Chapter Four #2
"'Twas a bold and rash move," Dugald said.
A move like he himself would have made had he been in her situation.
He frowned. How could a wee, annoying French lady be like him in any way?
It boggled the mind. She was a little fighter, and she could ride like the wind.
He liked that a hell of a lot more than he should.
"Do not gloat," she said.
"I'm not gloating. Simply stating a fact." Though he refused to admit it to her, he admired her daring effort. She needed no encouragement to escape him… and perhaps get herself hurt.
"'Tis not the first time someone has called me bold and rash." She bravely looked him in the eye.
He lifted a brow. Nay, he did not need to hear her say that, for it only brought to mind that she might indeed be bold and rash in bed. Hellfire, was that all it took to send his blood pumping swiftly to his lower regions again? 'Twas a damnable shame she was married to that thief Lindsay.
"What is it?" she asked. "Why are you staring at me?"
Not wishing her to see his quandary, or how she had peaked his interest, he said, "Why are you staring at me?"
Her mouth dropped open and her face turned rosy. "I am not!"
"I beg to differ." He could not tell her the blue plaid looked fetching on her… and that she would look even better lying upon it naked.
Damnation! He would go to hell for lusting after a married woman. Approaching his horse, he removed her sodden clothing and hung it upon the nearby bushes. "'Haps these will be dry by morning… if it doesn't rain."
She sent him a narrow-eyed glare, which only made him want to grin. "You should wear wool, lass, instead of silk and you would not have this problem."
"I cannot. It chafes my skin."
He lowered his gaze toward her breasts. Was the wool irritating and abrading them, making her nipples hard again?
He turned away, absentmindedly checking his horse's saddle.
'Slud, he couldn't think of her breasts.
Even though he'd tried not to look as he'd stripped the wet clothing from her body, he had seen a glimpse.
Or maybe a moment longer than a glimpse.
The full, creamy globes, set firm and high, with their hard dusky tips were the most luscious things he had seen thus far in his life.
He ached to see them again but… hell… he couldn't! A certain part of his anatomy didn't care whether she was married or not.
Beneath his linen shirt and his sporran, his erection was growing uncomfortable.
But he was not a green lad. Surely he could control his reaction to a beautiful lass, or at least pretend to. The redness on her neck caught his attention. "Are you getting a rash on your neck?"
She fingered the red blotch. "Oui, it itches. 'Tis the wool."
He had no clean linen shirt to offer her, but he could trade clothing articles with her.
The men almost had his tent set up, but…
when it came to exchanging clothes with her, he had a problem.
He couldn't go into the tent with her, else he'd see her naked for the second time.
And he didn't want to put himself through that torture again.
His sporran was all that was keeping his erection from being obvious to her and everyone. He'd have to send the men away.
"'Tis finished, m'laird," one of the men said near the tent.
"I thank you."
Dugald took the rolled up woolen blanket from behind his saddle, then offered his hand to her. "Come with me, m'lady. We're going to exchange clothes."
"What do you mean?" The ivory skin of her face reddened.
"You'll go into the tent and hand out my plaid to me. I'll give you my shirt to put on. Then, you can wrap this blanket over it for warmth. The linen of the shirt will protect your skin from the itchy wool."
"Oh. How thoughtful," she breathed in a cheerful tone, which only excited him more. She put her slippers on, stood and placed her slender cool hand in his.
"And you thought me a brute." He led her toward the tent.
"No one would blame me for that assessment. Even your sister thinks you a brute at times."
Dugald shrugged. "My sister is spoiled."
"And who is responsible for that?"
"My father and my brother."
"And you had no part in it?"
"Of course not." After giving her the blanket, he pulled back the tent flap and she entered. He knew his sister being spoiled was partly his fault, but he didn't want her to know that. She must not think him too lenient or she would be an even more troublesome captive.
"Go, hunt some rabbits or grouse," Dugald called to his men. "Find more firewood." The last thing he wanted was for them to see how profoundly the lady had incited his lust.
"Aye, m'laird." They hastened away.
Owen hung back.
"You too, Owen."
"But you need a guard, m'laird."
"Nay. I'm fully capable of protecting myself from the lady."
Owen chuckled then followed the others.
"'Haps you are overestimating your skills, Chief." The lass watched him from the tent opening.
He was tempted to yank the shirt off over his head while she watched. That would silence her fast, especially when she saw how hard he was.
"Give me the plaid," he said.
After ducking back inside for a moment, she held it out to him.
He took it and dropped it on the grassy ground, then after removing his sporran, belt and baldric, he grabbed the bottom of the shirt.
He halted, thinking she could be watching him through the crack by the tent flap.
He didn't care if she saw him naked, but since she was a married lady…
'haps it would be best for her not to know how strongly she affected him.
He stepped away, beside the tent, then pulled off the shirt.
After wrapping the plaid around his waist, he belted it into place.
"Here's my shirt." He held it before the tent opening.
She snatched it from him, only her hand appearing this time before disappearing back inside.
He stood before the tent, facing away, imagining her wearing his shirt. Although he did not enjoy wearing a plaid without a shirt, he could tolerate the scratchiness against his skin far easier than she could. And it provided better coverage in the groin area.
Although he was a man like most any other, with a healthy sexual appetite, he detested that Lindsay's wife fired-up his blood as no woman had in a long while. No wonder the gray-beard had wanted to marry her.
Inside the tent, Camille pulled Dugald's warm linen shirt over her head, noticing his enticing male scent permeating it. 'Twas not a sweat smell. The weather was so cool, she doubted Dugald had sweated much anyway. No, the scent was his own masculinity, which did insane things to her.
I'm not attracted to my abductor, she repeated silently, over and over.
What disturbed her even more than his delectable scent was when, through a small hole in the side of the tent, she had peeked at him disrobing outside.
She had told herself not to watch. She was above such base, wanton behavior, but she could not help herself.
His chiseled arse appeared to be carved from marble.
But the glimpse of his large shaft standing at attention had stolen her breath.
Sacrebleu, he had to be fully aroused. Why?
Because of her? Because he had stripped the wet clothing from her body a quarter hour ago?
Good heavens! She had to pretend she hadn't seen him nude. If he knew, what would happen?
"M'lady?" his deep voice rumbled from outside. "Are you well?"
"Oui. Of course." Shoving her carnal thoughts aside, she wrapped the blanket around herself, over the shirt, and emerged from the tent. "Merci. This is much better."
His intent gaze lit upon her. "Your hair is not completely dry. 'Haps you should sit by the fire."
"Oui." When she took his bare, proffered arm, she realized how very large it was.
Both of her hands would not reach around his upper arm muscle.
He had formed the plaid into a sash over his upper body but most of his chest remained bare.
Heavens! The light dusting of dark hair over his pectorals only made her remember what was now covered by plaid lower down.
Merde, she had not realized she was such a wanton. 'Haps she had been too long without a man.
She sat on the log by the fire, watching while Dugald led his horse away.
She was about to lapse into another sensuous fantasy, but four kilted men leapt from the bushes and rushed toward Dugald.
At first, she thought they were his clansmen, but no, they were strangers and their plaids were a different color. She leapt to her feet.
Instantly, Dugald launched into action, engaging two of them in swordplay at once, while the third man grabbed the horse's bridle and yanked at it. The stallion reared, neighing and flinging his hooves at the man.
Mère de Dieu, what should she do? "Owen!" Camille yelled. "Help!" Dugald should've never sent all his men away into the woods.
The fourth man headed toward Camille, sending her heartrate galloping. Remembering the small knife on her calf, she sat down on the log again, slipped her hand beneath the blanket and drew the blade out, keeping it hidden from the man. He would think her a docile little lass… until she stabbed him.
"Do not hurt me," she mock-pleaded in a meek voice.
"I won't, lassie. But you're coming with me." He leered at her, then grabbed one of her arms to yank her up from the log. Using the momentum, she stabbed upward into the side of his lower belly.
Releasing her, he screeched. She scrambled away from him before he had time to recover from his shock and retaliate with his sword.
Where were the other clansmen? She screamed. "Owen!"
The monster she'd stabbed growled behind her. She turned to see him advancing, his blackened teeth bared. Although two men lay on the ground near Dugald, he fought another. He had no time to help her.
She tripped and fell, her knee striking a rock. Sacrebleu!