Defiant (19 page)

Och, bloody hell!

He’d forgotten about that.

He washed the blood from his body. Some of it belonged to the men he had slain. Some of it was his—a cut on his forehead, scratches on his arms, the wound on his left shoulder where that musket ball had caught him. Another few inches to the right, he’d be a dead man. But warned by the sound of the warrior’s footsteps, Connor had rolled to the side in time to avoid a mortal wound, throwing his knife as he went and ending the lad’s life ere he could reload or move in on Connor with his tomahawk.

Aye, the devil had taken his due today. Sometimes it seemed to Connor that the killing would never end.

He washed first his body, then his hair. Then he ducked beneath the surface to rinse away the soap, the water so clear he could see small fish hiding in the shelter of the reeds. And in the silence of the water, he lingered, seeking…

A moment’s stillness? A new baptism? Absolution?

You’ll no’ find that here, laddie.

And still, he stayed underwater, the lake’s chill soothing the aches in his muscles, smoothing the sharp edges of his temper. Only when his lungs ached for breath did he return to the surface. Feeling calmer, his body clean again, he turned back toward the shore—only to discover that his shirt was gone. A clean shirt of plain homespun he recognized as Joseph’s was draped over the branch in its place.

Thinking Joseph had left it there for him, he strode naked to his pack, drew out a comb, and pulled the tangles from his hair, allowing his body to dry before he drew on his breeches, the sound of splashing coming from somewhere nearby. ’Twas most likely an animal—perhaps a duck washing its feathers or a raccoon looking for a meal. But the splashing persisted, and
Connor realized it was being made not by some
thing
but rather by some
one
.

Moving silently now, he took up his hunting knife and moved toward the sound on bare feet. There, fifty paces away, he found Sarah, kneeling at the lake’s edge swishing something in the water.

His bloodied shirt.

She was washing it.

A warm feeling spread behind his breastbone. “You didna need to trouble yourself, lass.”

Sarah was so caught up in what she was doing that she didn’t hear Connor approach. Startled by the sudden sound of his voice, she shot to her feet, lost her balance—and almost toppled into the lake. “Oh!”

She felt a strong arm catch her about the waist and found herself hauled against the hardness of his bare chest, his shirt now floating in the water near their feet.

“I didna mean to frighten you.” He looked down at her with a slight smile on his face, his voice warm, his gaze soft. His wet hair clung in thick tendrils to his chest and shoulders. His skin filled her head with the scents of soap, pine, and leather—pleasant scents, masculine scents.

“I—I didn’t hear you coming.” She looked away, unable to bear the directness of his gaze, his touch warming her even though his skin was cold, his very nearness unsettling. “You’ve done so much for my sake. I—I wanted to wash it for you to repay your kindness in some measure. Regrettably, it seems I have little skill as a laundress.”

He released her and stepped back. “Och, well, blood doesna easily wash away.”

The words were spoken lightly, but the warmth had left his voice.

She glanced up, found the smile gone from his lips, his expression unreadable, his gaze hard. Had she done something to offend him?

Clearly, she had. But what?

Why don’t you ask him?

Thinking to follow Joseph’s counsel, Sarah had come here to do just that, but now that it came to it, she was afraid she already knew the answer.

Feeling even less certain of herself now than she had when
she’d crept up on his bath, she retrieved the soggy garment from the water and held it up. Dark blotches remained where blood had soaked the cloth, and it was torn in a few places. “Perhaps I can mend—”

“There is no need.” He took the shirt from her, twisting it to wring out the water. “You should be helpin’ Joseph. He has greater need of your stitching than does my shirt.”

That’s when she saw. “You’ve been wounded again.”

He glanced down, as if he’d forgotten the wound was there. “’Tis just a graze.”

A deep furrow ran along the side of his left shoulder, cutting through his Indian markings. Still oozing blood, it looked terribly painful. There was also a new cut on his forehead and several deep scratches on his arms. Together with the wound she’d sewn yesterday, they stood as a record, carved in flesh, of all he’d endured to save her.

She touched his shoulder lightly, getting a closer look. “This must be dressed, or it will fester. I can—”

“I dinnae need your help.” He drew back from her, wrung out the shirt again.

His rejection of her stung. “I…I deeply regret all you’ve suffered on my account.”

“This is war.” There was cold resignation in his voice. “I’m a soldier.”

Had she so upset him that he would not even accept sympathy from her?

“I’m sorry to have disturbed you.” She turned to walk back to camp, then stopped. Hands balled into fists, she willed herself to speak. “I came here hoping to talk with you. I fear I have done something to displease you. If you would but tell me how I have given offense, I would make amends and set things right again.”

For a moment, there was silence.

Then Connor muttered a string of oaths in a language Sarah thought must be Gaelic. At last he spoke. “I find no fault wi’ you, lass. You’ve a noble heart. You’ve stood up to tribulations that would make cowards of many men.”

“Then why do you not speak to me? Why do you turn away my help and dismiss even my compassion?” She turned to face him and named her secret fear. “You told me you would not think less of me if I yielded my virtue, but perhaps now you find me sullied and…”

The anger on his face brought her words to a stop.

He closed the distance between them in two long strides. “You told me you didna blame me for doin’ what had to be done that night. Yet now you can scarce look me in the eye, and you recoil from my slightest touch.”

“That is not true!” Astonished by the accusation, she glared up at him.

“Is it no’?” He cupped her cheek with his palm, ran his thumb over her lips.

Taken by surprise, she stepped back, her fingers pressed against her mouth, which seemed to burn where he’d touched her.

“If my touch doesna sicken you, then why do you draw away from me?”

Trapped by her own undeniable response, she looked into his eyes, saw his anger and, beneath it, anguish. Is this why he’d avoided her? Did he truly believe she blamed him and found being near him hard to bear? “I do not feel repulsed by your touch. I feel…”

Oh, how could she speak of this with him? She said nothing, hoping he would give her a reprieve and let the matter drop. But he did not, pinning her to the spot with his unyielding gaze.

“I feel…confused.” Heat rose to her cheeks. “The way you look at me…I feel…
naked
. I struggle to breathe. And when you touch me…I feel warm, even when it is cold, and still I shiver.” Ashamed, she started to look away, but he caught her chin between his fingers, forcing her to meet his gaze.

He seemed to study her for a moment, the anguish slowly leaving his eyes, his voice deep and warm. “There’s a name for what you’re feelin’, Sarah. Do you ken what it is?”

Sarah shook her head. She was not sure she wanted to know. “Connor, I—”

“’Tis desire.”

She shook her head, took a step backward. “Nay, I—”

“Shall we put my supposition to the test?” He pursued her in slow, easy steps, drew her into his arms.

And then he kissed her.

T
he moment his lips touched hers, Connor forgot the regret and rage that had vexed him so sorely these past two days, the sweet feel of Sarah in his arms scattering his thoughts. She did not draw away from him now, her body melting against his, her lips warm and pliant, her fingers sliding over the muscles of his arms. Her kiss was shy, but not timid, her lips parting to give him access, her tongue responding with its own sweet strokes.

He nipped her lips, and she shivered. He held her tighter, and she arched against him. He ran his fingers down her spine, and she whimpered.

Aye, she desired him as much as he desired her.

The heady truth of it broke his restraint. He fisted his hands in her hair and claimed her mouth, the contact bringing something to life inside him, filling the emptiness in his chest, driving away memories of blood, of guilt, of long nights spent alone. The soft press of her body brought images of her naked beauty to his mind—her silky breasts with their rosy tips, the feminine curve of her hips, the bare cleft of her sex.

And he felt himself grow hard.

She trembled in his arms, her fingers curling in the hair at his nape, her tongue welcoming his invasion. Her nipples puckered against the cloth of her borrowed shirt, their hard little tips
pressing like hot pebbles against his cool skin, betraying her arousal. Unable to resist their silent invitation, he reached down, cupped the fullness of one breast, the soft feel of it sending bolts of heat through his belly straight to his groin. He flicked the hard tip with his thumb, felt her tense.

Then her head fell back on a moan, and she whispered his name.
“Connor.”

He groaned, accepting the sweet offering of her throat, nipping, licking, and kissing that sensitive flesh, her pulse beating frantically against his lips.

Then from somewhere came Joseph’s whistle.

Och, Satan’s hairy arse!

Connor felt Sarah stiffen in his arms. He dragged his lips from her skin, but he couldn’t bring himself to release her. “All is well, lass. Joseph merely wishes to ken where we are.”

He slowed his breathing, then gave the counterwhistle, still holding Sarah in his arms, her heart beating every bit as hard and fast as his, both of them trembling. He pressed his lips to her hair, whether to reassure her or to steady himself he didn’t know. Then reluctantly he set her from him. “We should return to camp. There’s much to be done ere the sun sets.”

She looked up at him through eyes filled with confusion, her cheeks flushed, her lips swollen. She seemed so vulnerable, so young, her gaze searching his as if seeking answers as to what had just happened between them.

But Connor, his heart still thrumming, had none.

S
carce able to breathe, Sarah held fast to the sides of the little canoe as Joseph and Connor guided it out onto the lake. It seemed impossible to her that it should float. She didn’t know why it hadn’t already filled with water and sunk to the bottom—or how it could possibly bear the weight of three. “I…I can’t swim.”

Connor’s deep voice came from behind her. “We’ll no’ let you drown.”

Joseph leapt gracefully out of knee-deep water and landed in the canoe in front of her, causing the small craft to rock.

Sarah gasped and held tighter to the sides.

Connor chuckled. “Easy, lass.” He leapt in behind her, making the canoe rock again.

Then the two men picked up the crude oars they had fashioned and began to paddle. Somehow, the canoe remained afloat, dark water gliding silently by, the shoreline fading behind them. Slowly, her fears eased, and she loosened her grip.

She could not see the far shore toward which they traveled. Nor could she see the thick beds of reeds that surrounded the lake, the trees now nothing more than a black outline against the night sky. But, although she could see very little, she could hear much. The whisper of the oars in the water. The dissonant quacking of a duck disturbed in its nest. The plaintive howling of distant wolves. And above it all, the melody of the wind as it passed through the endless reaches of this vast and primal wilderness.

Then Sarah looked up, breath filling her lungs in a slow gasp of amazement. The sky blazed with stars. Countless thousands shone like diamonds stitched into the dark fabric of the heavens. The sky over London most certainly did not look like this. Nor had she noticed the stars last night or any of the nights she’d been a captive. Perhaps it had been overcast. Or perhaps she’d been too terrified to pay them heed.

“Have you ne’er seen the stars afore?” Connor whispered over her shoulder, his breath warm on her cheek, the scents of pine and leather filling her head.

“Not like this.” Oh, would that she could put this to music and play through her fingers what she saw in the sky! But that would be impossible. Nothing she could compose could possibly match the beauty and grandeur that stretched out above her.

How small she suddenly felt—one woman in the midst of an endless forest beneath the innumerable stars. The feeling did not leave her dispirited, but was instead strangely comforting. For if she was small, then her troubles, too, were of little import. Whether she survived this journey and returned to England or perished out here in the forest, whether her father found her a good husband or she lived out her life alone and in shame, these same stars would always shine, their silvery light untouched by human misery.

“We’ve a good few hours ere we reach the other side.” Connor’s voice interrupted her musings, the warm sound of it moving over her like a caress. “Rest your head upon my pack and sleep while you can.”

Sarah didn’t wish to sleep. She felt vibrantly alive, her new
awareness of her own mortality—and the man behind her—filling the night with wonder.

There’s a name for what you’re feelin’, Sarah. Do you ken what it is? ’Tis desire.

Sarah’s belly fluttered as she remembered his words—and the kiss that had followed. The press of his lips against hers. The silken stroke of his tongue. The hard feel of his man’s body. The sweetness of his bite on her throat. The heat of his touch against her breast.

Yes, she desired him.

She supposed she ought to feel ashamed. Her mother had often told her that her passions would lead to her demise. And yet nothing about kissing Connor had felt wrong. Instead, it had seemed as wondrous and stirring as the sky that stretched out above her.