The Pride of Lions (35 page)

“Yes,” she said quietly. “I insist. You gave your word not only to me, but to my brother as well. You promised to send me home as soon as we reached your Archberry safely. Well, we are here and we are reasonably safe … although for how long is a matter of conjecture, what with all this talk of rebellion and crusading princelings.”

Cameron delayed his response long enough to exhale a long streamer of smoke. “It might please you to know Donald thinks I have exhibited extremely poor sense of judgment by bringing a new wife to the Highlands at this time—a new English wife, at that. He did not put it into so many words, of course, for he is far too thrilled to see the yolk of wedlock fastened around my throat, but he does have an uncanny way of saying a great deal by saying nothing at all. In other words”—the dark eyes smoldered thoughtfully up at her—“even if you
were
my loving wife, and we
were
passionately—or should I say
desperately
—infatuated with one another, there would be little argument or opposition to my sending you back to Derby, at least until the troubles are resolved one way or another.”

Catherine chewed her lower lip, trying not to notice how the water made every single muscle across his chest and shoulders gleam like polished bronze. “Is that what you intend to do? Pretend you are sending me away for my own safety?”

“It is a logical solution.”

“But one that would leave them with the impression we are still married, even after I am long gone.”

“I said it was logical, not perfect.”

She watched him reach out and tap the ash from his cigar. His hair was wet, clinging to his neck in glistening black streaks. The steam was blurring his features, softening
them, and she had forgotten—or perhaps just refused to remember—the first time she had seen him in the forest glade, how the sight of all that sculpted muscle had taken her breath away. He was a frightening and dangerous man, full of contrasts, full of surprises. A man who could maneuver the graceful steps of a dance as easily as he could execute the deadly steps of a sword fight. The thread separating the savagery from the beauty was fine indeed, and she glanced at the door, suddenly so very far away.

She moistened her lips. “When would it be … logical, then … to send me away?”

He ignored her, ignored the question, and she laced her fingers tighter together.

“If you haven’t the time to deliver me to the border yourself, you could let me send for Damien. He will be worried sick by now, and I’m sure he would sooner come fetch me himself than trust my safety to strangers.”

“Are you forgetting the patrol we met on the road?”

“Of course I’m not forgetting. How
could
I forget? I shall carry the horror of that single day with me the rest of my life!”

“What makes you think your brother would fare any better?”

“I … don’t understand.”

“Come now, Catherine. You may not understand Gaelic, but surely you grasped the drift of what the sergeant and his men had in mind for us? A stupid Englishman and his wife … a little fun and entertainment to while away the afternoon. After they finished robbing, raping, and killing us, they intended to blame the ambush on the rebels—popular scapegoats these days, I’m told.”

“Damien and … and Hamilton will
both
come to fetch me. And Hamilton will bring a regiment of dragoons with him if necessary.”

“I have no doubt that man would start the war himself, if necessary, and take the greatest pleasure in doing so.
But your fiancé’s misguided ardor is not my biggest concern.” He rolled the cigar between his long, square-tipped fingers and studied the curling ash. “Just out of curiosity, has it occurred to you yet that your name and description—everything about you, in fact—is probably known by now by every Campbell, every Watchman, every militiaman and English soldier garrisoned between here and the Tweed? Even if your brother managed to make it through the patrols—and that is a very big if—what makes you think either one of you would make it out of the first glen alive? Do you understand,
Mrs. Alexander Cameron
, what I am trying, in my clumsy way, to tell you? I would imagine the Duke of Argyle and his kinsmen break out in rashes just thinking of what they would do to you if luck were to throw you into their hands.”

Catherine stared at him aghast while the last few drops of blood drained from her face.

“Then why?” she cried softly. “Why did you bring me here if you knew … if you even
suspected
there would be a chance I could become trapped here?”

His dark eyes avoided her—possibly the first time they had done so. “To be quite honest, I have been asking myself that same question since we crossed the border.”

Catherine recoiled from the unexpected contrition in his voice. It was another trap, another ploy to make him seem human, to unsettle her, to throw her off guard.

“And?” she demanded, her own voice shrill. “Did you manage to come up with an answer?”

He took a deep breath. “No. No answer.”

“No answer,” she repeated in a whisper. “You just took it upon yourself to play God. You ruin my life, ruin any chance I might have had for happiness in this miserable world, and then … and then you have the arrogance to sit there and …”

She backed slowly toward the door, her eyes blinded behind a rush of tears. “Oh, you are cruel and heartless. You bully people and use them thoughtlessly. You prey
upon their weaknesses, then throw it in their faces time and again for the pleasure of your own amusement. You ridicule my feelings for Hamilton Garner because you know you are incapable of experiencing or even understanding the purity of such devotion. You are cold and empty, and I pity you, sir. You would not understand any emotion, least of all love, regardless if it stood up and slapped you in the face! Loving you would be a curse, and I would wish it on no other living soul, friend or enemy, for it would indeed be a desperate and fruitless undertaking with only heartbreak, pain, and betrayal as a reward for their effort.”

Cameron moved. Through a film of startled tears, she saw him rise up out of the water, saw him step out of the bath and stride toward her, his body shedding moisture in sparkling sheets. She whirled and ran for the door, but he was right behind her. His hand shot out and slammed it shut, his big body crowding hers against the wall so that she had nowhere to turn, nowhere to run. She cringed against the cold stone blocks, her face buried in her hands, her entire body cowering in anticipation of his brutality.

He stood behind her, his feet braced wide apart, his arms held rigid by his sides. She could feel the heat of his body against her back, smell the steam rising off his skin. The impact of hard male flesh was boldly impressed on her body and her mind, shocking her to the very core. And when she felt his hands close firmly around her upper arms, it was like a fork of lightning jolting along her spine. Her limbs were useless, too numb to offer any resistance as he slowly, inexorably turned her around to face him. Her belly flooded with liquid fear as she glimpsed the rage in the narrowed eyes, the unfeeling coldness in the mirthless smile.

“So. You find me cruel and heartless, do you? Lacking any and all emotions?” His voice chilled the nape of her neck and sprayed her arms with gooseflesh. “Well, madam, it might interest you to know how absolutely
correct you are in your analysis. And more, that it has taken a considerable effort over the years to achieve such a high level of impunity—impunity that does not come without its faults, I freely admit. You, on the other hand—”

“Let me go,” she gasped, twisting her head in a wild, frantic motion that was immediately impaired by the rough pressure of his steely fingers beneath her chin.

“You, on the other hand, admit to nothing,” he continued. “You have the body and passions of a woman, yet you flaunt them like a child. You have spirit and courage and a streak of independence as wide as the ocean, yet you persist in playing the role of a spoiled, petulant debutante without the wit to realize your every action has a consequence. I told you this afternoon, madam. I
warned
you in the plainest terms possible that I was tired of playing these games. I also warned you of the consequences should you choose to test me any further.”

“Let … go of me. At
once
.” The shallow whisper was barely audible. Not so the deep and animal-like groan that broke from her lips when she felt him shift forward and press the threat of his body against her thighs. “No,” she gasped. “Don’t—”

His hands cradled either side of her neck and angled her mouth up to his.

“Y-you gave your word not to h-hurt me!”

“I have no intention of hurting you,” he murmured. “And my promise was not to
force
you to do anything you did not want to do.”

“I … I don’t want you to do this.…”

“I don’t believe you,” he said evenly, and his lips brushed her temple. They moved slowly, willfully along the verge of her hairline, sliding down to capture the delicate pink curve of her earlobe, remaining there long enough to feel her pulse quicken beneath his hands.

“Oh … no … please …”

She tried to use her fists to push him away, but her hands were pinned against his chest, trapped against the
powerful wall of muscle. The overwhelming presence of all that hot, sleek flesh prompted another cry, so that when his mouth began to rove again, her lips were parted and vulnerable to his assault. His hands kept her face upturned to his while his mouth held her hostage. His tongue lashed and probed with a single-minded possessiveness that produced yet another ragged cry—more of a whimper this time as she realized her fists had ceased pushing and her fingers had spread into the damp black hairs on his chest. Aware of the subtle change, Alex drew her even closer, molding his body, his mouth, to hers so that each bold thrust of his tongue evoked stunningly sharp reverberations deep in her womb. The kiss became the center of her consciousness, all she knew or felt, even as she fought the rising heat of passion—fought it, cursed it, craved it.

“You’re a woman, Catherine. Act like one. Tell me what you want.”

“Not this. Not
like
this.”

“
Exactly
this,” he insisted, skimming his hands downward. “Exactly
like
this.”

His fingers brushed over her breasts, his palms engulfed the tender fullness and found the nipples already peaked and straining, quivering with a need that etched itself plainly on his skin. With his mouth firmly over hers again, he began to unfasten the chaste row of ribbons over the bodice, and Catherine tried one last time to push him away. But the effort was halfhearted; there was not enough strength in her arms to deter him, not enough conviction in her hands to keep them from exploring the vast, naked planes of brawn and muscle. She had fought his power in the garden at Rosewood Hall and lost. She had fought it in Wakefield and resisted it through ten interminable days and nights of travel. It was wrong and sinful, wicked and shameless, but she could fight it no more. She wanted to feel his mouth on her flesh again. She wanted his heat. She wanted his strength.

He pushed the cambric off her shoulders and Catherine
tore her mouth free on a gasp of unholy pleasure. The blood in her veins turned to quicksilver, hot and molten; her legs were useless beneath her, and if not for the arm that knowingly curved around her waist to support her, she would surely have melted to the floor.

Alex heard a second, shivered cry, and his black eyes flickered up to hers, but what he saw there was not enough to stop him from lowering his head and capturing the taunting sweetness of her breast. The taste had haunted him all afternoon long, the memory had prickled his tongue every time he looked at her along the dinner table, and he took her into his mouth, as much as he could hold, groaning when he felt her rake her hands into his hair and pull him even closer. Her back arched as she thrust her breasts forward for his pleasure; her fingers twisted around handfuls of his hair, bracing herself against the heat and suckling wetness.

Reeling with the effects of this new intoxication, Catherine was barely aware of him stripping away the rest of her nightdress, chasing it down past the rounded softness of her hips. He followed it down, sinking onto his knees before her, his hands on her thighs, his thumbs stroking the golden thatch of downy curls, parting them, probing the tender pink flesh between. Catherine’s body stiffened and her lips formed a moist, rigid
O
, but she dared not look down, dared not conceive of the dark head bending to her again, of his mouth pressing into the juncture of her thighs, his tongue lashing and probing with the same determined boldness he had used to conquer her senses elsewhere. She wanted to cry out for him to stop, for it was an unheard-of violation, lewd and sinful … but when the pleasure gripped her, then gripped her again, she shamelessly cast all thoughts of modesty aside and pushed eagerly into each new volley of pleasure. This time, when the weakness in her knees became too much to bear alone, she slipped down beside him, her mouth searching feverishly for his, her tongue as bold and greedy to know the taste and feel of him.

Their bodies came together, their movements hauntingly reproduced in the shadows that danced and flickered across the walls. Catherine reveled in the heat of his limbs twining with hers, she marveled at the iron strength of his flesh, the devouring hunger of his lips as they roved everywhere, explored every sweet hollow and curve. A thousand bright shivers of expectation welcomed his hands as they spread her thighs and she felt him settle purposefully between.

Her hands clutched the bulging muscles of his upper arms and her eyes opened wide … wider as the incredibly hard slide of flesh began to furrow inside her, stretching, pushing, impaling her as if he meant to split her in two. Her limbs tensed involuntarily, and for a long moment her passion was overshadowed with the anguish of doubt.

Sensing her fear and suspecting the cause, Alex raked his fingers into the golden spill of her hair. He forced her to look up into his face, into eyes that no longer burned with rage or arrogance, but with an entirely new emotion, naked and raw, more utterly devastating than the awesome, desperate hunger in his body. Catherine saw it and her heart soared. She tasted it on his lips, through a kiss that was tender and honest and admitted more than any false whispers or promises. Her hands moved, smoothing down the corded muscles of his back until they settled over the poised hardness of his flanks. Her fingertips were cool and trembling, their invitation as tentative as the sob of assent on her lips as she thrust her hips upward, her eyes squeezed shut through the stab of white-hot pain.