Chapter 12 #2
The sweet smell of lavender spilled into the air, and suddenly she could think of no lies.
“Some years,” she said, and even with those simple words, memories stormed her mind like evil birds of prey.
She had been young when sent from Nettlepath.
Young and scared and vulnerable, but there were those who did not care about a maid’s innocence.
Those who would take it by force, who would ruin a wee lass and cause her to defend herself anyway she could.
She had been a lad ever since, and never regretted it. Not until now.
“’Tis surely a sin,” he mused.
“What?” Against her will, she covered her scar with her arm, squeezing her breast against her silver shell, but he leaned slowly forward. Grasping her wrist in gentle fingers, he tugged it away.
“Don’t,” he said simply. “’Tis not right to hide such . . . ’tis not right.”
Did he mock her? She speared her gaze to his, but his eyes were somber, his expression the same. She could only stare.
Reaching out, he brushed his knuckles along the path of the scar. Feelings darted through her like frightened harts, leaping for cover.
He raised his gaze to hers. “You made the bastard pay?”
It took a moment for her to find her voice. “The Munro?”
“Aye.”
“He is not your enemy any longer,” she murmured. “Not since Ramsay bested him in battle. Not since he gave up any hope of having Anora. And surely not since he met his own bride.”
A muscle jumped in his jaw. “I’ll be the one to decide if he is me enemy,” Lachlan gritted. “Did he suffer?”
“He bears a scar on his cheek.”
“His cheek.” The words were softly scoffed. “It does not compare with the damage he has done.”
She pulled her arm from his grasp, clamping it to her breast. “Do not look if you find it so hideous.”
“Hideous,” he breathed. “Is that what you think I believe?”
“I do not care what you believe.” She forced the words out on a whisper.
He leaned toward her, his face sober. “But I will tell you nonetheless, for—”
“MacGowan!” she interrupted rashly, but he didn’t listen.
“I will pretend to be mute.” His voice was low. “I will feign servitude. But I will not pretend you are undesirable. And I will not pretend me own desire is unnatural. Not when you are what you—”
“Nay,” she whispered, then, “nay,” she said more forcefully. “We are the same, you and I. The—”
But in that moment, he grasped her hand and placed it against his chest. Beneath her palm, his flesh felt like living granite, as hard as stone yet soft as velvet.
Air escaped her lungs in one hard rush.
“The same?” he asked.
“Aye,” she whispered and he pulled her hand lower. Her fingers bumped over his nipple. The faintest whimper escaped her throat, but he was already skimming her hand lower, over his ribs and down the rugged hills of his abdomen. He halted her fingers just above his belted plaid.
“The same?” he asked. The question was little less than a threat. Beneath his plaid, she could see the hard outline of his desire.
She snatched her hand away and grabbed the tub with frantic fingers.
“What do you want, MacGowan?” she rasped.
Absolute silence filled the room. For an eternity not a word was spoken. “You,” he finally said.
She tried to formulate a thought, but nothing came.
“’Tis you I want,” he repeated.
She tried to force a laugh, but she could not. “You jest.”
His eyes were as sober as death and failed to shift the slightest degree. “Do I look like I jest, lass?”
“I am not a lass. I am a warrior, scarred in battle and—” she began, but in that moment he touched his fingers to her lips, shushing her. Indeed, causing her to hold her breath.
He stared at her mouth for a moment, then lifted his attention back to her eyes as his fingers skimmed over the cleft of her lips and lower. Soft as a breeze, he trailed over her jaw and down the length of her neck.
Against her will, she shivered beneath his touch. Her eyes fell closed. Her hands ached against the metal as her head fell back. His fingers slipped into the hollow in her throat and against his flesh, she could feel the hard tattoo of her heart.
“Surely you know the truth.” His words were no more than a whisper. “You are temptation itself.”
“Nay,” she moaned and tensed to rise, but already his hand held her shoulder.
“You cannot escape it, lass. You are beautiful and you are desirable no matter how long you hide from the fact.”
She stared at him, her heart pumping wildly. “I am not beautiful.”
“Aye, lass, you are, but why would you wish it otherwise?”
Moments stretched into silence, then, “Beauty is weak,” she whispered.
He tilted his head and eased his hand slowly down the length of her sword arm. His fingers remained on her biceps for a moment, then continued on until he reached her wrist. Once there, he lifted it upward so that her palm lay open before him.
“Weak?” he whispered and kissed the hollow of her palm.
She sucked air through her teeth.
“I think not.”
Her hand tingled. Her breath came hard.
“What was your given name, lass?”
“I have many names.” Her voice was raspy, unnatural.
“Aye.” He trailed his fingertips along the tendons in her wrist, over the blue ridged veins and upward.
“Hunter. Giles. Warrior. Good names. And well used, all. But what of the name your mother gave you?” His fingers bumped over the crease where her arm bent.
She jumped like a startled hare beneath the rampant sensations.
“Mother gave me nothing.”
His gaze felt sharp on her face, and though she knew she had said too much she could not seem to correct herself, to think, to focus on anything but the feeling of his fingers against her skin.
“Nothing?” he asked and, cradling her elbow in his palm, brushed his thumb across the bend.
She tried not to shiver. “She gave me life, but little else,” she corrected and swallowed the spark of pleasure that radiated from his touch.
His gaze was as warm as sunshine upon her face. “I am sorry.”
“Do not pity me!” she said, and yanked at her arm, but he held it firm.
“You? Nay, lass. ’Tis not you I pity, but your mother.”
“What?”
“Do you think for a moment she could have wanted to give you up?”
She said nothing, but stared into his eyes. They were as deep as forever.
“I am not a sensitive man, lass. Nor do I have the gift of understanding. Me own greatest talent is in swordsmanship, but this much I know; there is not a mother of sound mind who could have given you up without relinquishing part of her very own soul.”
“She kept me sister.” The words were a whisper and for that weak tone as much as the words themselves, she hated herself.
“Poor thing,” he said and kissed her wrist where the pulse thrummed like mad.
“I told you not to pity me.” She jerked it out of his grip. Water splashed violently over the side of the tub, wetting his bared chest, but he did not retreat. Instead, he watched her from a proximity so close it seemed she could feel the heat radiating from his body.
“Look at yourself, lass,” he said, and drew his gaze down her body and up. “None could pity you.”
She scowled. Her eyes stung, and her throat felt tight. “And you will not pity her,” she ordered.
“I will,” he argued. “For not only did she give you up, she was forced to choose between you and another. How was she to know she would relinquish the best of the pair?”
She watched him in terror, barely able to breathe. “You do not know me sister!” she whispered.
“Nay,” he said, “but I know you.”
She forced herself to relax a mite. He did not know her secrets. All was safe, but the tightness in her throat did not lessen. “She’s as bonny as the springtime,” she informed him.
The smallest of smiles lifted his lips. “I meself like the winter,” he said and stroked her wrist.
“Delicate as a flower.”
“I’ve a weakness for strength.”
Anger whipped through her. “Don’t pretend you disdain her.”
His brow lowered. “As you said, I do not know her.” His eyes were suddenly hawkish. “Do I?”
“Nay.” She dropped her gaze to the water and felt panic rise like an unfamiliar wave. “Of course not. I only meant that . . . you would worship her if you but met her.”
The frown did not lessen. “What is her name?”
“It matters not.”
“Then tell me.”
“It would do no good.”
“Neither would it do any harm.”
“I have no need of her.”
“You—” He paused. “She does not know of you?”
“Might you think we exchange Yuletide gifts, MacGowan? Might you think we embroider bedsheets as we sit by the fire and speak of scented soaps and drink—”
“Mayhap she longs to.”
The air left her lungs. “What?”
“Mayhap she is as lonely as you.”
“I am not lonely,” she whispered.
He didn’t argue, but only watched her for an instant. “Maybe she is tired to death of embroidery and longs to ride free as you do.”
“I doubt that,” she said and her throat felt tight again. “Her embroidery is perfect.”
He laughed and she started as he reached for her hand again. “As is your swordplay. Or nearly so.” He smoothed her knuckles with his thumb. “So she is a noblewoman.”
“Aye,” she said, watching his hand upon hers. His skin was dark and when he moved, the muscles tightened like magic up the length of his mesmerizing arm.
“A family I know?”
She caught her breath suddenly. Only a fool spilled secrets at the simple touch of a man’s hand. “She is not of noble birth.”
“Oh?” His brows rose slightly.
“Nay. I but meant that she thinks herself quite noble.”
“Ahh,” he said. If he believed a word of it, that na?veté did not show in the strong lines of his face.
Indeed, he looked somber and sage and as powerful as a broadsword.
“You’ve met her then,” he said and caressed her wrist with velvety softness.
Feelings skittered up her arm like summer lightning.
“Aye. Nay. I . . .”
“Which is it, lass?”
“I am not a lass!”
His gaze skimmed her body again, but in a moment it returned to her face.
“And you feel not the least bit of desire.”
“Nay, I do not.”
The corners of his mouth tilted a bit. Anger rose in her at the very sight.