rory Keith had never had a woman ignore him in his entire life. To his way of thinking, it wasn’t right and he shot out a hand to grip her arm and pull her back, dragging her against him, her pudgy body molding tightly to his.

“I’ve got your stuff right here, wench,” he growled and lowered his head to claim her lips.

It was a kiss unlike any he’d ever experienced. He probed her mouth with his tongue—tasting her, sensing her, staking claim—as his hands tightened on her upper arms and he ground the lower part of his body against her belly. It was a wild, savage kiss and it affected him in such a way it propelled him rudely from his dreaming and into the harsh, lonely expanse of reality.

* * * *

Rory sat up with a gasp, his eyes flaring wide, his heart racing, his cock as hard as steel pressing against the front of his jeans. He was so unnerved by the images still flowing through his mind he could barely lift a shaking hand to plow through his hair.

“Mother of God!” he whispered. “What the fuck was that?”

* * * *

Across town in the rented room where Angela lay tossing and turning in bed, her dreams had carried her to a place she had visited many times in her daydreams and night visions alike. It was a fanciful setting from one of Rory Keith’s medieval adventure movies and, as it always did, it beckoned to her to enter and stay a while.

The keep was alight with rushes sputtering in the cold north wind. Ice rimed the battlements as the guards wrapped in heavy furs walked their hourly tours of the crenulated walls. Snug for the duration, the drawbridge was locked into place, the portcullis lowered, and the inner bailey bare of human life. Deadly creatures that dwelt in the moat were in their underwater caves or buried deep in the wallows along the water’s edge. A dog barked, a cat screeched, but otherwise the fortress of Lord Kendryck MacPhee, Earl of Silvarn, was silent and secure with the inhabitants lying in bed on this frigid winter night as sleet plucked at the mullioned windows.

She dreamt she was walking up the curving stone staircase to the high laird’s chamber high atop the fortress. She could feel the bite of the cold air on her shoulders through the thin wool shawl and the flimsy soles of her slippers. In one hand she carried a silver tray upon which sat the nightly posset brewed for Lord Kendryck by the court’s physician, Vardar Brock, while the other held her long wool skirt as she climbed.

There were guards to either side of the Earl’s door and they barely gave her a glance as she neared them upon reaching the fourth floor of the keep. She knocked lightly on the portal though neither man deigned to open the door for her when the call from beyond the thick oak panel bid her enter the laird’s chamber.

The room smelled of sandalwood and myrrh as she fumbled the latch and pushed the heavy door open, the scents wafting over her as she walked softly into the presence of her master, bringing the tray to the bedside table where a lamp flickered with a low flame.

“You are late this eve,” Lord Kendryck said from the settee that flanked the massive stone fireplace.

“Your pardon, Milord,” she said softly. “It will not happen again.”

She kept her head down, bobbing a rushed curtsey to him before she backed away from his presence.

“Come here, wench,” he said in his thick brogue that never failed to make her shiver.

Swallowing the lump suddenly lodged in her throat, she went to him, keeping her eyes on the plush carpet at her feet. She stopped a few feet away, awaiting his pleasure, her heart hammering in her chest.

“Look at me.”

It was her greatest delight to look upon him and she slowly lifted her gaze, prolonging the moment until she saw his angelic face and the sensuous green eyes that held her spellbound each time they rested on her. Her heart ached just looking at him as he lounged there on the settee. His dark hair fell in thick waves to the collar of his fine lawn shirt—left open halfway down his broad muscular chest with its sprinkling of dark curls. His long legs were encased in black trews that fit him like a second skin. He had discarded his boots and now one bare foot was braced on the edge of the settee cushion.

“My feet are cold,” he said in his husky voice. “I would have you warm them.”

“Aye, Milord,” she said breathlessly.

Nothing would have pleased her more than to touch him. She came forward and dropped to her knees before him, reaching out to take the foot stretched out toward her onto her lap. With gentle but firm pressure, she began to knead his flesh, looking down at the perfection of a male foot any sculptor would admire though she longed to gaze up into his beautiful eyes.

“What is your name again, wench?” he inquired, reaching out to take a snifter of brandy from the table by the settee.

“It is Angie, Milord,” she responded, daring a glance up at him, going still as a statue as his heated gaze shifted down her with speculation. She felt like a deer caught in lantern light, unable to move, to draw a decent breath.

“Angie,” he said then took a sip of the brandy. He lowered the snifter and rested its base upon his rock-hard belly, just where the dark hair streaked down beyond the waistband of his trews. “And are you married, wench?”

“Aye, Milord, I am,” she said.

He tilted his handsome head to one side. “So you are no virgin, lass?”

“Nay, Milord,” she said and blood rushed to her face as she forced her gazes from his and back to the task at hand. She massaged his toes tenderly, fascinated by how properly manicured were his toenails.

“Have you bairns?” he inquired, setting the snifter on the table again.

“I had two sons, Milord, but they be grown now,” she replied.

“Can you have more?”

It was a strange question and she slowly lifted her head, locking eyes with him despite the instinct that warned her not to be so careless or unmannerly.

“Nay, Milord, I cannot. I am too old now,” she said so quietly she was not sure he had heard her.

“So you would not bear a child were a man to bid you to his bed for a night of comfort?”

“C … comfort, Milord?” she echoed and a strange gripping took hold of the lower part of her belly.

He pulled his foot from her light grasp, lowered his other foot to the floor, and leaned forward. “Come closer, wench,” he ordered, spreading his knees wide.

She walked on her knees, dragging the hem of her skirt up so she could position herself between his legs. Her heart was racing so fast she thought she might pass out from the thunder of the beat pounding in her ears.

“Closer,” he said.

Angie pressed her body to the edge of the settee, feeling the span of his inner thighs touching her at the elbows.

“Put your hands on the tops of my legs,” he instructed.

She hesitated, for his hands rested on his knees and she had to reach up farther along his leg, her fingertips almost at the crease of his thigh. When he moved his hand so his palms grazed her forearms—running lightly up them, barely in contact with her skin—she had to bite her lip to keep from moaning from his touch.

“You have very soft skin for a servant,” he said and turned his hands so the backs of his fingers trailed up the inside of her forearm from wrist to elbow. He willed her to meet his gaze. “Are you a witch, then, tempting me to stray?”

Angie’s eyes widened. Such things were forbidden to speak of and she could be hauled before the magistrate, turned over to the Tribunal, tortured and—worse still—burned at the stake for heresy.

“Nay, Milord!” she said, her lower lip trembling. “I am but ….”

“Shush,” he said and his fingers closed around her hands. He held her wide-eyed, fearful stare. “Are you right handed or left, little witchling?”

“R … right,” she managed to answer.

He lifted her right hand from his leg and held it up, staring down at her work-roughened palm. “I would have you touch me,” he whispered and carried her hand to the juncture of his legs and laid it there on the hard mound that tugged at his trews. He molded her palm over that thick bulge. “Touch me. Make me feel.”

Outside the sleet peppered the window glass and the wind skirled in the eaves. The flames in the fireplace leapt and crackled, the wood popped and fiery cinders snaked their way up the cobblestone chimney, lending the comfortable scent of burning wood to the sandalwood and myrrh.

A veritable prisoner in his own fortress since the king had sent word that the laird was not allowed to leave Silvarn Keep under penalty of arrest, Lord Kendryck often walked the battlements late of an evening, staring to the horizon and the freedom he had lost. Not allowed visitors, he was a lost soul wandering from room to room, loneliness eating away at what was left of his ravaged soul. Only the nightly posset brewed for him helped him to sleep, to gain some manner of ease in this living hell into which he’d been thrust.

“My lady-wife hates me,” he said of his wife who had taken herself from Silvarn months before rather than suffer the same imprisonment as her husband. “She would see me hanged at Barrowmore if she had her way.” He caressed Angie’s hand over his hard erection. “She wishes to be free of me.”

Angie’s heart went out to the brave warrior who had led the rebels to victory at Derryn Cross over the brutal king only to fall victim to his own wife’s treachery teamed with that of his half-brother Stephen. If not for his noble birth, the laird of Silvarn would have met his fate in the summer.

“Ease me, Sweeting,” he asked and released her hand, letting his own fall to his sides. “I beg you, ease me.”

As she looked up at him she saw tears in the great warrior’s green eyes and it struck her to the core. She massaged the steel of his shaft but wanted more than just a taste of his hard body.

“Let me ease you as a lover would, Milord,” she said boldly and took her hand from him. She got to her feet, letting her shawl cascade from her shoulders to the carpet. She put her hand to the ties of her chemise and tugged them apart, letting the cotton fall over her breasts to bare her to his fevered gaze.

She saw him sweep out his tongue to lick his upper lip, curling it downward over the full bottom lip before his lips parted to reveal the stark whiteness of his straight teeth as he took breath through his mouth. His chest rose and fell in a faster rhythm and she saw the pulse beating at the hollow of his throat—a sight that made heat gather between her legs.

He laid his head along the back of the settee and watched her as she unhooked her skirt and let it pool around her bare legs. There were no fine stockings, no coarse wool to keep her limbs warm in the harsh Northlands winter and only the threadbare drawers to hide her womanly assets from his avid view.

Angie untied the tapes of her drawers and let them slide down her legs, stepping out of them so she was naked before him, ashamed of her plump body with its birthing marks and slight pouches of fat.

But he didn’t seem to notice her body was not curvaceous like that of his lady-wife or the many lovers it was rumored he had known in his thirty-odd years. His gaze was locked on the triangle of dark hair that curled at the apex of her thighs and when he leaned forward to draw her to him, to place his cheek against her fleshy belly, his arms curling around her, she threaded her fingers through his dark curls and held him to her.

“I need you this night,” he whispered, his warm breath fanning across her belly. She could feel one strong hand cupping her right buttock as he held her to him and shuddered with delight at his touch.

“As I need you, Milord,” she replied.

He got to his feet—his body sliding upward against hers, his clothing dragging against her naked flesh—and he bent his knees to sweep a hand under her legs, while the other stayed at her back and he lifted her as though she weighed no more than a small child, hefting her high against his chest as he carried her toward his bed. The muscles in his arms bunched and flexed and she laid her head on his broad shoulder.

As gently as a feather floating upon the wind he lay her down on the soft mattress and slid his arms from under her. Never releasing her gaze from his own hot hold, he tugged the shirt from his trews and pulled it over his head to bare his wide chest to her view. It was but a moment before the remainder of his clothing was gone and he was placing a muscular knee upon the mattress, weighing it down as he arched his other leg over her body to ensnare her beneath him.

Angie stared up at his perfect features—the dark hair, the sensual mouth, the startlingly beautiful eyes, and the breadth of his splendidly honed shoulders—before dropping slowly to the jutting awareness of his cock.

“Put your hand to him, wench,” he asked, straddling her, his knees wide, his arms with their bulging biceps hanging loosely at his sides. “Let him know he is wanted.”

Her hand shook as she reached for him, wrapping her fingers around the velvety steel that pulsed with life and warmth and eagerness to know more of her. She stroked him gently and put her other hand to his sac to cup him in her palm. She saw his eyes close. His head fall back, and his thick hair falling past his shoulders as he knelt there. His lips were parted and as she worked his flesh—tugging gently, running her fingers up and down his hard length, molding him, caressing him, kneading his balls, she heard him groan low in his throat and it was a sound that made her hotter than the fires of hell to which she would, no doubt, be sent for this adulterous interlude.

He put his hands on her arms and circled her wrists within his fingers, holding her as she was plying his aching flesh. When he could take no more of her tender torture, he pulled her hands gently from him and spread her arms wide and leaned toward her, pinioning her hands to either side of her head. His long, lean body slithered down hers and his knees pushed hers apart, settling himself between her legs as he slanted his mouth across hers and took her in that manner.

His mouth tasted of brandy and his scent was all male, purely intoxicating and it worked its dark magic into her womb and through her loins to settle in her bud to make it throb with want and need and a lust so pure it pulsed. She longed to wrap her arms around him but he held her hands captive as he tongued her mouth in a way Angie had never known. He probed her, lapped at the edges of her mouth. He flicked his tongue over her lips then he thrust deep, withdrew, thrust against and ground his mouth against hers as though they were copulating in that fashion.

Though she had lain with her husband of thirty-four years many times, she had never known such sweet delight as she found in the arms of Lord Kendryck. He was an expert in the art of seduction, a master in the skills of lovemaking. He wove a tight web around her body and around her heart and held her to him without the aid of chains or ropes. She knew she would forever be linked to this beautiful man, her heart having been handed into his keeping.

He pulled his lips from hers and rained kissed down her cheeks, beneath her chin, down her neck and across her ear, nibbling at the earlobe until she was squirming under him. He moved lower still to lick at the hollow of her throat then down her chest and around the dark spiral of her nipple.

“Milord!” she moaned, for such ecstasy would surely kill her.

His tongue was moist and hot as it flicked over her nipple a moment before he drew the bud into his mouth and suckled her as a babe would at its nursing. He slid across to the other breast and did the same, tasting each in turn over and over again until it seemed he had his fill before he went lower yet to taste the indention of her belly.

She lifted her head and followed his progress and when he stared at her belly with a deep frown upon his face, she asked what troubled him.

“These marks,” he said. “What caused such scarring, wench?”

“They are stretch marks, Milord,” she said, ashamed of the ghastly stripes that crisscrossed her abdomen.

He lowered his lips to one such scar. “Did they hurt you?”

“Nay, Milord,” she said. “ ‘T’was merely the babes growing inside me that brought them about.”

He kissed the scars over and over again as though his lips could erase the brutal signs and heal her, then he moved up her again until his cock was poised at the apex of her thighs.

“I would taste you but not all women like that,” he said.

She blinked. “Taste me, Milord?” she questioned, not knowing what he meant. Had it been his intention to take a bite out of her?

“Your honey, wench,” he said and released her left wrist to run his hand down her arm, her side, her hips only to slide it across her and between her legs. “The honey that seeps from your sheath.”

Angie’s face burned red and she turned her head away.

“Nay, wench,” he said, reaching up to cup her chin. “ ‘Tis a wondrous thing between a man and his woman. I would know your taste if you would allow it.”

Though embarrassment stained her cheeks, she nodded hesitantly, not sure what it was she was agreeing to but thrilling to the look of pleasure that lit his green eyes. As he moved down her again—releasing her other wrist as well so he could put his hands to the damp bush at her thighs and part the hair—she gasped for he took her into his mouth and her hips arched up from the mattress of their own accord.

“Milord!” she cried out and she buried her hand in his thick curls.

She heard him laugh, felt his hot breath along the folds of her sex and then he was doing such wondrous, delightful, surely wicked things to her that all she could do was grip his hair and hang on lest she fly clear off the bed and out the window into the heavens.

Of their own accord, her knees crooked and she wrapped her legs around his shoulders, his hands going under her hips to lift her higher for his feasting. His mouth was moving over her, his tongue licking at her folds, stabbing gently into her channel and his teeth grazing her bud until she was panting with need, her head whipping back and forth on the pillow, her eyes squeezed tightly shut.

She felt him pull away from her and lifted her head to complain, to whimper but when she saw the light of desire burning in his green gaze she bit her lip.

He moved up her again and put a hand to his stiff shaft, nudging her legs farther apart as he positioned himself at her entrance. Her legs were quivering as she held them in the air that way—clear of his hips until he slid smoothly and firmly into her cunt.

“Ah,” she heard him sigh and he went as deep as his steely rod would allow, filling her to the brim, completing her as she’d never been complete before.

And when he began to move within, easing out, pushing in, increasing his speed, increasing the depth, thrusting harder and swiveling his hips so his cock twisted a bit inside her, she wrapped her legs around his waist and clamped onto him harder.

“Aye, wench,” he said. “That is what I want. That is what I need! Tighter. Tighter! Hurt me if you like!”

She squeezed him as he bucked atop her and pummeled her expertly with his fleshy sword. He thrust and she parried, arching to meet him as he strove to elicit from her pleasure such as she’d never known.

His cock was large and long and thick and it stretched her almost to the point of pain and when he seated himself as far inside her as he could go, she grunted with the delicious force of it. Her hands were still in his hair, her legs at his waist and when the first spiral of release began undulating through her, she cried out and increased her grip on his lower body even more.

“Aye!” she heard him shout and he poured into her as the spasms of delight took hold of her and carried her to a place she knew only in her dreams.

“I love you, Rory!” she whispered. “I love you ....”

* * * *

Angie woke with the bedclothes soaked with her sweat and her pillow clasped tightly between her aching thighs. She was breathing heavily and knew a moment of such devastating loss that it brought tears to her eyes.

In her dreams she could have him. In her dreams he was there to take her as she longed to be taken, and it was in her dreams that Angela Evans knew the only true sexual satisfaction she had known in many years.