Highland Tides Read Online Free PDF Page A

with a promising career ahead of her. She had the opportunity to influence society in a way few women did.
    Her mother had been a beauty, the toast of Scottish society, but she’d given it up for love and buried herself in a remote backwater. Charlotte had sensed her mother longed for the intelligent conversation of the salons, for poetry, for music and laughter. She would never have the chance to know the answer. Euphemia Tremayne was buried indeed. Six feet under.  
    But Charlotte was alive, and she would take firm hold of everything life offered a single woman, and more.
    She set off back for the bailey, pondering if Braden Ogilvie might need attention to his teeth. After all, if they were three hundred years old—
    She stopped in her tracks and burst out laughing at the absurd notion. Ogilvie was an oddity, a survivor who was obviously well versed with history and who’d no doubt lived an interesting life. He’d managed to convince her canny uncle of his innocence. But the possibility he’d travelled from the fifteenth century—
    She was still chuckling when she reached the fresh air.

SHORN

    Braden removed his belt, plaid, and boots, then dithered like a green lad under the maid’s lustful eye. He’d never had any difficulty peeling off his clothes in front of women, but he was uneasy. Had Charlotte deliberately put temptation in his way? His head filled with a strange notion that he was still being tested and having his way with the overtly flirtatious Simone would be considered disloyal to the noblewoman. Not that he found her appealing.
    He flinched when the French lass balled up his plaid. “Please dinna throw it away,” he said, unsure why it was important the familiar woollen garment not be destroyed.  
    She eyed him curiously, but seemed to understand. “I will send it to ze laundress,” she cooed. She folded it and turned away to lay it by the door.
      He quickly yanked the filthy léine over his head and hopped into the tub, letting out a long groan of relief as the heat seeped into his bones. He gripped the sides and sank back, his knees protruding from the water.  
    She turned, raking her gaze over him, but her pout quickly changed to a smirk. “You are in ze tub already, milord .” She picked up a linen from the dresser. “I can scrub your back, si vous voulez .”
    He was of two minds. A good scrub sounded wonderful. “I—”
    The door opened and her pout returned when a portly manservant breezed in, bearing a stool and a tray, its contents covered by a linen. The decision had been made for him. “Aye, but quickly so yon barber can shave my head.”
    He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. She pursed her lips and took her frustration out on his back, while the balding servant prepared the shaving paraphernalia. He relished the relief her scrubbing brought to his itchy skin.
    But her touch didn’t arouse him.
    He held out his hand and she reluctantly gave him the soap, which he held to his nose. “Smells strange,” he said.
    She shrugged. “ Parfumé , like any soap.”
    He didn’t favor the notion of smelling “perfumed” but supposed such was the fashion in these times, and anything was preferable to the stench of the cells. He soaped his body and bearded face, then splashed the now tepid water over his skin to remove the lather. The soap was an improvement over what he’d been used to. Of course, he’d bathed mostly in the Bay of Oban, chilly even in the summer months.
    He now had the problem of how to get out of the tub without exposing his manhood to the maid, but the moustachioed manservant stepped in. “Pass ze gentleman ‘is towel, Simone,” he intoned with a casual wave of the hand, “then vas-t’en . I can take care of ze rest.”
    Glowering at the man who was evidently her superior, she thrust a thick drying cloth at Braden then picked up his léine between her forefinger and thumb, holding it at arm’s length. She looked to him for