Chapter 6 #2
Heat spread upward like evening tide until she felt hot and restive.
Against her neck, she could feel the warmth of his breath, and upon her skin, his hands were as steady and gentle as sunlight.
She concentrated on breathing, on remaining still, on refraining from any type of stupidity.
But it seemed almost as if he were not just bandaging her.
It felt as though he were caressing her, stroking her, seducing her.
When he leaned close, she could feel the heat of his body against her back, could feel his power as surely as if she had placed her hand to his chest, had felt the muscles bunch and shift against her flesh.
Aye, he would be a powerful force to contend with if ever she decided to take a lover, but she would not.
Nay. She was a warrior, tried in battle, accustomed to temptation, strong, and not about to weaken now when she was so near solving the riddle.
Evil comes to Evermyst.
Maybe it was true, and if it was she would stop it, for she was no different than MacGowan; she would not be content until she had repaid her dues, righted her wrongs.
Still . . . She shifted her gaze to his hands again.
If ever she were to take a mate, he would not be a horrid choice.
He would not be binding her wounds then, but skimming his hands reverently over her body.
True, she was not the type of woman men swooned over, for she was strong and rough and scarred.
Indeed, she was barely a woman atall, but perhaps he was different than most. After all, he had resisted the chambermaid’s obvious advances.
So it was possible he was looking for something deeper—perhaps a woman who did not quake when he scowled or swoon when he smiled, but one who met him as an equal.
Aye, she was an exceptional fighter, but if she set her mind to it perhaps she could also be an adequate—
“Hunter.”
She jumped at the sound of his voice. “Aye?”
“’Tis finished,” he said, and she realized suddenly that his hands had stilled. He remained motionless behind her upon the bed. All but naked, she sat only inches from him. Her face felt flushed, her body the same as she sat frozen before him, but he made no attempt to touch her.
A thousand possibilities soared through her mind, but she had no experience in the ways of seduction.
Indeed, she had spent much of her life avoiding any possibility of it.
She glanced furtively over her shoulder at him.
His eyes met hers, and she lowered hers hastily, praying he could not read her thoughts.
“You’d best clothe yourself,” he said.
“Oh.” The word escaped from her without thought, breathless, worthless, foolish. She cleared her throat and lowered her voice. “Aye,” she said, and lifted the tunic. Her face felt damnably hot.
“You’ve . . .” He paused, then tightened his large hands to fists and scowled at her. “You’ve naught else to wear?”
She shook her head once.
“Here,” he said and, turning abruptly, reached into the leather bag he’d kept behind his cantle. From it, he drew a fresh shirt. It was a simple garment, softened by time and use and faded to the color of aged bone. “’Tis clean and dry and will be more comfortable for you.”
“Nay,” she said, and shook her head. She had no desire whatsoever to wear his clothing, to accept his favors, to make him believe she had some interest in him. ’Twould be far too personal to feel his shirt against her skin, to smell the essence of him surrounding her like . . .
“I will see yours mended, and if the village has a decent leather wright, I will tend to your jerkin as well.”
“It is fine as it is,” she said.
“Nay, ’tis not, for through the rend others will see either the bindings or your .
. .” He paused. His gaze skimmed downward momentarily and when he lifted his eyes again they were darker than ever, with his brows pulled low and his expression hard.
“’Tis in need of repair,” he insisted and shoved his tunic toward her.
“Very well then,” she said and took the garment from him. Their fingers brushed.
Silence fell like spilled ink over the room.
“I will help you . . .” He drew a deep breath through his nostrils. “Don it.”
She would have to release the garment she held to her breast like an iron shield. The thought went unspoken. But it was obvious. She stared at him, and he stared back, his eyes earnest, his mouth unsmiling, as if this was no more than an unpleasant chore, best done quickly.
Was it all a ploy to see her unclothed yet again? Did he only hope to compromise her? But nay, she most probably had no need to worry on that account, not once he saw her in the full light of day, scared as she was.
Tipping up her chin, she met his gaze and dropped the tunic.
His attention remained focused on her face.
His square hands were formed into fists and for several seconds he stood exactly as he was. She remained unmoving, unspeaking, waiting in silence. Ready.
But in the end he neither turned away nor came in a rush.
Instead, he approached slowly. Her heart beat at the same laborious rate as she watched him fill her sight, and then he reached out.
His fingers brushed hers. Lightning sensations shivered up her arm.
Her heart leapt and stopped. For a moment the world stood still, but finally he tugged the garment from her clenched fingers.
“Lift your arms,” he ordered.
It was all she could manage to do. She felt absolutely naked, as vulnerable as a babe—breathless and lightheaded and foolish as she raised her arms toward the ceiling, revealing all.
For an instant, his nostrils flared, then, stepping closer still, he bunched the cloth in his fists and tugged the sleeves over her hands.
The garment brushed along her arms, raising gooseflesh in its wake.
His knuckles grazed her cheek as he drew the garment over her head and downward.
For a moment her heart thrummed against the backs of his fingers.
Then, soft as a butterfly’s wings, she felt the brush of his hand against her nipple.
The entire world froze. They were inches apart, breathing in sync, and for just a second she thought she felt him tremble.
Desire roared through her.
“Lass.” The word was no more than a whisper.
“Aye.” Hers was the same.
“I need . . .” He paused. She tried to breathe, but there was no hope of that.
“What?”
For a moment he closed his eyes, then he clenched his jaw and straightened abruptly. The tunic fell to her waist in a hasty cascade.
“I need to be going,” he said.
She exhaled sharply while she could. “Going?” she asked, and hoped he couldn’t hear the insane intensity of her desire. “Where?”
But his gaze had fallen to her breasts, and for a moment she let her own attention be drawn there. Through the aged fabric she could see the dusky circles of her nipples as they strained against confinement.
Lachlan raised his eyes back to hers then turned woodenly and lifted her soiled tunic from the bed. “To get this . . .” He motioned vaguely, as if he were at a loss for words. “To . . .” he began again, then, “Anywhere!” he rasped, and turning mechanically, strode away.
The door rocked on its leather hinges as he disappeared into the hall.
Hunter sat unmoving, staring in bewilderment at the reverberating door and trying to catch her breath.
He had left. Abruptly. Almost as if he were escaping. Her face reddened. Was it her scars that revolted him or was it something else?
Not that she’d wanted him to stay. She’d never primped or perfumed for any man. It wasn’t her place in life. Still . . . A gossamer shiver shook her as memories trickled back through her.
How long had it been she’d been touched as he had touched her? As if she were cherished. As if she were precious.
She stared at the door, thinking back, remembering, but not one instance could she recall. Perhaps it had never happened. Not in a score of years, not in all her life. Maybe there had never been a time when she had been touched with gentleness and caring.
The thought made her feel strangely hollow, as empty as the shell about her neck. But nay. It did not matter. She was a warrior, strong and independent.
Reaching across the bed, she retrieved her dirk. It felt good in her fist. She tightened her grip. Aye, she was a warrior, not some milkfed maid, and perhaps it was the lack of coddling that made her so.
She had no use for Lachlan MacGowan. The sound of his voice did not make her weak, and his touch did not make her want.
She had no need for either his strength or his gentleness.
But how was it that such a man as he could be so tender?
How could such callused hands feel so soothing against her skin?
There had been a breathlessness, an excitement akin to the anticipation of battle. She had thought he felt it too, but he had turned away. Did she disgust him or . . .
Could it be that he was a man of integrity as well as strength? Long ago she had heard a rhythm. Or had it been a dream? Peaceable yet powerful he must be . . .
But no. She did not believe in foolish poems and the tales of old wives. Yet . . . perhaps there were yet men of substance. It seemed that Anora of Evermyst had found one—Ramsay MacGowan.
She had met him long ago, but they had been at odds.
Indeed, they had battled, for she had planned evil against his love.
Hunter closed her eyes. Guilt gnawed at her, but she thrust it aside, for guilt did no good.
Actions were all that mattered—thus her need to keep Evermyst safe.
It was a payment of sorts and had naught to do with emotions.
After all, it wasn’t as if Hunter hadn’t caused others to suffer.
She was a mercenary, but she chose her battles carefully, and long ago, she had realized her mistake.
Anora Fraser did not deserve to die. Indeed, perhaps none who was loved by a man like Ramsay deserved to die.
Aye, Hunter regretted her long-ago attack on Anora, for though she had longed to obtain revenge for her pathetic childhood, Anora was not the one to pay.
And Ramsey had made certain of that, had, in fact, come to the maid’s rescue, though Hunter had tried to take her from him, had dressed as a woman to distract him.
Ramsay with the soulful eyes. Ramsay whom she had kissed.
Ramsay, with whom she shared a brief past, and yet he didn’t know it, for disguise, in one form or another, had always been her protector.
Never had he known her true identity, but it was not so with his brother.
Nay, Lachlan knew far too much. Lachlan! Larger than life, solemn, breathtak—
Foolish! He was a foolish noble. Nothing more. After all, he had followed her with no other purpose than to prove his own ability.
Still . . .
She could not forget the look of his face in the moonlight when she’d first met him on the battlefield—wounded yet not defeated.
Hunter shook her head. Despite his prowess and his appeal, he was naught but a man, and men were weak.
And yet he had turned aside the bonny chambermaid in his rush to help her. Indeed, he had barely seemed to notice the girl’s offer in his concern for herself.
But in the end he had turned away from her also. Even after she had dropped her tunic he had made no attempt to seduce her. Indeed, only after he’d pulled his shirt over her head with his own hands had he allowed himself to lower his gaze. So it could not have been her scars that offended him.
But he had fled.
Something curled tight and uncertain in Hunter’s stomach. She lowered her own gaze. Through the sheer fabric of the borrowed garment, she could still see the dark, sensitized rings of her nipples. Below the pale tunic, the scarred leather of her breeches looked worn and rugged in comparison.
That was it then. She was too much the warrior even without the scars. ’Twas understandable. Preferable even, she told herself, and tightened her fist on her dirk again, but her thoughts roiled on.
He had turned aside the maid too and she had been naught but the picture of femininity.
He was gentle. Yet he had a ferocious need to prove his prowess in battle.
When he had thought her a man, he followed her relentlessly.
He spoke of his mother with rare reverence.
He remained unwed. Indeed, for one so appealing, he seemed strangely uncomfortable around females.
Hunter sat in stunned silence as her thoughts halted abruptly in her head.
Damn! The truth was suddenly clear. Lachlan MacGowan favored men.