Chapter 15 #3
Minutes or a lifetime passed. The mattress dipped behind her. She held her breath, but he kept his distance.
She cleared her throat. “’Tis rather chilly this night.”
Not a sound could be heard in all the universe.
“Are you asking me to move closer?” he asked. The words rumbled from him like distant thunder, ominous, yet exhilarating.
“Nay,” she said, but the naked lie lay between them like a hungry bear—large and dangerous and difficult to ignore. “Unless you are cold.”
An eternity passed. He moved closer and finally she felt his hand on her arm. She tensed, waiting, but he did not turn her toward him. Instead, he eased closer still. She could feel the heat of his body as he drew his palm down her arm and onto the slope of her waist.
“I am sorry.”
His words were soft. She didn’t respond, and he flexed his fingers so that his nails skimmed along the curve of her ribs and up her spine.
“For me mother again?” she asked.
“Nay. I am sorry that you cannot want.”
“Is that what you think, MacGowan? That because I do not want you, I cannot—”
But in that moment he brushed her hair aside and kissed her neck.
Her moan escaped of its own accord. Aye, she was strong, but damn it all, she was a living, breathing woman, and no matter how hard she tried, she could not remember being gently touched by any but him. She felt him move closer, felt his erection brush her buttocks.
“What did he do to you, lass?”
“Who?”
“The bastard . . .” He drew a careful breath and skimmed his fingers down her spine again. “Edmund.”
The memories stormed back, but she did not answer. He kissed her again where her neck curved into her shoulder. Feelings swamped her, threatening to drown the memories.
“Lass?” he said, and brushed his fingertips over her ear.
The shiver was impossible to hide this time, so she spoke, shielding her emotions with words. “Would the details be so pleasant for you, MacGowan?”
She felt him stiffen. His movements paused for a moment. She had wounded him. ’Twas good, she thought, and yet she almost turned to beg his forgiveness. Almost.
“If I could,” he began, and touched her hair again. “I would undo the damage he has done. But I do not know the damage.”
She did her best to ignore his gentleness, his words, the feel of his skin against hers. “What would you do?” she whispered, and suddenly she felt so small and fragile that the fear all but swallowed her.
“Whatever you like.”
She closed her eyes and fought the weakness, but it was all around her, closing in. “Hold me, champion.”
He drew her closer, so that her back was pressed tightly against his chest, his legs cradling hers, and his erection a hard force between them.
“You were to be adored,” he said.
Her mouth twitched with unwelcome emotion, but she forced herself to relax, to remain unmoved. “They did not adore me.”
“Did he force himself on you?”
She could barely manage a nod. Her gut was tied in knots and her throat ached.
His hand tightened for a moment in her hair, then loosened. “And you did not tell the Douglas of his sins?”
“Aye.” She said no more.
He waited. His grip hardened on her shoulder.
“It seems there are punishments for young girls who would seduce their betters,” she said finally.
She felt the muscles in his arm jerk and freeze, but finally he relaxed a bit and tightened his arm about her waist, as if he could hold the world at bay, could keep her safe within the circle of his strength.
“God forgive me,” he murmured. “I cannot right the wrongs you suffered at their hands, for they have long ago fled Scotland.” He paused as if struggling with himself.
“But I would keep you from being hurt again.” He smoothed his palm down her arm, but she could yet feel the tension in his fingers.
“I fear the marquis of Claronfell is no better than the men of your past. Do not go—”
“All the more reason for me to go then,” she said.
“Why? To join his cause against Scotland?”
She turned in the darkness. “Do you call me a traitor, MacGowan?”
“I do not know what to call you!” His tone was rife with frustration. “I do not know why you go to Claronfell, but your reason seems urgent.”
“So you assume I would turn me back on me homeland?”
“Your back is scared and there was none in all of Scotland to save you from the pain. Indeed, you trust no man as well as you trust your steed. Why should you be loyal?”
They lay face to face, inches apart, naught separating them but the sheer fabric of her tunic.
“Believe I am a traitor if you like, MacGowan. I have told you why I go to Claronfell.”
“Aye. You have told me.” There was anger in his face, passion in his tone. “You have told me of abuse and neglect and your intent to punish yourself again when you could be safe and lov—”
He stopped, his hand tight around her arm. She held her breath.
“What were you about to say?”
He gritted his teeth and loosened his grip. “Perhaps you want to be hurt.”
“Is that what you believe, MacGowan? Is that what you tell yourself? Go ahead then.” She lifted her hand from between them. “Take me while you believe it is what I want.”
He glared at her for a prolonged moment, then yanked her close. His lips crushed hers, his body was as hard as granite.
Desire and fear and a dozen unclaimed emotions burned through her, but in the same moment he drew away, breathing hard.
“You lie.” His voice was soft suddenly, his eyes narrowed and his body tense. She wanted to pull him back, to push him down, to draw him inside and around and under.
But he remained as he was, watching her from a distant of several long inches. Damn him! She lay perfectly still, anger soaring through her. “Aye,” she seethed. “I lie. I was not abandoned or forsaken or—”
“You do not prefer women.”
Her mouth fell open. Her body ached with hollow longing. “What?”
“You long for a m—a man, just as I long for you, but you are not brave enough to admit it,” he said and pushing back, sat up and gazed down at her. “So much easier to be the warrior than the maid. So much easier to threaten and—”
“Easier!” She sat up too, anger boiling like a toxic brew.
“Aye,” he said, and his voice dropped again. “You do not detest men. You fear them.”
She laughed out loud, throwing her head back and howling at the ceiling. “What an imagination you have, MacGowan. If only your memory where half so amazing. I fear no man. Have you forgot me own ability with a sword?”
“Nay, I have not, but neither have I forgot that you shiver at me touch.”
“And because you are a MacGowan you are so certain that ’tis not with revulsion but with a desire so tremendous I can no longer conceal it.”
He stared at her. “This I tell you, lass. I’ll not take you if your desire does not match me own.”
She felt the blood drain from her face, for the truth was painfully obvious. She wanted him with aching desperation, but pride, or something like it, would not allow her to say as much. She forced a laugh. “How chivalrous of you.”
“Methinks you’ll not get the same offer from the marquis.”
“But I go anyway.”
He tensed. Muscles rippled like living cords beneath his skin, and for a moment she was tempted almost beyond control to feel them beneath her fingertips.
He relaxed them one by one, but still they remained carved like stone just beneath his sun-darkened skin. “Then you’d best learn to be a maid,” he said.
“Oh?” She curled her hands into fists and kept them to herself. “And who will teach me, MacGowan? You?”
He stared at her, then skimmed his hard gaze down her body. Heat followed his course. She felt the burn like a living flame. Her head dropped back and her breathing came hard.
“Aye,” he said. “Get up.”
“What?”
“Get out of bed.”
“Nay.”
“You do not say nay to your laird, lassie.”
“But you are me servant.”
“The fat marquis will be your laird, and he will expect to be obeyed.”
“Then he can burn in hell.” She smiled. “As can you.”
He smiled back. “And what of the lassies for whom you care so much?”
She sobered, remembering her mission, remembering all.
“What do you think will happen to them if the good marquis learns that you have spent most of your life as a man?” he asked. “Get out of bed.”
“Nay,” she repeated, but in one smooth motion he stepped over her and onto the floor. Reaching down, he yanked her up beside him. They were face to face, and he was naked. She caught her breath and pressed her palm against his chest and for a moment their breath melded.
“Lass,” he whispered.
“Aye?”
He cleared his throat and pushed her back a scant inch. “There is no time to lose if I’m to teach you to be a lady.”