Chapter 13 #2
Her desire made her frantic, a wildness surging inside her with such fury she didn’t recognize herself. She didn’t know this Freya, the strong, fearless Freya she became when she was in his arms, a woman who took what she wanted with no hesitation, and no apology.
She pressed her lips to his neck, licking up the drop of water she found there before taking his earlobe into her mouth and sinking her teeth into it.
“Ah!” The sharp cry fell from his lips at her tiny bite, another groan rumbling in his throat as she moved her hands over the powerful line of his back, tracing his spine and then sliding lower, and lower still until she was cupping his backside in her palms.
“Freya.” He tore his lips from hers and pressed his face into the arch between her shoulder and neck, his panting breath hot against her skin. “We shouldn’t … we can’t—”
But they could. They were.
“No. Don’t stop, Callum.” She hardly recognized her own voice, the huskiness of it, the breathlessness, the low, pleading note throbbing there, but surely she’d sink lifeless to the ground if he stopped? “Not yet.”
He growled against the quivering skin of her neck, tightening his fingers around her waist and pressing her more firmly against the tree trunk at her back. “You want my touch? Tell me. Tell me you want me, Freya.”
“Yes.” She arched her back, pressing closer, her breasts brushing against the hard wall of his chest. “I want you, Callum.”
Desire. Yes, that was what this was, the sensation swelling in her belly and between her legs, the tingling at the tips of her breasts. This was what it was to want a man.
How had she ever thought she could give this up?
But she had. What man, after all, would ever want her, a lady rumored to be a witch, in his bed? No man she could think of, or even one she could imagine. So, she’d given up on desire before she’d ever had a chance to taste it.
Yet here he was, holding her in his arms, when he was the last man in the world she ever thought she could want. That her first taste of desire should be with him—for him—was … well, desire was a strange thing, wasn’t it?
A few short days ago she could never have imagined such a thing, could never have imagined kissing him, touching him—but it was right, somehow, as if this moment between them, this madness here in the moonlight with him—had been written in the stars since the beginning of time.
How could it feel like this, otherwise? How could she want him so much, with everything inside her, every beat of her heart?
He wasn’t hers. He could never be hers. She knew that. Of course she knew. She’d known it from the start, even as she welcomed his kiss, his touch. But she hadn’t known that it could feel like this. Like she was dying and coming to life at the same time.
How could she?
Would it feel like this with any man? Or was it only him?
What if it was only Callum, and she never found her way into his arms again? What then? What if this was her one chance to ever feel this way, and the memory of this kiss had to last her an entire lifetime?
She couldn’t give it up. Not yet.
He clasped her face in his hands and gazed down at her, a shock of his silky dark hair tumbling over his forehead. “We can’t … this isn’t the place, Freya. I should never have. …” He broke off, shaking his head. “We should go back to the cottage now.”
Her fists loosened in his damp shirt, cold reality chasing the delicious fog of desire that had enveloped her.
He was right, of course. Yes, they should go back.
She stepped away from him, a chill rushing through her at the loss of his heat. Perhaps he saw it on her face, because he caught her hands, pulled her close, and pressed a chaste kiss to her forehead. “I beg your pardon, Freya. This was … a mistake.”
A mistake. That was plain enough, wasn’t it? He didn’t want her.
She withdrew her hands and gave him a shaky smile. It hadn’t felt like a mistake to her. It had felt utterly and inexplicably right, but he hadn’t been as affected as she had.
But then he must have kissed dozens of young ladies.
There was nothing special about her. She simply happened to be here, that was all.
She might have been any young lady. Aside from his rumpled hair and kiss-reddened lips, he was every inch the stern, distant Callum Ross again, the man with the cool gray eyes and unsmiling mouth.
Meanwhile she was still trembling, her knees wobbly and weak under her skirts.
A moment made for a kiss …
And it had been. But it had been only a moment.
“There’s no need to beg my pardon, Mr. Ross.” She attempted a smile, but it felt stiff on her face, so she gave it up, turning away to fetch her towel and what was left of the lump of soap he’d given her. “Shall we go back to the cottage now?”
He didn’t move. “I don’t think you understand. I—”
“It’s quite all right, Mr. Ross. No explanations are necessary. I’d like to return now, if that’s agreeable to you. I’m rather cold, with my wet hair.”
He gazed down at her without speaking, but after a few awkward moments of staring at each other, he nodded. “Of course. We’ll return the same way we came. Stay on the pathway and follow me.”
Well, he’d made one devil of a mess of that, hadn’t he?
He could see what she was thinking. Freya was no dissembler. He could read her as easily as he could a page in a book.
Her every thought, her every feeling was there in her face, her eyes.
Confusion, anger, embarrassment, and finally … shame.
He’d made her ashamed of herself. Ashamed, after she’d kissed him with such sweetness his throat was still aching with it. He’d never felt less alone than he had in the brief moments she’d been in his arms.
And this was how he’d repaid her for it.
She thought he didn’t want her. He’d been panting over her only moments ago, delirious with desire for her, but she was an innocent, young and na?ve.
What did Freya MacLeod know of a man’s desires?
Not a blessed thing.
But he had no such excuse. He’d known what he was doing when he’d taken her into his arms and kissed her, and he’d done it anyway.
Even now it was taking every bit of willpower he possessed not to take her lips again, to hold her in his arms and kiss her until she understood how badly he wanted her.
But it was better this way. Freya MacLeod wasn’t for him.
Except she had been, for just those few stolen moments. When he’d been holding her against him, she’d been entirely his. She’d trembled so sweetly then, soft pleas and whimpers falling from her lips.
But it was a moment out of time, one never to be repeated. Nothing could come of this madness between them, and he wouldn’t hurt her, not for the world.
She’d been hurt enough.
So, he pressed forward through the trees, the soft shuffle of her footsteps behind him. It was the longest walk of his life, but at last they reached the end of the pathway and emerged from the wood.
He saw the light as soon as they broke through the trees.
“Wait.” He held out his arm to stop Freya from moving forward, watching as the light bobbed in the darkness. Someone with a lantern in their hand was moving about near the cove behind the cottage, where Brodie kept the small fishing boat he used to ferry passengers across Lochalsh.
“What is it?” Freya asked, a hint of breathlessness in her voice.
He nodded toward the lantern light. “There’s someone out behind the cottage, near the boats.”
“It must be Brodie, mustn’t it?”
It stood to reason, yes, but the thread of uncertainty in her voice echoed his own doubts. If it was Brodie, why hadn’t he entered the cottage? What was he doing at the cove, messing about with the boat?
Unless it wasn’t Brodie.
“Who else would it be, but for Brodie?”
“Nobody we want to see. Just wait, lass. We’re about to find out.”
Whoever it was had turned away from the shoreline, the lantern light still bobbing with their every step as they made their way back toward the cottage.
“Get back.” He caught Freya’s arm and urged her backward, into the shelter of the trees. It was almost certainly Brodie, but he didn’t have a weapon to hand, so it was best to be cautious.
They stood and listened to the thud of the man’s boots as he hurried from the cove back toward the cottage, until at last he was close enough the muted rays of the lantern revealed Brodie’s familiar features.
“It’s all right.” He seized Freya’s hand and urged her out from under the cover of the trees. “It is Brodie.”
But it wasn’t all right. He knew it as soon as he got a closer look at Brodie’s face.
The lad was tired, but that was hardly a surprise.
Kyleakin to Dunvegan and back in three days was a hard ride, but it wasn’t the lines of exhaustion marking his youthful friend’s face that had Callum stopping in his tracks.
It was the fear.
“Brodie?” He lurched forward, tugging Freya along behind him, suddenly unwilling to leave her by herself even for a moment. “What is it? What’s happened?”
“Callum. Thank God.” Brodie hurried toward them. “I thought they’d somehow gotten past me when I found the cottage empty.”
“They?” Freya’s fingers dug into his arm. “Who are they?”
Brodie glanced at him, a warning in his eyes, but Callum nodded. Whatever it was, Freya had a right to know about it.
“There are men following me.” Brodie let out a breath. “Wily ones, too. I didn’t notice them until I’d gotten past Luib.”
“Who are they?” But he already knew enough. The men, whoever they were, hadn’t followed Brodie from Luib.
They’d followed him from Dunvegan. Nothing else made sense. Somehow, these men had not only worked out that there was a connection between him and Brodie, but they also knew Callum had Freya MacLeod with him.
And now they were coming after her.
“Thief-takers. Two of them.” Brodie cast a stricken glance at Freya. “The villagers of Dunvegan got a reward together on behalf of Clyde Stewart. There are villains crawling all over Dunvegan and the surrounding area, looking for Miss MacLeod, and Miss Sorcha MacLeod.”