"But if I am to continue to educate your daughter, is it right that we should become lovers, my lord?" she asked him.

"My daughter must one day go to the marriage bed. Should it not be you who instructs her in its delights and pleasures so her lord will be well pleased? And how can you do that if all your memories are of a husband who hated and abused you?" he countered.

Alix had to laugh. "It is an excellent argument you make in your wicked efforts, my lord. Have you studied the law, perhaps?"

Now it was the laird who laughed, but he grew sober again when she spoke.

"If I should allow you to demonstrate some of the aspects of passion to me, then you must do so discreetly. I will not have the servants gossiping, or Fiona distressed by what she might hear. I must continue to command respect in this hall or my usefulness to you, to your daughter, is finished. I am not certain this is a good idea, but since I can see you will not be satisfied until you have made your point, I will succumb to your blandishments provided that if I say nay, you will accept it."

"Agreed!" he quickly answered her.

Alix arose from her place by the hearth. "Then I will bid you good night, my lord," she said curtsying to him.

He stood. "Wait but a moment," he said, reaching out with one hand to cup her face as he stepped near her. "We must seal our bargain with a kiss, Alix."

Her eyes widened. He gave her no time to think or even protest. His mouth descended upon hers in a deep, warm kiss that sent a shiver down her spine right to her toes. She had never been really kissed. Hayle's few attempts had been nasty, and his father's kiss repellent to her. This kiss was neither. Her eyes closed. Her lips softened as he plundered them tenderly. She felt his arm go about her waist and was grateful, for she wasn't certain she could stand on her own much longer. She sighed deeply as his kiss slowly concluded.

Then, as he put two firm hands upon her shoulders and gently pushed her back, Alix's green eyes flew open. "I like your mouth," he said softly.

"I did not know a kiss could be so delicious," Alix told him honestly.

"Neither did I," he admitted. The sweetness, the innocence of her, had surprised him. He could have kissed her again and taken her here before the fire, but he did not.

"Go to bed now, Alix," he said. "It is enough for today."

She nodded, and turning, departed the hall. It had been enough for a lifetime, Alix thought as she climbed the stairs to her bedchamber. If she died in the night she knew now that his kiss would sustain her through eternity. She had not known! She had not known how wonderful a man's kiss could be. How good it felt to be held against a man's hard body and cherished tenderly. And she had learned that all with just one kiss! Flinging herself upon her bed, she wept with both happiness and sorrow. She was filled with sadness that her virginity had been so brutally squandered by Hayle Watteson. If a small kiss could bring about such emotions within her, what would giving herself to this Scotsman be like? Would it be heaven?

Alix sat up. Was she mad? Had the sweetness of his kiss wiped away her memories entirely? Nay, it had not! She shuddered as she recalled her husband mounting her without a word. Jamming his cock into her body with no care for the pain he caused her. She believed he enjoyed giving her pain, enjoyed punishing her for daring to be his wife when he had not wanted her. He had practically said as much one night as he thrust back and forth atop her while she pleaded with him to stop for he was truly hurting her. Her passage was dry, and his movement did nothing to improve it.

"Get yourself with child, you bitch," he had snarled at her, "and I shall gladly forgo your bed. But until you do I am bound to fuck you and waste my seed in your ugly body." And he had renewed his efforts, putting his hand over her mouth to stifle her cries of pain when she could bear no more of him.

That was what she knew of coupling. Would being in the laird's bed be any different? And yet his kiss had been different. Alix swallowed hard. How could she ever consider coupling with a man after what her husband had done to her? The pain and the humiliation he had inflicted upon her. And yet if the kiss had been different, might not the other be as well? Still, to give herself to a man not her husband made her no better than a common whore. Yet the ladies of the court had dallied with men not their husbands. Wouldn't her sin be less for not deceiving a husband? She was a widow.

Alix took off her jersey gown, and taking the pitcher of water from the coals, she poured some into the little stone basin, washing her hands and face, cleaning her teeth with the little bristle brush that had been her father's last gift to her. After climbing into her bed, she said her prayers and then tossed restlessly before finally falling asleep. When the new day dawned she was no more near answers to all her questions than she had been the night before. What was she to do?

Fiona was excited with the longer days that were growing milder. Finally the laird gave his permission for them to ride outside the gates of the keep as the snow was almost all gone from the moors. He even decided to ride with them. Escorted by four men-at-arms they left the keep one midmorning. The laird's daughter was ecstatic when she was finally allowed to gallop her pony, her father's horse keeping pace with her. Her dark hair blew loose from its red ribbon, which blew across the moor, one of the laird's men cantering after it to retrieve it. He brought it to Alix and she thanked him.

Finally, as the horses all slowed to a gentle walk, they were approached by a small party of riders coming over a hill.

"God's nightshirt!" the laird swore softly. " 'Tis my uncle the Ferguson of Drumcairn. He'll have another candidate for my hand, to be certain. Perhaps two as he has not been able to get over the moor since the snows set in."

As Alix looked puzzled, Fiona explained, giggling. "My da's uncle wants him to remarry and sire sons. But Da loved my mother so greatly he wants no other wife. Whenever he comes to Dunglais, he brings with him the suggestion of another lass for my da to wed. He is very persistent, as you will shortly see."

"He looks too young to be your father's uncle," Alix said.

"He was my grandmother's half brother, born the very year she married my grandfather. His mother was stepmother to my grandmother. He is just five years older than Da," Fiona explained.

"He behaves as if he were fifty years older," grumbled the laird as the Ferguson riders approached. "Uncle! You have survived the winter, I see," Malcolm Scott greeted Robert Ferguson jovially. "What brings you to Dunglais this fine spring day?"

"Nephew," Robert Ferguson responded, but his eyes quickly turned to observe Alix. "And who is this lovely lass?" he asked, smiling at her.

Had she not known he was the laird's uncle, Alix would have never thought them blood related. The Ferguson of Drumcairn, while a big man like the laird, had a shock of bright red hair, a freckled face, and sharp blue eyes that were hardly discreet in their curiosity and admiration of the girl riding with his nephew.

"This is Mistress Alix Givet, Uncle. She is Fiona's companion and instructor in all things the daughter of the Laird of Dunglais should know if she is to be a proper wife and chatelaine one day. She came to us late last autumn."

"Vous êtes Francaise, mademoiselle?" Robert Ferguson asked.

"My parents were from Anjou, sir, but I was born in England," Alix answered him. So this border lord was educated, she thought, interested.

"How on earth did you find the lass, nephew?" his uncle asked.

"I didn't find her, Robert. She found us," the laird replied with a grin. "Come along now and let us return to the hall, where I will satisfy your insatiable curiosity." He turned his great dappled gray stallion about, and they returned to the keep.

The Ferguson of Drumcairn was off his mount quickly and by Alix's side, reaching up to help her from her mare. His hands lingered about her waist a moment too long, and while she said nothing she glared indignantly at him. With a grin, he released her, watching as she turned to take Fiona by the hand and enter the house. "Indeed, Malcolm, I shall look forward to hearing the story of how you came into possession of that spirited little wench. She's more than just pretty."

"Remember you have a wife, Uncle" the laird reminded him as they entered the hall and found places by the blazing fire. Alix and Fiona were nowhere to be seen, but the servants hurried to place goblets of wine in their hands.

"Aye, and a fine woman my Maggie is, but it doesn't keep my eyes from seeing. Is she your mistress, Malcolm? You'll have to put her somewhere else when you take a wife, y'know. Maggie's niece is now sixteen, and ripe for marriage."

"How many times must I tell you, Robbie? I have no intention of marrying again," the laird said to his uncle.

"And how many times must I tell you that you owe it to the Scotts of Dunglais to remarry and sire a son? If I had known how wild Robena was I should have never suggested her to you as a bride, Malcolm. We will be most careful with the next wife you take, but take another wife you must."

"Nay, Robbie, I do not have to take another wife," the laird said heatedly.

"Is your daughter's companion your mistress?" his uncle asked again.

"Nay, she is not," the laird answered.

"What is it that prevents you from making her so?" Ferguson wanted to know. "She's lovely, and certainly can be no virgin at her age. How old is she?"

"I don't know," Malcolm Scott replied. "But she is a widow, so nay, she is no virgin. Her marriage was an unhappy one. She says she seeks no husband or lover."

"But you have begun to campaign to change her mind, haven't you?" His uncle chuckled. "Well, perhaps after you have enjoyed the pleasure of having a woman in your bed again you will consider your duty and take a wife. Maggie's niece is too tall anyway. The wench has legs like a stork and watery eyes. At least you wouldn't have to worry about her taking a lover, but still you would have to bed her." He drank down half his goblet of wine. "Ahh, the chase is always the best part of it, Nephew, isn't it?" He chuckled again. "And here is the subject of our conversation now."

"My lord." Alix curtsied to him respectfully. "I thought perhaps that Fiona and I would have our meal in the kitchens so you and your uncle might visit more comfortably with each other this evening."

"Nonsense!" the Ferguson of Drumcairn said before the laird might reply. "A lovely woman at the board adds much to the meal, Mistress Alix. Tell her she must sit with us, Malcolm. 'Tis your hall, not mine. Still, I would enjoy her gentle company."

"The decision is Alix's to make," the laird said, giving her a small smile.

"Then you will excuse me," Alix replied quietly. "Fiona is still quite excited by her ride and needs the calm of the kitchen table, not the excitement of the high board with a guest present, my lord." She curtsied again.

The laird nodded. "I bow to your judgment," he told her.

Alix then turned and hurried from the hall.

"You would indulge her and let her believe she is free when the truth is you are slowly tightening the bonds about her," Ferguson noted. "You are sly, Nephew."

"How long do you intend to stay with us?" the laird asked, amused.

"Your hall offers more peace than mine does," Robert Ferguson admitted. "I have been cooped up all winter with my Maggie and our offspring. She is breeding again, Malcolm. This will make an even dozen. I but look at the wench lasciviously and her belly swells. Well, maybe this time it is the hoped-for heir. Eleven daughters are more than a man can bear. Other men breed on their wives, lose them in childbed, or lose the bairns. My wife is as strong as an ox and our daughters stronger. God only knows how I shall find husbands for them all, Nephew, and even the church requires a dower."

"I'm sure eventually you will offer me one," the laird teased his uncle.

Robert Ferguson laughed. "If you are not wed by the time the eldest is marriageable, which will be in another two years, I probably will. I have to get rid of them somewhere, and Maggie agrees with me. We must keep praying for a son. All men want sons, Nephew."

"I have an heir in Fiona," Malcolm Scott said stubbornly.

"If you manage to get that pretty wench who now mothers your daughter into your bed," the Ferguson of Drumcairn said, "you are certain to get her with child. Will you let your son be born a bastard?"