My Fair Highlander by Mary Wine Page A

floor, and men whistled to their comrades before sitting down to partake of the morning fare. If it hadn’t been for the rust and orange tartans they wore, she might have thought she was at Amber Hill.
    Except that she didn’t recognize a single face. A lump lodged in her throat as she realized how alone she was. There was nothing to force Gordon to return her home. She might never get the chance to stare down those who doubted she was still pure because she was unsure of her host’s intentions. He was a difficult man to understand or anticipate. The way he had handled her was clear evidence that he would do exactly as he pleased in spite of her arguments. The lump grew larger and the porridge looked too coarse to force down her throat.
    Commotion from the end of the hall drew her attention. Gordon entered with his captains on his heels. Gordon wore a knitted round bonnet tipped to the side of his head. On the right side of the band was a solid gold broach in the form of one rampant lion. The eyes of the animal were set with rubies, telling her that Barras blood was considered noble. Each of the men following him wore a pheasant feather in his cap. It was a mark of their position, and the hall quieted while they passed.
    Jemma felt the color drain from her face, for this was not the man who had teased her last night. The man who strode so determinedly down the center aisle, without a doubt or any hint of mercy, was Laird Barras. His stride was purposeful, carrying him quickly toward the table that waited. It was set up on a dais, further reinforcing the authority of the man. Bowls had not been placed on the table yet. A maid lifted a tray and hurried to serve her laird the moment he sat down. Every one of his captains waited until Gordon sat. Women attended the table immediately, bringing tankards and pitchers to fill them with. The morning meal was served to each captain and to the laird. What the men failed to see was the scuffle behind the servers. Girls cut one another off in order to be the ones serving at the high table. One woman actually aimed a silent snarl, her lips curling and her nose wrinkling at another woman when she made the mistake of trying to place a bowl in front of Gordon. But when she leaned over where her laird might see her, she was smiling sweetly as though she were kin to the Virgin Mary. She leaned very far forward, making sure her breasts were displayed for Gordon. His gaze dropped to the creamy swells, and his lips curved just a slight amount.
    Jemma felt her cheeks heat with temper. She knew that grin. That curving of his mouth that he’d aimed at her across the bed last night. Her eyes widened when she realized that she was caught in a flash of jealousy.
    She looked down at her bowl, silently chiding herself.
    â€œI enjoy riding . . .”
    Of course the man did. He knew too much about how to fluster her, how to touch her so that her heart began racing. It should come as no surprise at all that he had women fighting over him. No doubt the man had walked away from her last night and into the arms of another woman who knew more than she did about satisfying him.
    Being a maiden had never bothered her before, but for a moment she detested her lack of knowledge. She was ignorant, and she felt the lack keenly. Lifting her face, she looked at the girl lavishing service on Gordon. Her lips were plump and inviting; they glistened as if she’d licked them before leaning over the table where she might be seen. Instead of securely braided hair, tucked beneath a linen cap, her cap hung from her belt and her hair looked tousled or just right for a man to slide his fingers into. Her hips swayed when she crossed in front of the table on her way back toward the hearth. Unlike the other maids, she didn’t take the shorter path that ran behind the table; no, she crossed in front and took her time covering the distance. More eyes than just Gordon’s watched her, and Jemma stared at