The Warrior Bride (11 page)

For an instant, his nostrils flared, then, stepping closer still, he bunched the cloth in his fists and tugged the sleeves over her hands. The garment brushed along her arms, raising gooseflesh in its wake. His knuckles grazed her cheek as he drew the garment over her head and downward. For a moment her heart thrummed against the backs of his fingers. Then, soft as a butterfly’s wings, she felt the brush of his hand against her nipple.

The entire world froze. They were inches apart, breathing in sync, and for just a second she thought she felt him tremble.

Desire roared through her.

“Lass.” The word was no more than a whisper. “Aye.” Hers was the same.

“I need…” He paused. She tried to breathe, but there was no hope of that.

“What?”

For a moment he closed his eyes, then he clenched his jaw and straightened abruptly. The tunic fell to her waist in a hasty cascade.

“I need to be going,” he said.

She exhaled sharply while she could. “Going?” she asked, and hoped he couldn’t hear the insane intensity of her desire. “Where?”

But his gaze had fallen to her breasts, and for a moment she let her own attention be drawn there. Through the aged fabric she could see the dusky circles of her nipples as they strained against confinement.

Lachlan raised his eyes back to hers then turned woodenly and lifted her soiled tunic from the bed. “To get this…” He motioned vaguely, as if he were at a loss for words. “To…” he began again, then, “Anywhere!” he rasped, and turning mechanically, strode away.

The door rocked on its leather hinges as he disappeared into the hall.

Hunter sat unmoving, staring in bewilderment at the reverberating door and trying to catch her breath.

He had left abruptly. Almost as if he were escaping.

Her face reddened. Was it her scars that revolted him or was it something else?

Not that she’d wanted him to stay. She’d never primped or perfumed for any man. It wasn’t her place in life. Still… A gossamer shiver shook her as memories trickled back through her.

How long had it been she’d been touched as he had touched her? As if she were cherished. As if she were precious.

She stared at the door, thinking back, remembering, but not one instance could she recall. Perhaps it had never happened. Not in a score of years, not in all her life. Maybe there had never been a time when she had been touched with gentleness and caring.

The thought made her feel strangely hollow, as empty as the shell about her neck. But nay. It did not matter. She was a warrior, strong and independent.

Reaching across the bed, she retrieved her dirk. It felt good in her fist. She tightened her grip. Aye, she was a warrior, not some milked maid, and perhaps it was the lack of coddling that made her so.

She had no use for Lachlan MacGowan. The sound of his voice did not make her weak, and his touch did not make her want. She had no need for either his strength or his gentleness. But how was it that such a man as he could be so tender? How could such callused hands feel so soothing against her skin?

There had been breathlessness, an excitement akin to the anticipation of battle. She had thought he felt it too, but he had turned away. Did she disgust him or…

Could it be that he was a man of integrity as well as strength? Long ago she had heard a rhythm. Or had it been a dream? Peaceable yet powerful he must be…

But no. She did not believe in foolish poems and the tales of old wives. Yet… perhaps there were yet men of substance. It seemed that Anora of Evermyst had found one-Ramsay MacGowan.

She had met him long ago, but they had been at odds.

Indeed, they had battled, for she had planned evil against his love. Hunter closed her eyes. Guilt gnawed at her, but she thrust it aside, for guilt did no good. Actions were all that mattered-thus her need to keep Evermyst safe. It was a payment of sorts and had naught to do with emotions. After all, it wasn’t as if Hunter hadn’t caused others to suffer. She was a mercenary, but she chose her battles carefully, and long ago, she had realized her mistake. Anora Fraser did not deserve to die. Indeed, perhaps none who was loved by a man like Ramsay deserved to die. Aye, Hunter regretted her long-ago attack on Anora for though she had longed to obtain revenge for her pathetic childhood, Anora was not the one to pay. And Ramsey had made certain of that, had, in fact, come to the maid’s rescue, though Hunter had tried to take her from him, had dressed as a woman to distract him.

Ramsay with the soulful eyes. Ramsay whom she had kissed. Ramsay, with whom she shared a brief past, and yet he didn’t know it, for disguise, in one form or another, had always been her protector. Never had he known her true identity, but it was not so with his brother. Nay, Lachlan knew far too much. Lachlan! Larger than life, solemn, breathtak-

Foolish! He was a foolish noble. Nothing more. After all, he had followed her with no other purpose than to prove his own ability.

Still…

She could not forget the look of his face in the moonlight when she’d first met him on the battlefield wounded yet not defeated.

Hunter shook her head. Despite his prowess and his appeal, he was naught but a man, and men were weak.

And yet he had turned aside the bonny chambermaid in his rush to help her. Indeed, he had barely seemed to notice the girl’s offer in his concern for herself.

But in the end he had turned away from her also. Even after she had dropped her tunic he had made no attempt to seduce her. Indeed, only after he’d pulled his shirt over her head with his own hands had he allowed himself to lower his gaze. So it could not have been her scars that offended him.

But he had fled.

Something curled tight and uncertain in Hunter’s stomach. She lowered her own gaze. Through the sheer fabric of the borrowed garment, she could still see the dark, sensitized rings of her nipples. Below the pale tunic, the scarred leather of her breeches looked worn and rugged in comparison.

That was it then. She was too much the warrior even without the scars. ‘Twas understandable. Preferable even, she told herself, and tightened her fist on her dirk again, but her thoughts roiled on.

He had turned aside the maid too and she had been naught but the picture of femininity.

He was gentle. Yet he had a ferocious need to prove his prowess in battle.

When he had thought her a man, he followed her relentlessly.

He spoke of his mother with rare reverence.

He remained unwed. Indeed, for one so appealing, he seemed strangely uncomfortable around females.

Hunter sat in stunned silence as her thoughts halted abruptly in her head.

Damn! The truth was suddenly clear. Lachlan MacGowan favored men.

It seemed to Hunter that she stared into space for an eternity, but finally hunger drew her from her trance. She lit a candle and ate.

The meal was simple fare, but it was hearty enough, and she felt a bit of normalcy return with each bite. When she’d eaten her fill, she washed in the water left in the basin and turned to stare numbly at the bed.

Aye, she was tired, but there was only the one mattress and she would not be sleeping alone. Then again, it was late already. Darkness had fallen long ago and MacGowan had yet to return. Perhaps he did not intend to. Perhaps he had turned back toward his father’s keep, or even toward Evermyst. They would be awaiting his return-the brother rogues and their delicate wives. Ready to welcome him back into the fold-the men jovial with mock rivalry, the women fawning. Oh, aye, though the twin maids had come from far different backgrounds, they would both fawn. Indeed, ‘twas most probably how they had won their husbands’ attention. But perhaps not. Perhaps all that was necessary was for them to be women. She had seen how their husbands looked at them, had sensed the depth of feeling lying hidden beneath the surface. There was passion, yes, but there was more. There was caring, kindness, loyalty.

Why would MacGowan not return to Evermyst? After all, he had fulfilled his vow to save her life. He was probably on his way there even now.

Then again, maybe he was merely out enjoying a bit of revelry. Maybe he’d met a likely… lad.

She grimaced and paced fretfully as she tried to acknowledge the truth. The man was not attracted to any woman-much less her. Not that she cared. In fact, it was much preferable this way, for she no longer had to worry about keeping him from her. She glanced at the bed. Fatigue dragged at her limbs, but did she dare risk falling asleep when he might return at any moment?

Aye, she decided abruptly, for she would be perfectly safe there beside him. Her heart rate increased at the thought, but she ignored the rush of excitement, for she was only being practical.

If he did return to their shared chamber, he would not touch her. He could pretend he kept himself from her because he was a man of honor and she could pretend she did not know his secret. In fact, she would tell no one, for she bore him no ill will. He had done nothing to harm her. Quite the opposite, in fact. He had been rather considerate. But perhaps that made a bit of sense. After all, each sex had its weakness. Women were thought to be kindly, but tended to be weak when trouble brewed. Men were strong, but were wont to abandon all good sense when women were involved.

Perhaps it was those in between who had the best of both worlds. She, for instance, had obtained a man’s skills, yet she could see their shortcomings, for she did not share their lust for women. Mayhap MacGowan was somewhat the same. Aye, he had been momentarily discombobulated when he’d first realized her sex, but his shock was understandable. If his interaction with the chambermaid was any indication of his steadiness, she could guarantee he would not play the fool for even the comeliest of lasses.

So surely he would keep his wits around her. She had no need to worry about his advances.

For a moment she glanced through the distorted glass of the window to the street below. The night looked dark and empty. She turned away, facing the bed alone.

The situation could not be more perfect, she told herself. She could get the first full night’s sleep she had had in some time. In fact, there was no reason she could not remove her breeches and find some comfort. ‘Twould be a relief.

Slipping back the borrowed tunic’s lengthy sleeves, she pulled up the hem and pushed down her thick hose. It felt quite lovely to pull the leather from her legs and better still to slip into bed. The worn sheets felt soft against her calves.

Aye, this was good. She needn’t worry, she told herself, and lay alone in the darkness.

Just down the rutted, winding street, Lachlan paid the leather wright and retrieved Hunter’s jerkin.

The road back to the inn was muddy and dark.

She would probably be asleep by now. He nodded to himself. Aye, she would be sleeping. All would be safe. After all, he wouldn’t be expected to touch her, or bandage her, or pretend that her presence didn’t make him crazy.

He swallowed and tightened his fist on her vest.

Though padded and tough, it was soft and supple. Like her. Strong and firm, but smooth as satin beneath his fingertips, and when he touched her-

Holy mother! What the hell was wrong with him?

Had he no pride whatsoever? She wasn’t interested in him. Damn! She wasn’t interested in his entire gender!

How could he be so daft!

‘Twas just like him to turn aside the chambermaid in his yearning for another who would never want him. Oh aye, in retrospect, he realized Grace had shown some interest in him when she’d brought their meals. But at that precise moment it had been impossible for him to concentrate on her, for he was a man to focus all of his attention on the task at hand, especially when that task involved a warrior woman with a siren’s voice and an angel’s body.

The maid had probably been bonny enough, but Hunter had been… well, she was Hunter! With her warrior’s pride and maiden’s softness. Hunter, with her endless legs and hidden bosom. Aye, he would be the first to admit he had always favored delicate women, but they made him… well, fidgety. Of course, Hunter made him fidgety too, but in a different way entirely.

If one looked at the situation in a certain light, she was right-they were alike. Indeed, it almost seemed that she understood him, and yet they were worlds apart. Her breasts-

Even now he ached at the memory of them. Even knowing she had no interest in him. Even knowing she had shown more interest in the maid than he had. In fact, maybe they were together at this very moment.

The thought literally stopped him in his tracks. A combination of raw emotions curled in his stomach. Part revulsion, part…

He didn’t know what the other part was, but suddenly his feet were hurrying him back to the inn. He ascended the stairs two at a time. For a moment he paused at the door, then, taking a deep breath, he pushed inside.

Beside the bed, a candle still glowed, and upon the far pillow, the light shimmered like gold on Hunter’s flaxen hair. It was spread about her in gilded waves. And now, in the auspices of sleep, there was no harshness in her face. Her lips were slightly parted, rosebud bright and bowed slightly as she slumbered. Her lashes were long and full, shadowing her ivory cheeks. One palm cradled her chin just so, showing the frail blue veins that crisscrossed through her wrist.

She was, in that moment, the very picture of womanhood, and for a second, Lachlan failed to breathe. Without thinking, he took a step forward, but with that movement, he remembered his resolve. She was not for him. In fact, she was not for any man. Perhaps that realization should have made him feel better, but somehow it did not. Four and twenty years he had seen, and though he had been interested in a multitude of maids, never in all that time had he met one that seemed to match him so exactly. He had never met a woman he ached to call his own. What did it say for him that now that he had, he found that her interest lay in another direction entirely?