Chapter 17
Chapter 17
It wasn’t the first time a woman had stolen a kiss from Hew. Every time in the past, however, he’d known what to do.
He would immediately take charge, grateful to find a mate whose passion equaled his. He’d pull them into an intimate embrace. Sweep his hands into their hair. Slant his mouth across theirs. And feast on them with the hunger of a starving beast.
This time he felt utterly lost.
Carenza’s kiss was careful, tentative, innocent. He doubted she’d ever kissed a man before.
His heart bellowed at him to seize the day. Slake his thirst for her. Take advantage of this moment.
Yet he hesitated.
This was not every woman from his past.
This was Lady Carenza.
The lady of his dreams.
His One True Love.
The lass he was afraid to lose.
The woman with the power to break his heart beyond repair.
For the first time in his life, he felt fear.
Fear that he would frighten her.
Fear that he would go too far, too fast.
So he withheld a measure of his passion from her. Instead of pouring all his desire into the kiss, he answered her with gentle caution.
He closed his eyes and moved his lips tenderly against hers. He took his time, relishing the sweet softness of her skin. The subtle perfume of her cheek.
He lifted his good hand and rested his fingertips on her jaw, as lightly as if she were made of delicate porcelain. Then he slid his hand tenuously into her hair, tracing the circle of her ear with a single finger.
She gasped and shivered.
Even that small response made his control slip. There was a tightening in his braies, and his veins pulsed with erotic current.
He groaned deep in his throat, fighting to hold back.
But it was too late. Something in his voice called to the primitive female part of her. With a small answering moan, she deepened the kiss. She began to consume him the way the fire had consumed his leine, eating away his will and leaving only carnal flame.
She clutched him closer, eagerly twisting her mouth to satisfy her hunger. Her breath came in fevered panting. With intuitive urgency, she leaned toward him, struggling to get closer.
Hew’s heart pounded. Every bone in his body yearned to answer her craving. Every inch of his flesh ached to solve her womanly dilemma.
Yet he resisted. And it almost worked.
But then she captured his face in her hands. She pulled his head close. Opened his mouth with her own. Dared to let her tongue explore and taste and tempt him.
She tasted warm. Sweet. As delicious as the first cup of wassail at Yule.
And when she boldly pushed herself against him, molding her body to his, when he felt her supple breasts like soft pillows against his chest, he could no longer hold back.
Oblivious to the pain of his burns, he swept both hands into her silken tresses and growled against her lips. Delved his tongue into her mouth with starving need. And pressed against her belly with that part of him that wanted her most.
Carenza’s head was spinning. But it was a delightful giddiness, the way she’d felt as a wee lass, twirling among the sheep in a grassy glen.
He’d said the words baldly. Boldly. He’d called her the woman he loved. Deep in her heart, she’d felt it, known it. But his constant denials and his variable affection had hammered at that belief. They’d almost convinced her he didn’t truly care for her.
Now their embrace felt like a glorious celebration of the truth. The unlocking of a secret chest filled with treasure beyond her wildest dreams.
Her body hummed like summer bees as Hew dipped into the flower of her mouth to collect nectar.
Her veins gushed like a swollen burn in spring. Racing eagerly. Gathering speed. Heading to a destination unknown.
She couldn’t remember how she’d come to be here. But she was certain it had been her idea. Now she felt as if she’d saddled a wild destrier and was clinging to him for dear life.
Still, she didn’t want the breathtaking ride to end.
Hew’s hands were strong yet gentle as he cradled her head.
Beneath her own fingers, his jaw felt manly. Firm and rough with stubble.
He tasted of ale and spice and restless hunger. And when he groaned against her mouth, it sent a sensuous current through her that drew from her an answering moan.
His chest was hard but yielding. She felt protected there. Yet where her breasts brushed against him, her nipples roused with heady longing.
But what filled her with the most thrilling heat and danger and excitement was the part of him that pulsed against her belly with eager need.
What she wanted, she could not have. Deep beneath the roiling waves of this sensual sea, she recognized that tragic truth.
Even now, though she felt far from the earthly plane, as if they floated together in heaven, she knew it could not last. No matter how much she wanted the feeling to go on. And on. And on.
And that was made painfully clear when she heard the distant voice of the laird addressing the clan. “’Tis sundown. Shall we return home?”
They broke from the kiss abruptly. Reluctantly. While lust still smoldered in their eyes.
How could it be sundown already? Surely they’d only begun to kiss. And she still felt full of light and warmth.
But as lovely as their embrace had been, duty descended on her like the dampening shadow of night.
She quickly adjusted her hair, praying it wasn’t too out of sorts.
He quickly adjusted his braies.
“Forgive me, my lady. I should not have…” he said, leaving the rest open-ended, as if he wished to apologize for everything.
“Left me so unrequited?” she asked.
He blinked in surprise.
“I’ll forgive ye this once,” she told him breathlessly. “But I expect our conversation to continue in the comin’ days.”
It was a brazen thing to say, she knew. But Hew made her feel brazen. And fearless. And brilliant. He made her feel like she didn’t have to guard her words. Like she could speak her mind. And her heart.
For once, he was left speechless. Which rather pleased her.
Before she rounded the corner to join her father, she whispered to Hew, “I think ye should perhaps surrender your dreams o’ becomin’ a monk.”
The walk back to Dunlop seemed miles shorter. Her step was so light and her mood so pleasant, she felt like she walked on air.
Indeed, as she carried her lit candle along the path, she had to remind herself that All Souls Day was a somber occasion. That perhaps she should be reflecting on those who had passed. Not grinning from ear to ear, obsessing over the man riding at the back of the clan on her palfrey. The Man She Loved.
Hew frowned in self-disgust.
Carenza didn’t love him.
And if he’d only controlled himself as he intended, if he’d only maintained his honor and refused her kiss, she’d realize that.
Now she’d never know it was lust and not love that lured her. It was the hunger of her body, not the hunger of her heart.
She was too young, too innocent to realize that.
But he wasn’t. He should have turned his head. Refused her.
It was what a gentleman of restraint and patience would have done. Hew, however, had never been able to act like a gentleman. He’d always let his passions take the reins. Sung Li, his aunt’s teacher, called him Baozhu, saying he was as volatile as the fireworks from the Orient. Quick to ignite. Quick to explode. And quick to extinguish.
That volatility was what had earned him so many broken hearts. And this time he’d wanted so badly not to make a mess of things. He’d wanted to go slowly. To be her friend first. Her confidant. Her champion.
Later, when he knew her heart belonged to him, he would show her a measure of physical affection. Then he would kiss her. Take her hand. Hold her in a fond embrace.
But nay, he’d let impatience get the best of him. Again.
Now he feared her interest was only infatuation. After all, desire was new and fresh and exciting for her. Lust was a dish of delicious sweets she’d never sampled before. And she’d naturally imagine herself in love with any man who brought her such sweets.
But she would tire of them eventually. They all did. When there was nothing substantial beneath the honeyed exterior—no affection in the kiss, no cherishing in the caress, no heart in the embrace—what was once sweet would seem empty and ordinary.
He didn’t want that to happen with Carenza. He cared for her too much. If she broke his heart, it would destroy him. Then he might as well join the holy order, for he would be unfit to be any woman’s husband.
It was his own fault. He knew that. Aye, she’d made the first move. But she was untried in the ways of romance. He should have taken responsibility and refused her kiss.
He sighed.
That would have been impossible.
Her kiss had been heavenly. Her lips as plump and succulent as a ripe cherry. Her breath soft and sweet as she gasped against his mouth. And her tongue… Holy Mary, her tongue touching his had set off a lightning bolt of pleasure.
Her fingers brushing his face—at first as lightly as the wings of a butterfly, then with the strength of desperation—had made him shiver with longing.
But it was the brazen crush of her body against his that had sent him past the realm of resistance. Even as he relished her soft curves and engaging warmth, even as his cock strained at its linen prison, he’d dreamed of what it would be like to wake up with her each morn, to have her in his arms and in his life.
He shifted in the saddle. It would do him no good to revisit the moment. It would only serve to frustrate his already aching loins.
There would be no satisfaction tonight. Or for many nights.
He had to keep temptation at bay. And the only way to do that was to keep her at a distance.
Unfortunately, all his good intentions didn’t even last a day.
Despite refusing the laird’s bedchamber and sleeping in the great hall with the rest of the clan, Hew woke to Lady Carenza’s lovely, smiling face. She crouched beside him the next morn with a bowl of steaming frumenty.
“I hope ye like cherries,” she said.
His gaze lowered reflexively to her lips. What he thought was, They couldn’t be as sweet and delicious as what I tasted yesterday. What he said was, “I do. Thank you.”
“Would ye like me to feed ye?” There was a subtle smokiness in her eyes.
He very much wanted that. To stare into her eyes as she slipped the spoon into his mouth. To lick the frumenty from it while holding her gaze.
“That won’t be necessary.” He sat up and took the bowl in his bandaged hand, turning it so he could use the spoon with his good hand.
She leaned close and whispered, “I missed your snorin’ last night.”
He shoveled frumenty into his mouth to avoid having to reply. It was warm and sweet. But not as warm and sweet as her kiss.
She murmured, “I had a dream about ye.”
He almost choked on the frumenty. He’d heard that phrase before from lasses’ lips. Usually in the privacy of a bedchamber. It was always followed by an arousing account of her dream coupling. And that was always followed by an actual coupling.
“Ye were in my bedchamber,” she began.
The anticipatory tingling in his ballocks didn’t bode well.
“Lookin’ all bold and menacin’ with your axe across your shoulders.”
Was this going to be a plundering Viking dream where he seized the woman, tore off her clothes, and forced her to his will? He didn’t much care for those.
“I had brought the rat-catcher in, as my father requested.”
He stopped chewing the frumenty. The tingling had gone away. A rat-catcher? Where was this going?
“And sure enough,” she said, “Twinkle made an appearance.”
“Twinkle?”
“My pet rat.”
He grunted. He dished up another spoonful of frumenty, not sure he wanted to hear a romantic fantasy that included a rat.
“Just as the rat-catcher was about to trap my poor Twinkle in his bucket, ye said, ‘Allow me,’ and ye raised your axe.”
He furrowed worried brows and lowered his spoon. This had turned grim. Also, it didn’t seem the best tale for breaking one’s fast.
“And then ye turned it round backwards,” she said with a grin, “and knocked the rat-catcher’s bucket right out the window.”
Her laughter was delightful and contagious. Even if her dream was the silliest thing he’d ever heard.
After she was done laughing, she gazed at him with adoring eyes. “Ye came to my rescue and saved my precious Twinkle.”
Hew had never felt more like someone’s hero. The way she looked at him. With warmth. And humor. And companionship. It was far more attractive—and dangerous—than the voracious glances women usually sent his way.
But how long would she look at him like that? Would her affection fade with time?
“For that, my brave knight,” she murmured, “I shall someday reward ye.” Her violet eyes simultaneously sparkled with amusement and shone with sultry promise.
Already he could feel his heart softening and melting and becoming vulnerable. She held it in the palm of her hand, like a fragile egg. If he wasn’t careful, when she ultimately broke it, there would be nothing left but the shattered shell of a man languishing in a puddle of despair.
Carenza couldn’t stop singing this morn. She rose at dawn and flitted from task to task like a happy butterfly visiting primroses.
After her curious dream, she’d given Twinkle an extra portion of her frumenty and reassured him that the rat-catcher wouldn’t be visiting.
Then she’d brought Hew his breakfast.
Gazing down at him as he slept—with his mussed hair, his closed eyes, his open mouth—she’d imagined waking to that face each morn. And decided she liked the idea. Nay, she loved the idea. His was a countenance she’d never tire of admiring, even if it was accompanied by a snore loud enough to wake the dead.
She’d been tempted to stop that snore with a kiss.
But here in the great hall of Dunlop, she was the laird’s daughter. Demure. Polite. Respectable.
Later she’d find a place where they could be alone, for she wanted to savor the thrill of his embrace again.
So she settled for slipping a few smoldering glances into her conversation, an extra morsel of breakfast for him to chew on.
Meanwhile, she went about her schedule. She slipped scraps to Troye behind the stable. Left several cherries atop the castle wall for the resident crows. Checked in on her pair of hibernating hedgepigs, huddled in their nest in the garden. Let the squirrel tug a stale oatcake from her fingers. And gave Hamish a good, long scratch behind the ears.
By the time she was done, her father was preparing to leave. Yesterday’s lightning had struck one of the byres on the Boyle clan’s land, so the laird and several Dunlop men were going to offer neighborly help. At least that was his story. She secretly suspected the men were only curious to see the storm damage. But the physician was going with them, so Carenza would be in charge of Hew’s care. Which gave her an idea. A way she might forward her plan to get him alone.
It wasn’t a moment too soon when she found him. He was seated by the hearth, frowning and picking at his bandage.
“Sir Hew o’ Rivenloch,” she mock-scolded him. “Just what do ye think ye’re doin’?”
“Nothing,” he said, abandoning his pursuit. “I’m just…restless.”
She sat down beside him. It was probably torture for a warrior to be so inactive. Why he thought he could ever endure the tedium of being a monk, she couldn’t imagine.
“What would ye be doin’ if ye weren’t injured?”
“I would have gone with your father,” he sulked. “Been of some use.”
“I doubt any o’ them are goin’ to be of use. They’ve only gone to gloat o’er the charred remains of Boyle’s barn. Still…” She lifted his bandaged hand and studied it. “Ye might be healin’ faster than ye think. Let’s see how this looks. Come with me to the solar where the light is better. I’ll change the bandage and—”
“Where’s Peris?” he asked in surprise.
“He went with my father.”
Hew let out a vexed sigh, which crushed her momentarily until he followed up with, “I was hopin’ to question him.”
“Ah. Well, ’twill have to wait.”
Now she was doubly glad her father had taken Peris with him.
An axe-wielding Viking warrior might be accustomed to using intimidation to get what he wanted. But putting pressure on Peris would have been a mistake. Especially now, when they were so close to an answer.
Peris was as dangerous and impulsive as an anxious hound. Shivering in a corner one moment. Snarling and biting the next. Why else had he tried to solve his nervousness with something as drastic as murdering Hew?
If Hew started squeezing him for information, Peris would become even more wary and thus more threatening.
This part of the investigation was far better left in her hands. She would go to the monastery later today to deliver her tithing. And she’d employ a woman’s touch to coax useful information from Peris’s allies.
Meanwhile, she intended to use her woman’s touch for something far more enjoyable.
“Come,” she beckoned. “Ye can question him when he returns.” Hopefully by then she’d have confirmed the identity of the second culprit.
She’d already placed the honey-butter mixture, linen strips, and a basin of clean water in the solar. She’d also told the servants she wanted privacy. So it took a great deal of willpower not to slam the door closed behind her, thrust herself into his arms, and immediately resume kissing where they had left off last eve.
She desired him. There was no doubt about that. But she found she cared more about him than she lusted after him. And right now he needed healing.
“Sit there,” she said, indicating a chair near the window.
She opened the shutters to let in the light, filtered through a solid bank of white clouds.
Then she placed the basin on a nearby table and knelt before him.
She took his hand and carefully lowered it into the cool water, soaking the linen to loosen it from the blisters. With gentle fingers, she unwound the wrapping.
“I hope this doesn’t hurt ye.”
“’Tis fine.” He was probably lying, she decided, for she could hear the strain in his voice.
“There,” she said as she removed the last of the bandage. His palm was still raw and red, dotted with plump blisters. But the wound wasn’t infected. “’Tisn’t too bad, aye?”
He didn’t respond, and when she looked up at his face, she could see his mind was elsewhere. His eyes were glazed, like the diaphanous silk of a veil that barely concealed what was beneath. But she could see what was beneath.
Arousal. Desire. Yearning.
Her gaze lowered to his slightly parted lips.
Then his gaze lowered to her bosom. She realized, kneeling before him, her leine had gapped away enough to display the upper curve of her breasts.
She should have gasped in outrage. Adjusted her garment. Scolded him roundly for leering at her.
But she didn’t. Here, alone with him, she didn’t have to keep up pretenses. Though her own brashness made her blush, she had to admit she enjoyed having him look at her that way. As if he wanted to tear off her clothes and ravish her.
Of course that wasn’t going to happen. She was a responsible person, after all.
But she fully intended to kiss him again. After she finished bandaging his hand.
Pretending she didn’t notice his stare, she placed the crock of the honey-butter mixture on her lap.
“Give me your hand.” Her voice was breathy and alluring, even to her own ears.
He rested his hand atop hers, dwarfing it. How different from hers it looked. There was great strength in the sinews. The sun had weathered his skin. And calluses from wielding an axe thickened his fingers. She wondered how that hand would feel caressing the top of her breasts.
She took a deep, settling breath and tried to clear her mind. Then she dabbed her fingers in the honey-butter and began spreading it gently over his blisters.
He made no complaint. But she wasn’t sure if that was because it didn’t hurt or because he was distracted by the view. She didn’t dare look to see if his eyes were still fixed on her bosom.
The silence was becoming uncomfortable, so she explained, “The butter is to keep the moisture in. The honey helps to keep the wound clean.”
“To think I’ve been wasting it on oatcakes.”
She smiled and glanced up at him.
He was gazing out the window now. The light caught his face, making his eyes shine like silver and highlighting his chiseled jaw and supple lips.
She shivered with anticipation. She needed to finish the task of dressing his hand so she could begin the next task. Relieving some of her strain with a kiss as sweet as honey-butter.
Wrapping his hand again was a delicate operation. It was made even more difficult when she realized, kneeling before him, her eyes were at the level of his…
She gulped. She couldn’t even think the word. She certainly wasn’t going to stare at it.
Except she did.
There was nothing to see. Not really. He was fully clothed. His leine hung between his knees. And even if it hadn’t, his trews surely covered everything.
Still, there was something forbidden and thrilling about stealing glances without his knowledge.