The Recruit (16 page)

“Look at me,” he ordered, his voice tight with the pressure.

She didn’t want to look. He could see her reluctance as her eyes opened and moved
slowly to his. A bolt of shock shot down his spine. Something passed between them.
Something hot and intense. Something that sent them both over the edge.

She gasped.

His entire body clenched.

She let out a sharp cry of pleasure that tore through the last strands of his restraint.
The pressure he’d been holding in check exploded in a blinding blaze of passion. He
couldn’t have pulled out if he’d wanted. He drove hard and deep, as his body broke
apart. As the most powerful release he’d ever found shuddered over him in wave after
powerful wave.

Jesus
.

It was the most intelligent thought he could muster. His mind was gone. All that was
left was pleasure. The most incredible pleasure he’d ever experienced.

When the last spasms of release had ebbed from his
body, he collapsed on top of her, every muscle, every ounce of his body spent. Even
his bones felt like jelly.

After a minute, the heavy sounds of their breathing began to quiet. Realizing he was
probably crushing her, he found the strength to roll to the side.

He couldn’t ever remembering feeling so weak. It was a damned good thing the contest
wasn’t today. He’d barely be able to stand, let alone defeat whoever would stand against
him tomorrow.

He didn’t know quite what to make of what had just happened. He was having a hard
time ordering his thoughts. But the lass had surprised him. The sweetness of her passion
went far beyond the sensual promise he’d noticed in the barn. He couldn’t remember
the last time he’d enjoyed a liaison more. Hell, he doubted he’d
ever
enjoyed a liaison more. He frowned, remembering another oddity. Even when he was
a lad, he’d always withdrawn before spilling his seed. But he was too bloody sated
and contented to give it more than a passing thought. All he knew was that the strange
ennui that had been dogging him was apparently gone, and he wasn’t ready to let go
of her. Not yet.

What had she done?

Mary’s heart pounded in her chest as she stared at the ceiling. It was made of stone.
The small library had been built into the thick walls like the vaulted storerooms
below.

But it was gray and colorless, with little to distract her, so her thoughts returned
to what had happened. To the cataclysmic event that had devastated her just as harshly
and ruthlessly as a raging wildfire, leaving only ashes in its wake. It had been amazing.
Wonderful. More beautiful than anything she could have imagined. And that was the
problem. How was she ever to put this behind her? How was she to go on with her life
in England and forget about the passion she’d found in his arms?

How was she going to forget about him?

He wasn’t supposed to be like this. She’d wanted a too-handsome, too-arrogant man
built for sin. She’d wanted lust, nothing more.

He rolled to his side, leaning up on one elbow to look at her. She felt his eyes rake
her face and held her breath as his hand reached out and brushed aside a few strands
of hair that she hadn’t even noticed were tangled in her lashes. The touch was so
intimate—so sweet—her chest squeezed with longing.

His fingers lingered on the side of her face, turning her gaze to his. “You’re full
of surprises, aren’t you, little one?”

The way he was looking at her made her chest ache. She stared up at him wordlessly,
not knowing what to say. She felt exposed. Raw. Vulnerable. What had just happened
had stripped the last years of hard-wrought independence from her as if it were no
more substantial than a thin chemise, revealing the lonely, heartbroken girl underneath
who’d so much wanted her husband to love her. And Kenneth Sutherland, the soon-to-be
champion, the handsome knight, the hero with an adoring throng of admirers, was cut
from the same cloth.

At least she thought he was. Had she been unfair? Was there perhaps more to him than
she’d thought?

It surprised her how much she wanted to be wrong.

Her heart slammed against her ribs when he leaned down and kissed her. It was a soft,
lazy kiss. A tender kiss. Everything she shouldn’t want, yet craved like a greedy
child.

Lifting his mouth from hers, he smiled. “When can I see you again?”

Her heart stopped.
One night
. “I-I’m leaving soon,” she hedged.

His eyes narrowed. “I hope not
too
soon. You’ll stay at least until after the Games? My sister is getting married on
Saturday. There will be a few days of celebration.”

Did he want her to go to his sister’s wedding? She tried to hold back her racing heart
but it was sprinting away from her. “I don’t know.”

“Of course—it depends on Lady Margaret. Would it help if I talked to her for you?”
He slid the back of his finger down her cheek, down her throat, and over the firm
slope of her breasts, drawing a feathery circle around the tip. “I’m not done with
you yet,” he said in that dark, husky voice of his that seeped right through her good
sense. “I don’t think I’m going to be done with you for quite a while.”

Her skin prickled. Her nipples beaded. Her breath quickened. Her entire body responded
to the sensual promise in his words. Was it just words, or did it mean something?
She had to find out. “Lady Margaret told me you are to be betrothed.”

He frowned, as if he were surprised she’d heard about that. “What does that have to
do with us?”

She looked away so he wouldn’t see the stone of disappointment he’d just cast carelessly
at her heart. He said it with such honest befuddlement she couldn’t even be angry
with him. She was angry with herself. “Nothing,” she said softly. “It has nothing
to do with us.”

Why should he think there was anything wrong with making love to another woman while
his betrothed or his wife waited for him at whatever castle he put her in? There was
nothing wrong with it. It was the accepted—expected—thing for noblemen in a political
marriage. She was the one who had unrealistic expectations, not he.

One night was all she’d wanted, so why was she disappointed that it was all she was
going to have? His response had just ensured it.

“Good,” he said, rolling back over and tucking her against him. She rested her cheek
against his chest, listening to the beat of his heart and trying not to cry.

“We should go,” he said, though his voice gave no indication
of any hurry. “But I’m just so damned tired. I can’t seem to make myself get up.”

His voice trailed off. She wasn’t surprised when a few minutes later she heard the
even sounds of his breathing. He’d drifted off.

Grateful for the reprieve, she was careful not to wake him as she slid away from the
warmth of his body, stood, and straightened her clothes. All she could think about
was getting out of there. She didn’t want to face him again. Not here, and not at
the feast.

This had been a mistake.

Kenneth Sutherland wasn’t like her husband at all. He was far more dangerous. Atholl
had never bothered to try to seduce her. Kenneth Sutherland seduced with every long
look, every gentle touch, and every heart-pounding kiss.

Would she ever learn?

She needed to leave. Not just this room, but Scotland. Before she forgot how to be
content with what she had and yearned for things that would only make her miserable.
Again.

Seven
 

Kenneth woke slowly, trying to clear the fog from his mind. But his head felt as if
someone had sheared a sheep inside it. Opening his eyes, he shot upright, startled
by his surroundings. By the shards of light streaming through the planks of the door.

He winced at the knife of pain in his side.

Hell
. Covering the offending area with his hand, he braced himself as he stood. Whatever
dulling effects last night had worked on his pain, they were gone.

Last night
. He realized three things at once: it was morning, he’d missed the feast, and he
was alone.

He swore, not knowing what angered him the most.

What the hell had happened to him? It felt as though he’d been knocked out. The moment
he’d closed his eyes, he’d slipped into a deep sleep. He hadn’t slept that solidly
in years.

His mouth fell in a grim line when he reached down to pick up his tunic and saw a
swatch of dark green silk. He knew what had happened to him.
She
had happened to him.

Why in Hades had she run off without waking him?

In many cases he would be relieved to wake up and find himself alone after a night
of lovemaking, but damn it, this wasn’t one of them. He vowed to go back to uncomplicated
and eager-to-please just as soon as he was done with her.

He jerked on his tunic, wrapped the plaid back around
his shoulders—the fire in the brazier had gone out hours ago, and it was bloody cold
in here—and picked up the offending veil.

He and Lady Mary were going to have a nice long talk about what he was going to expect
from her—a little common courtesy, for one thing. And she wasn’t going to run off
like that again.
He
would decide when it was time to leave, damn it.

He stalked out of the library, slamming the door behind him, and headed toward the
Hall to look for her. But it seemed the morning meal had ended some time ago. There
were only a few people milling about, and none was the one he wanted to see.

Just what the hell time was it?

He swore again. The morning was quickly going from bad to worse. If the morning meal
was over, that meant he didn’t have much time until the wrestling competition got
under way. One of the most important days of his life, and he’d nearly slept through
it. His anger at his wee nun was growing. She’d distracted him. And had done a bloody
efficient job of it, damn it.

He grabbed a piece of bread and cheese from a tray as one of the servants passed by
and washed it down with a swig of wine. As he exited the Hall, he winced, shrinking
back from the head-piercing rays of sunlight that blasted him. Damn, his head felt
like he’d drunk far more than a tankard of whisky. Squinting, he scanned the courtyard,
and then winced again. It wasn’t because of the sun this time, but who he saw striding
toward him.

“Where the hell have you been?” MacKay demanded. “I hope you have a good explanation
for disappearing last night. The king was furious.”

Kenneth ignored MacKay and greeted his sister, who had come up next to him.

“Are you all right, Kenneth? You don’t look well,” Helen said.

His side hurt like hell, but he wasn’t going to tell her that with MacKay standing
there. “What did you give me?” he asked. “I fell asleep and just woke up.”

“Nothing that should have—” She stopped, biting her lip. “Did you drink any wine or
whisky last night by chance?”

“I drink wine or whisky every night. What difference does that make?”

She looked up at him guiltily. “I must have forgotten to mention that mixing the draught
with wine or whisky might make you a tad sleepy.”

Kenneth’s mouth tightened. “Aye, you seem to have forgotten that part.”

Well, at least he knew why he’d slept so hard. Although he suspected there was another
cause that had affected him as much as the whisky. He’d slept the dead sleep of a
man who’d been well satisfied.
Too
well satisfied. Instead of worrying about what had happened to his wee wanton, he
should be preparing for the Games.

“I will explain what happened to the king after the competition,” he said to MacKay,
who was still glaring at him from Helen’s side. “And apologize to Lady Mary.”

McKay gave him a hard look. “Aye, well in that you were fortunate. Lady Mary sent
word late that she was not feeling well.”

Kenneth frowned, thinking it fortunate indeed. Almost too fortunate. A prickle of
unease teased his consciousness.

“What’s that?” MacKay said, pointing to the veil.

Damn
. “Nothing,” he said, scrunching the silk in his hand and tucking it more firmly against
his side.

But MacKay wasn’t having it. His eyes narrowed on the swathe of fabric at his side.
The very feminine swathe of fabric. “Don’t tell me you ignored the king’s invitation
for a woman? What were you thinking? It seems you have as much discipline over your
co—” He stopped, giving Helen an apologetic look. “Over your desire as you do over
your
temper.” He shook his head. “I bloody well hope she was worth it.”

Kenneth’s teeth clenched. Surprisingly, he realized, she was, but he wasn’t about
to explain himself to MacKay. And he sure as hell didn’t like being scolded as if
he were a wet-behind-the-ears squire.

Damn it, he was tired of this. He was tired of his boyhood nemesis lauding it over
him as if he were his superior. He wasn’t. And today Kenneth was going to prove it.

“I need to get ready,” he said, refusing to let MacKay bait him. He needed to have
his sister wrap his ribs. “Helen, if you would meet me in the barracks—”