Chapter 16 #2
He titled his head at her. “Truth to tell, lass, ’tis not all that difficult to stir me.”
“Perhaps it is me masculine demeanor.”
“Perhaps it’s your breasts!” he growled, and took a step toward her.
She retreated a cautious pace, and he did not pursue her.
Instead, he closed his eyes momentarily and said, “I’ve no wish to argue with you.”
“What do you wish to do, MacGowan?” she whispered, and though she knew she shouldn’t ask, she felt a thrill of excitement race up her neck at his darkening expression.
A muscle jumped in his jaw, but he remained where he was and gave her a cocky grin. “I wish for naught but to help you win a grand title, of course.”
“How kind you are.”
He nodded. “Come hither.”
“Burn in hell.”
He chuckled once as he approached, but his eyes were still dark, his expression still taut. “Laddie, it may behoove you to treat men with a bit more respect.”
“And it may—”
“Shh,” he said and placed his fingers gently across her lips. “’Tis best to speak only when spoken to.”
She glared at him and he smiled. “Much better,” he said and lifting a girdle from the trunk, placed it about her hips. Made of broad links of chain that ended in a circular pendant, it swung nearly to the floor. He stepped back a pace and perused her.
“When you are quiet one could almost believe you to be a lady.”
She gritted a smile, bunched the skirt in her hand and paced toward the window. “How kind of you to notice.”
“Good sir,” he said.
She turned to glare at him.
“Good sir,” he repeated. “’Tis something you might say to the marquis instead of cursing at him. And there seems little reason to throttle the gown.”
Glancing down, she saw that she had indeed crushed the fine fabric. She loosened her grip and smoothed the velvet over her thigh.
“I suspect you are right,” she said. “There are others much more worthy of throttling.”
“I’m flattered. How will you carry your baggage? Your loyal Night might not care to have a trunk strapped to his noble haunches. And what of additional garments? I understand your father may not be thought to be particularly wealthy, but surely you will need a few gowns to supplement this one.”
“And this from a man who spends half his days in a bathing towel.”
“Your voice is low for a woman,” he said.
“You are no longer trying to frighten the wits out of your enemy, laddie. Soften your tone. And what the devil are you scowling at? It seems you are scowling all your life. There is naught a woman can wear that makes her more appealing than a smile. As for your—”
“I did not ask for your help.”
He paused in his harangue and shrugged. “You have spent your life becoming a man.”
“And hence I cannot be a woman?”
“Laird Turpin has had many maids. Pampered they are and soft.”
She took a step toward him. “And I am not soft enough?”
His gaze lowered to her breasts for a moment, then rose again. They were close now. He narrowed his eyes. “It was not I who said you should seduce a paunchy old reprobate in an effort to gain his wealth.”
“Women do so every day.”
“And you said you were not a woman.”
“Forgive me,” she said, and skimmed her gaze down his body again. “I had almost come to believe that you believed otherwise.”
He scowled at her. She softened her voice even more. “In truth, you had nearly convinced me that I held some attraction for you.”
She could feel his hard gaze on her face, but he remained utterly silent.
“So I was right from the start; you are not interested in me,” she said, and advanced slowly.
“I never said as much.”
She took another step toward him. “So what is it you think of me, champion?”
“You know what I think.”
“Do not be afraid to say it, MacGowan. I’ll not hold the truth against you.”
“You are beautiful,” he gritted. “And any man who is a man would say the same.”
She tried to laugh, to tell him he was a fool, to prove that she had been toying with him, but in that moment his fingers curled around the nape of her neck. Her head fell back and his lips descended on hers.
Feelings swarmed in like angry bees and against her belly, she felt his erection rise to the occasion. She raised her hand to his chest, but if she meant to ward him off she was far too optomistic, for his body was as unyielding as an oaken buckler.
Rhona moaned beneath the kiss and slipped her hand over his nipple.
Lachlan wrapped his arm tight and fast about her waist, pressing her up against the bare expanse of him.
She clasped her arms around his back, pulling him closer, and he crushed her with his kiss.
His tongue pressed inside. She met it as if in a duel and slipped her hand downward, only to find a towel in the way.
She tore it off and in a moment he was naked.
She sighed into his mouth as she curved her palm over his hard buttocks.
“Lass!” he growled. “Gentle maids might not do that.”
“Shut up, MacGowan,” she ordered, and he kissed her again. She moaned out loud, then broke away and trailed a hot path of kisses down his throat. He had been naked half the time she knew him, had been flaunting his chest and . . .
She found his nipple and laved it with her tongue. He jerked against her, then wrapped his fingers in her hair. Forcing her head backward, he growled a warning.
“You were made for me, lass. None other.”
She met his kiss with desperation.
“Not some bloated marquis!” Lachlan growled and lifted her into his arms. She slipped her fingers behind his neck and kissed him with ravishing heat. “We shall travel to Dun Ard,” he gritted. “Wed within the month. Live—”
But suddenly his words came through to her. She pressed against his chest with all her might and scrambled to the floor.
“What the devil are you about?” he rasped.
“Wed!” The word sprung from her lips. “Are you daft? I cannot marry!”
His brows lowered and he paced closer. She backed a step away.
“You did not seem to dislike the idea a moment ago,” he said.
“I said nothing of marriage.”
“So you would bed me but not wed me?”
She licked her lips. “This I tell you, champion. You’ll not own me. Not now, not ever. I go where I will.”
“And you go to Turpin?”
He looked enraged and indomitable. Ready for battle or sex or both. Just as she was.
“Aye,” she growled. “I go to Turpin.”
“Though you want me.”
“I did not say as much.”
“Nay,” he said and let his gaze fall across her body, her heaving breasts, her clenched fists. “For there was no need.”
“Get out of me room, MacGowan.”
“Nay,” he said and lunged for her.
She sprinted away. Her toes tangled in her skirts and she almost fell, but once again he caught her. Bearing her to her feet, he turned her in his arms.
Their lips were inches apart. She felt her knees go weak, and anger rose like a flood with that weakness. Clenching her teeth, she snarled at him, “Leave me be or I swear you shall rue this day.”
He grinned. “And what shall you do, lass? You’ve no weapon close to hand.”
She turned her head, desperately searching for protection, and it was there—her dirk, almost within reach, but his grip was like iron about her waist.
She turned back to him. Their gazes met and fused, anger and passion and frustration all melding at once, and then, like one in a trance, he reached out and wrapped his fingers around the hilt of her knife.
She leaned back, her heart thumping, her eyes never leaving his.
Lachlan raised the dirk, and she tensed, but he only spun it into the air and caught it by the blade.
“Here then,” he growled, and loosening his grip on her waist, offered her the weapon.
She took it in her trembling hand and backed away.
“Feel better now?” he asked, and advanced slowly.
She hefted the dirk’s familiar weight and raised her chin. “Aye, champion. I do.”
“’Tis good,” he said and, reaching slowly forward, drew her back into his embrace. “For I suggest you use it if you wish to stop me.”
He leaned toward her. His lips felt hot as fire upon hers. She trembled with desire, but she pressed the knife against his ribs.
“MacGowan!” she growled.
He drew back slightly, his teeth clenched. “Aye?” Against her breasts, his chest felt as hard as sin and upon her thighs, he throbbed with unrelieved desire.
She breathed through her mouth, trying to find her wits, and in the silence, he leaned forward again.
She pressed the blade deeper into his side, piercing his skin. He drew back, slowly, his face a solemn mask.
“You’ve some request, lass?” His tone was deep, his eyes like amber fire.
“Aye,” she growled. “Take me, MacGowan!”