Chapter 18
Carenza was staring at his crotch.
She probably assumed he couldn’t tell. But her gaze might as well have been a caress, the way it was affecting him. And her distraction became glaringly obvious, especially when she began wrapping the linen in a spiral up his wrist.
Part of him was amused. Nothing was more engaging than a woman interested in his body. Her curiosity was endearing and arousing. But part was afraid the change in him as he swelled with desire would show through his braies and trews and leine to horrify them both.
He had to distract her before he shamed himself and she wrapped the linen halfway up his arm.
“Are you planning to bury me?” he asked.
She started. “What?”
He raised his brows and looked pointedly at her linen handiwork. “’Tis beginning to look like a shroud.”
“Och.”
Flustered, she turned the loveliest shade of pink as she quickly reversed the winding and tied off the linen around his palm. Then, without a glance, she gathered her things and returned the basin to its place.
He couldn’t help but be charmed by her blushing naivete. And he feared that—more than her beautiful face and her delectable curves and the lust in her eyes—was going to make her hard to resist. Like an exquisite itch he was forbidden to scratch.
Which reminded him… Now that his arms were healing, the itch was unbearable. He started sliding his leine sleeve back and forth along his arm to rub away the tingling.
“Does it itch?” she asked.
He nodded.
“’Tis good news. That means ’tis healin’.”
He knew that. He was a warrior. He’d suffered countless wounds. Nonetheless, he replied, “Does it?”
“Aye, but ye shouldn’t scratch it like that.”
He knew that too. But it never stopped him.
“Here. Let me…” She started toward him, then changed her mind. “If ye’d remove your leine, I have some oil here that might help.” She wheeled about and started searching through several vials of oils on the table.
Hew hesitated. Removing his clothing was a bad idea. They were alone. It was one less layer between them. And he was well aware of the effect a naked chest had on women.
But he couldn’t think of an excuse that wouldn’t make things more awkward. Besides, it was a weak man who couldn’t control himself, just because he was missing an article of clothing or two. So without ceremony or fuss, he pulled the leine over his head and draped it over the chair beside him.
Surely she’d prepared herself for the sight of him. After all, she’d been the one to ask him to remove his leine.
Still, when she came near with the vial of oil, her step was halting, and her gaze skipped about like a gnat, deciding where to land.
Then she closed her eyes. When her bosom rose and fell with a deep, steadying breath, he was instantly reminded of the peek he’d stolen down her leine.
Her breasts had looked so round and soft and smooth.
Like twin loaves of bread set out to rise.
Unfortunately, his loins were instantly reminded as well. He judiciously moved his arms between his knees then, blocking her view.
Carenza gulped. Had Hew grown even more massive since she’d last seen him without his leine? Perhaps it was only seeing him sitting up rather than sprawled unconscious on a pallet that made him seem more muscled. More forceful. More intimidating.
Her heart pounded. A sheen of light sweat formed above her lip. He looked to her like a dangerous animal now. An animal capable of crushing her.
Yet she felt more exhilaration than fear. She’d faced this beast before. Leine or no leine, there was no need to be intimidated. And she intended to get another kiss. So she shook off her self-doubt and held up the vial.
“Oil o’ newt,” she announced.
The look of disgust on his face erased all her fears.
A snort of a laugh escaped her.
“You’re a wicked lass,” he growled.
“Don’t worry. ’Tis lavender. Perfectly pleasant.”
She pulled a chair close to his and poured a thin stream of oil atop one powerful shoulder. Then, setting down the vial, she let her fingers catch the drop. With a light touch, she spread the oil down his arm.
“Does that pain ye?” she murmured.
He shook his head and closed his eyes.
She thought it would be quick work. Then she meant to proceed on to the kiss.
But she became fascinated by his body. The warmth of his flesh. The curves of his muscles. The subtle pulse of his veins. She explored it all with her hands, molding her fingers along each plane, smoothing and soothing his skin as if she sculpted him from clay.
Why the contact should affect her so, she didn’t know. But soon she felt the eagerness in her fingers spread to a longing deep within her. The same longing she’d had when they’d kissed. A tightening in her breasts. A tingling in her nether parts. A fierce urge to be closer.
Her hands contacted the bandage then, and she picked up the vial to start on the other shoulder. His eyes were still closed. She wondered if he’d lied about the pain.
“Are ye sure it doesn’t hurt?” Her voice came out on a rough whisper.
To her surprise, he replied with a self-mocking, rueful chuckle. “My arms? Nay, they don’t hurt.”
She smoothed the oil down his other arm. Her mind wandered, imagining his bulky arms, as unyielding as oak, enfolding her. Holding her. Protecting her. How safe she would feel in his embrace.
She slid her hand up along the inside of his arm, lightening her touch where the flesh was more delicate.
As she reached the top, her fingers brushed the hollow under his arm, where a soft tuft of hair grew.
Intrigued by the texture, she didn’t pull away at once.
She ran her thumb back and forth along the fringe.
Suddenly, he jerked and clamped his arm against his chest, trapping her hand.
She gasped. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt ye.” She tried to slide her hand down.
He grunted and clamped harder.
She tried to wriggle her fingers out.
“Stop it,” he bit out between his teeth.
Then she realized he wasn’t in pain.
Sir Hew du Lac, powerful Viking warrior, was ticklish.
A slow grin found its way to her lips.
A grin he instantly understood.
“Nay,” he warned.
But she wasn’t about to heed his warning. She wiggled her fingers again.
“Wench,” he hissed, squeezing harder.
“I’m tryin’ to get them out,” she told him with false earnestness, “but I just can’t seem to…” She fluttered her fingers ferociously.
He grimaced. Squirmed. Chuckled. But he was helpless to pull her fingers away with his bandaged hand.
“Oh dear,” she said, “I’m quite trapped under your arm. Perhaps if I try with my other fingers…”
“Nay!” he burst out.
“But I’m afraid I’m caught,” she protested, edging her other hand closer.
He narrowed threatening eyes at her. “Don’t. You. Dare.”
Yet how could she resist?
“If ye lift your arm a wee bit,” she offered, “perhaps I could withdraw my hand.”
“Will you withdraw your hand?”
“Of course.”
But there was still a mischievous twinkle in her eyes. She could feel it.
And he could see it. “I don’t believe you.”
“What?” She pretended to be hurt by his words. “I thought we were friends.”
“And I thought you were a trustworthy lass.”
“Yet ye’re the one who’s trapped my poor hand under your big, fat arm.” She wiggled her fingers to prove it.
“Bloody—” He twitched again.
“I wonder if ye’re ticklish under both arms,” she mused.
“Nay!” he said on a laugh, reflexively clamping down his other arm.
But that didn’t stop her. She was having too much fun. She walked her free fingers across his chest and began digging under his other arm.
“Nay, you don’t,” he gritted out, trying to fight her.
Her small fingers burrowed under his arm as easily as a mouse under a stump. And aye, he was just as ticklish there.
His laugh, peppered with oaths, was delightfully full-throated as he thrashed against her attack.
But then she made the mistake of letting the first hand slide free.
Now he could seize her with his unbandaged hand. And that was exactly what he did.
Her wrist was suddenly gripped in his iron fist. His eyes gleamed with triumph and a wicked promise of revenge.
She couldn’t allow that. But there was one thing she could do to stop his vengeance. One thing that would destroy his resolve. The thing she’d been dreaming of doing all morn.
While one of his arms was clamped against his side and the other hand was busy shackling her wrist, she closed her eyes, leaned forward, and planted her lips squarely on his.
The combination of being weakened by mirth, stirred by battle, and overcome by love made Hew respond with more enthusiasm than he intended.
He knew it was wrong. He vaguely recalled something about keeping his distance. But he welcomed and deepened the kiss. His caution dissolved like mist as their mouths waged a gentle war and their breath mingled together in gasps and sighs.
Her fingers stopped their mischief then and dragged across his chest, rubbing with interest over his nipple.
Desire surged between his legs as her tongue delved between his lips. He released her wrist and lay his palm alongside her neck, holding her there so he could answer her hungry exploration.
Some faraway voice inside him was bellowing at him to stop.
But Carenza’s mouth was begging him to continue.
Deaf to everything that would keep him from savoring this precious moment, he gave himself over to his passion. With a possessive growl, he sealed his lips to hers. Holding the back of her neck, he rose slowly to his feet.
Her hands crept up his chest, exploring him, kneading him. She looped her arms around his neck as if she never wanted him to leave.
Her kisses became greedy, frantic, and demanding, driving him mad with longing.
She leaned against him, pressing her breasts against his chest. And for a moment, it felt as if their hearts beat in tandem.