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sword, or at fending off a knife, or at any other such boastful nonsense. He’d joined them for a short while and become restless. So he’d decided to check on his horse, which had suffered an injured hoof on their ride to the village yesterday.
    He walked down the stone steps and headed toward the paddocks. His thoughts were scattered about, going from why he’d suddenly begun having more headaches, to a feud between some of the serfs that he would need to deal with, to wondering when Lady Stonewall would arrive, and most frustratingly to Annabel. He tried to avoid her as much as possible. Yet she seemed to be everywhere. If she wasn’t helping in the gardens, she was trying to teach one or another of the young maids something new to do with herbs and flowers. If she wasn’t bringing jugs of mead for the men practicing in the bailey, she was sitting on the keep’s steps watching them and encouraging them. If she wasn’t chasing one of the castle’s children about, they were chasing her. It seemed like the air constantly carried the sound of her lilting voice, whether she was chattering away at someone or laughing at something.
    This time when he caught the sound of her voice coming from the paddocks, she was cursing. Colorfully so. She needed a good swat on her bottom for such unladylike behavior! And why did his thoughts always go to spanking her? Because it was the only way he could satisfy his need to touch her. He had no real rights to do so in any manner, but he needed to almost as much as he needed to breathe. So swatting her sweet ass it was.
    As he pulled his thoughts back from his confusing frustrations and focused on the paddocks, he spotted her…and immediately wished he’d stayed in the keep. God’s teeth, the woman was going to be the death of him! The reason for her swearing was obvious. She was half-in, half-out of the back of her tinker’s wagon, apparently stuck. Wearing braies again, her pert little bottom wiggled back and forth in her attempt to get free of whatever held her in place.
    He knew he should go help her, but he didn’t move. The fabric pulled taut over each tempting cheek held his attention. He couldn’t seem to catch his breath, though his heart was near pounding its way out of his chest. The erection he seemed to have whenever she was near was back, tenting up the front of his kilt.
    Evidently she’d sensed him watching her, because she craned her head and frowned at him. “Are you going to help me or not?”
    “I’m thinking about it.” He really wasn’t sure he could survive touching her just now. Still, he took a few steps in her direction.
    She squirmed some more, cursed again, and glared at him once more. Then he saw her notice his kilt problem. Her face turned a pretty shade of pink, but she said sassily, “Stop staring at my backside and help me! I’m stuck.”
    “Stop yer cursing, lass,” he warned, the promise of a swat to her bottom in his tone.
    Before he could reach her or she could protest his gruff statement, Angus Gordon strode by him, grinning. “I’d be glad to help ye, lass.”
    Brodie growled low in his throat in displeasure. “Go aboot yer business, Gordon.”
    He was too late. Angus’s hands were already clasped around Annabel’s waist. The lean-yet-muscled Scot Brodie had taken on as another soldier recently looked far too hungry for a woman as he held her. Brodie had been considering him as a potential husband for her, even introduced them a couple of days ago, but now he was having second thoughts. His hands clenched at his sides.
    As if he cared not that his laird stood nearby scowling at him, Gordon took his time lowering her feet to the ground. His hands remained on her waist far too long, in Brodie’s opinion. Then he gave Brodie a dismissing glance and smiled flirtatiously down at Annabel. “Anything else I can help ye with?”
    Annabel awkwardly turned around and scooted away from him. “I thank you for your assistance, kind sir.