Taming the Barbarian (20 page)

“I do not need your help, Scotsman.”

He watched her carefully, his expression stony, his gaze the same. “Methinks ye do.”

“Well you’re wrong.” Fear as sharp as a blade pierced her. She had believed before. Had believed in love, in happily ever after. Yet here she was. Alone. Fighting her own battles. But she had survived. “I don’t need anyone. Indeed, I do not trust anyone.”

But just then a twig snapped off to her right. She leapt forward.

A wolf stood not thirty feet away. Its hide shone tawny bright in the moonlight. It was tall, its shoulders well past her knees, its head dropped slightly. But it was its eyes that held her captive. They gleamed like living coals in the darkness. And they were trained, unblinking and yellow as a giant cat’s, on her throat.

F
leurette gasped and it was that sound, that small whimper of fear that set Killian instantly into motion. Instincts as old as time itself ripped through him. Snatching a branch from the ground, he leapt forward and turned, legs spread, arms outstretched, unconsciously shielding the maid behind him. And there in the darkness, he saw his adversary. It growled low in its throat. The sound rumbled like an ominous challenge through the woods, but Killian steeled himself against its onslaught and stood his ground. The wee lass would not be hurt, not so long as he drew breath. But the beast’s golden eyes gleamed like fiery faggots. It lowered its head and advanced.

“Come then, beastie. Come if ye dare,” Killian snarled, but in that moment Treun snorted from a few yards away. The wolf turned its head toward the sound, and it was then, with the moon gleaming like gold upon the gilded fur, that Killian recognized the beast.

The animal grinned, blinked its unearthly eyes, and disappeared like a wraith into the darkness.

“All is well,” Killian said, and turned toward the lady, only to find her directly behind, so close her tender breasts brushed his chest.

There was little he could do but wrap his arm about her.

“Is it gone?” Her voice shook the slightest degree, and against his chest, he felt her wee body shiver.

He must tell her, of course, that the beast was naught more than his occasional companion.

“Was that a wolf?” she breathed.

He winced. “Aye.” Well it was. In a manner of speaking. “But yer safe now, lass.”

“Safe?” she whispered, and lifted her gaze to his. Her eyes were wide with fear and something more. Something horribly akin to trust. A trust he longed for but knew he could not claim.

Emotions coiled up tight inside him, galvanizing his body, steeling his fist about his rough weapon. He did not want these feelings, had no use for such weakness, and yet they were there, wrapped about his innards like a wily serpent.

“The beast’ll na harm ye,” he vowed.

She pulled her attention from his face to skim the darkened woods once again, and he scowled down at the top of her head. It was gilded by the moonlight, caressed by the mist.

Silence echoed around them.

“Are you sure…” She drew a careful breath, as if gathering strength. “Are you certain it is gone?”

“Aye,” Killian rumbled. He felt her ease away a quarter of an inch, and though he tried, he could not help but add, “though it might return soon enough.”

Her eyes flashed quickly to his again. He knew he should be ashamed, and yet, with her lithe body pressed against him, he found it was beyond his capabilities. She felt like magic in his arms, like a small bit of heaven sent to warm his soul.

“Was it he that was following me?” she asked.

Mayhap ‘twould be in his best interest to assure her it was, but the lie was too much.

“Nay,” he said. ” ‘Twas na.”

She glanced into the darkness again. “How can you be sure?”

” ‘Tis me own task to ken such things, lass.”

“You’ve seen the beast before?”

He almost cleared his throat. “Aye, I believe I have.”

Her gaze flitted hopefully to his. “Perhaps your hound will keep it at bay.”

He winced, but forced himself to remember that chivalry was long dead. ‘Twas hardly his job to try to revive it. “Mayhap.”

She straightened slightly as though gathering her courage. But truth be told, Killian did not miss it. Still, ‘twas bound to be hard for a maid of her ilk to accept her own fear. She moved away slightly, and though his body groaned at the premature separation, there was little he could do but let her go.

“You spoke to it,” she said, her voice small, but strengthening. “You spoke to the wolf.”

” ‘Twas naught but a warning of sorts.”

Her lips parted. He yanked his gaze from them, tightening his resolve.

“So you speak to wolves and horses.”

The memory of his words to Treun sparked a bout of unwanted embarrassment. “Aye, well, yonder steed understands meself quite well.”

Her lips lifted a fraction of an inch. “Then I would think he would have listened when you warned him to stay clear of
Fille
.”

He lowered his brows and found he was grateful for the darkness. “I but said he understands, na that he heeds me warning.”

“How is he faring?”

Her mare had hit the poor fellow like a battering ram. Indeed, his balls had swelled up like a sheep’s bladder. But Killian found it impossible to say as much. “Well enough,” he said instead.

“I hope the injury will not impair his ability to…” She paused. He watched her. He could all but feel her heartbeat, they stood so close. “That is to say…” She skimmed his chest with fretful eyes, then planted her gaze firmly on the dark shape of Treun. “Such strength and courage… ‘Tis a rare thing.”

God’s truth, he wanted her with an aching need.

” ‘Twould seem a shame to waste such outstanding…” Her gaze flitted back to him. Her lips remained parted, but her words whispered to a halt.

He couldn’t resist. ‘Twas too much to ask of him. He was only a man. In truth, he was barely that.

Still, he leaned toward her. Their lips almost met, but he stopped himself at the last instant, remembering his resolve. “I thought ye said ye did na trust me,” he snarled, and gave her a moment to realize she was still pressed up against him, her breast a bonny weight against his arm. “And yet here ye are.”

It took her a second to marshal her senses, but he knew the instant she understood his meaning, for her back straightened, lifting her breast ever so slightly against his chest. Breasts and pride all in one bonny parcel. ‘Twas surely more temptation than a warrior could withstand. Lust spurred through him in a fresh wave, but he fought through it.

“I would not be too flattered, Highlander,” she said, and though she tried to step away, he found it impossible to allow it. His arm, it seemed, was intent on keeping her where she was. She lifted one brow at him and gave him a cool stare. “As my choices were between you and the wolf.”

His erection danced against her belly, and though he hoped she could not feel its movement, he knew better, for her eyes widened the slightest degree, and her body stiffened once again.

“Mayhap ye would have been safer with the beast,” he rumbled. Perhaps he had meant the words as an apology, or maybe it was a warning of sorts, but whatever the case, she did not draw herself immediately from his embrace.

“Who are you?” she whispered, and he wanted nothing more than to tell her that it did not matter. That she felt like heaven in his arms, that she was a light in the darkness, a song in the wilderness. But he was not a man of pretty words. Nay, he was a knight of the most basic truth.

“I am but a man,” he said, and felt the burn of her nearness like a flame against his chest.

“And men can’t be trusted,” she whispered.

He nodded once. “Ye must be more careful with yerself, lass. Ye should na have come here.”

She tilted her head, studying him in the moon-shadowed darkness. “I do not care to be told where I can and cannot go, Highlander,” she said, and though he tried to stop himself, he tightened his arm around her, pulling her closer still.

“Do ye na ken what I long to do to ye?” he groaned.

He watched fear flash in her eyes and waited for her to draw away, but instead, she raised her hand to his chest. He gritted his teeth against the aching impact. “In truth,” she said, “I am not entirely sure.”

He scowled. “Surely a widow would know.”

“Forgive me,” she said, her voice but a whisper in the night, “but you are a difficult man to understand.”

“Nay, I—”

“You stand even now with your weapon in hand, snarling down at me as if I were Satan’s own spawn. Is that what you think of me?”

He deepened his scowl. Damn it all, he was a man of action, not meant for pretty smiles and mincing words, “I… dunna think ye are Satan.”

Her lips twitched, then, “Tell me, Scotsman, what is it you believe I am?”

She turned slightly. Her breasts brushed his chest. He winced at the sharp hiss of feeling.

“Ye are beauty itself,” he rasped.

She stopped, going abruptly still, then she lifted her hand to his face. He closed his eyes and quivered against the gentle caress.

“What do you long to do to me, Scotsman?” she asked.

He fought the weakness like an ancient foe, but he had lost before and he lost again. Curling his fist into the back of her gown, he drew her closer still. “If I but dared, I would lay ye back against the mosses and kiss the sweet petals of yer lips. I would unclothe ye one breathless inch at a time.” She smelled of sweet lavender. Like an ancient garden where lovers laughed and flirted and kissed. The scent was driving him mad, taking his mind, weakening his body. “I would stroke yer bonny skin until the morning sun paints ye gold. And when finally ye shiver with unbridled passion beneath me, I would surrender to ye body and soul.”

Her lips were parted. She blinked, then swallowed. “If you dared?”

He drew a careful breath and kept himself absolutely still, lest he lose control and burst into flame. “I canna trust ye, na more than ye can trust yerself to the likes of me.”

Her head was tilted back as she gazed up at him. Her lashes shadowed her delicate cheeks, and her heart beat a rapid song against his chest. “You do not trust me?”

Her surprise tormented him, and he chuckled manically. “Nay, lass, I dunna.”

She scowled as if thinking, then lowered her hand, and slowly, ever so slowly, ran her fingers down his corded throat and onto his chest. He gritted his teeth and shivered like a bairn beneath her touch.

“Forgive me,” she whispered, her tiny palm lying flat between his tensed pectorals. “But I do not think I could hurt you.”

He chuckled at the ridiculousness of her words, for he hurt already, ached with an intensity that burned him alive. “Surely ye canna be so naïve.”

“Naive?” she whispered, and slipping his helpless buttons from their holes, skimmed her hand downward. His muscles danced in unison, shivering beneath her touch, begging for more. “No, I do not think myself naïve.”

“Then ye ken the power ye possess,” he said, and grabbed her hand, stopping its motion. “Ye know the power ye wield in these wee fingers,” he said, and kissed her palm.

She blinked up at him, her eyes wide with innocence. Though he knew better than to believe. “No,” she whispered breathlessly. “I do not know.”

He could not help but kiss her wrist. “Methinks ye lie,” he said, but when he looked at her, he saw that her eyes had fallen closed. He kissed her arm, just where it bent and the skin was as soft as a rose petal. “For maids have wielded the same power since the dawn of time,” he said, and, weakening, bent and kissed her neck.

Her head fell back. “What maids?” Her whisper was a mere breath in the darkness. “Surely not I.”

“Aye,” he said, reaching up and skimming his thumb across her cheek. It felt like living velvet, like the blush of magic against his skin. “Ye are every maid what ever bewitched a hapless lad. Every lass what has left a man shaken and weak.”

Her gaze stroked him. He slipped his fingers into her hair. It had fallen loose during her flight and lay like spun gold against her narrow back. The soft weight of it drew him up hard, and her lavender fragrance bound him. He moved closer, feeling her heat against his chest.

“I believe you’re thinking of someone else,” she murmured.

“I could na even if I wished to.”

“I’m not the bewitching sort.”

“Ye are Delilah.”

He could feel her breath against his skin and closed his eyes to the heady impact.

“Delilah. Cleopatra.” Somehow, she had slipped her hand loose and pressed it now against the taut muscles of his abdomen. “Lady Waer.”

She shook her head. Her hair danced like a fairy’s wand against his arm. “Who?”

He tightened his jaw and tried to think. But it didn’t go well, for she was far too close, too warm, too soft.

“The Golden Lady of Inglewaer,” he said, hardening his resolve, forcing himself to remember the pain of wanting. “Surely ye’ve heard of her.”

“No. I…” she began, then raised her moon-bright eyes to his. “Was she your lover?” she whispered.

“Nay! Nay. Never a lover,” he said, and forced a chuckle, though the sound hurt his throat. “She is… was… She lived many long years since in the land of the French.” She smoothed her fingers over the hard ripples of his belly. He gritted his teeth and wished to hell he was not so very weak. “There was a great army amassed against her.”

“An army,” she repeated and slipped her hand around to his back. He arched away from it, into her softness.

“Aye. For she was the Dark Master’s sworn enemy.”

She skimmed her fingers up his spine, easing along the indentation between his aching muscles. God’s truth, he couldn’t take much more of this delicious torture.

“The Dark Master?” she whispered.

“Aye. He had a hardened battalion of warriors, and at their head rode the Black Celt.”

“The Celt!” She drew suddenly back, drawing her hand with her, but now it lay against his hip, tormenting him, teasing him.

“Aye,” he said. “The Celt was a powerful knight, but he had no soul.” He winced at the memory. “Indeed, he would hire his arm to the highest bidder with na regard to good or evil, and the Dark Master…” He drew a deep breath and continued. “He was verra evil, but verra wealthy.”