The Warrior Bride (16 page)

His breathing was steady now and his sight clear. Undressing this woman was not unlike a battle. He only had to remain focused lest he make a terrible mistake and lose his head. Lifting her foot onto his knee, he trailed his fingers light as sunrise over the sharp bone of her ankle. The stocking fell before his fingers, smoothed away to reveal the fine curve of her foot by slow, careful increments. The instep was high, the tendons tight and as his hand skimmed lower, finally revealing her toes, he saw that they were small and perfect. He ran a finger down the lot of them. It was like striking the cords of a harp, for he felt her shiver as the instrument might.

The stocking fell away, but his hands remained, cradling her foot upon his knee. He glanced up. “Are you well?”

“Well?” she repeated, but around the word he could hear her quick, shallow breathing.

“Aye. All is well?”

“Of course. Why would it not be?”

Without glancing down, he skimmed his finger across the tidy row of toes. She shivered again and he scowled in fascination. “I do not know.” he said. Their gazes melded. He seemed strangely calm now, as if he held his own life in the palm of his hand and did not worry for the outcome.

“Lass,” he said, but in that instant she yanked her foot.

In his surprise, he almost lost his grip, but he did not, for at Evermyst it was oft said that what he put his hand to did not easily go astray. “Whatever is amiss?”

“‘Tis naught amiss,” she said, “but that you refuse to release me foot.”

“Ahh, well, I am your faithful servant after all.”

Reaching up slightly, he curled his palm around her calf. The skin felt warm and lovely beneath his hand. He kneaded it gently. “‘Tis me duty to see to your care.”

“You have done enough.” She licked her lips and tugged at her foot again.

He tightened his grip even as he continued his kneading. “You seem a bit tense.”

“And why would I not be? A great beast of a MacGowan has got me foot.”

“A great beast of a servant,” he corrected patiently.

“But you’ve no need to worry. After all, we are both men here, aye? There can be no indiscretions.”

“No indiscretions. So I was correct; you have no bias about sins against nature.”

“Sins against nature?” he repeated, and kneaded her calf again. It was firm and long and smooth, nothing like his own bunched muscles.

She drew breath sharply through her nose. “You know just what I mean,” she said.

“Aye,” he agreed, and stroked her leg again with slow deliberation. “That I have more interest in men than women.”

She nodded, but the movement was jerky. “And that is fine by me.”

He trailed his finger along the crease behind her knee.

Her entire leg jerked like the kick of a recalcitrant mule. Interesting.

“After all,” she said. The words were raspy and quick.

“You are a warrior of sorts.”

He almost smiled. It was not unlike the calm he oft felt before battle. “Of sorts,” he agreed.

“No offense meant, of course.”

He ran the beds of his nails along the back of her thigh. The long muscle jumped.

“Of course,” he agreed. His own tone was amicable. “After all, you are certainly built-”

He skimmed his fingers down her leg from her knee.

She rasped a sharp breath and he raised his gaze to hers. She was breathing through her mouth. The sight was not unbecoming, but seemed to escalate the beat of his heart.

“I am certainly built?” he began, reminding her where she’d left off.

She stared at him for several long seconds, then licked her lips. He watched the swipe of her tongue and felt the effects curl like smoky talons deep in his gut.

“Like a warrior,” she finished. Her voice was as deep as night, shivering pleasantly through his system.

He circled her thigh with his palm and massaged firmly. “Is that a compliment, lass?”

“What?” She was watching his hand.

“Did you compliment me?” he asked, but it mattered little what she said, only that she remained as she was, supple and warm, and all but naked beneath his fingertips.

She swallowed. “I did not mean to. ‘Tis just that you are…” His sleeves were rolled away from his wrists, exposing the working muscles of his sun-darkened forearms. “You are beautifully built-for a womanly man.”

He paused in his massage, then raised his brows and laughed out loud.

“Something amuses you?”

He resumed his movements. “Apparently so. And ‘tis strange,” he admitted. “For if another said the same I may well feel the need to sharpen me blade on his skull.”

“Are you challenging me, MacGowan?” He smiled a little. “Not to a duel.”

Their gazes met. Her eyes seemed unusually dark and her cheeks were flushed.

He slid his hand along her leg, squeezing gently over her knee and down the satiny length of her calf.

She watched his progress with enormous eyes. “This isn’t bothering you, is it?” he asked. “Bothering-”

“Aye,” he said and, easing her foot from his lap, reached for the other leg.

She jerked it from his grasp. “Nay!”

He glanced up, absorbed by his task. “What’s that?” She cleared her throat. “I am feeling quite guilty… for the things I said of you.”

He stared up at her.

“After all, you are not me servant… exactly.”

“Perhaps not exactly,” he agreed and, capturing her second foot, set it upon his thigh.

She watched his movements and swallowed. “‘Tis not your job to disrobe…” She failed to find any additional words for a moment. “‘Tis not your job to see to me own comfort.”

Her legs ran on forever, her waist scooped in with dramatic flare and her breasts… Half hidden by the wayward sweep of her flaxen locks, they appeared like fair glimpses of heaven. He felt his desire throb and he tamped down that familiar impatience.

“As it turns out, I do not mind so terribly,” he said. She licked her lips. He watched the movement with absolute absorption. “Just because…” She paused, breathed a few times, and continued. “Just because I conduct meself as a warrior does not mean I am… that sort.”

He released her second garter at a leisurely pace, enjoying every brush of his fingertips against her flesh. ”That sort?” he asked and, slipping his hands around her calf, eased the stocking downward.

She drew a careful breath between her teeth. “The sort we spoke of before. The sort that… dallies with their own type.”

He studied her face in a long moment of silence. “And despite all hard evidence to the contrary you still believe I do.” He eased her stocking over the arch of her foot, letting his fingertips skim along the scooped sole and over her toes as he slipped the garment from her.

“Why else are you here?” she asked.

He almost laughed, but the feel of her skin beneath his fingers made it difficult to breathe, so he merely encircled her ankle and leaned toward her.

“Because despite your delusions to the contrary, lassie, you are a far cry from being a man.”

Their gazes met with a jolt, and perhaps in his eyes she could see the hard edge of his desire, for in that instant, she jerked her foot away. Her toes brushed the burgeoning swell of his erection as she stumbled to her feet.

He rose more leisurely, still watching her.

“I am not the sort you spoke of, lass. In truth, I am the furthest thing from it, and I’ll not pretend to be otherwise, no matter how safe that pretense makes you feel.”

“You think I need pretense to make me feel secure?”

“Aye, lass, I do.”

“Then you forget me abilities?”

She stood nearly naked before him. Through the brushed gold of her hair, her breasts rose and fell with the depth of her emotion.

“I forget nothing about you, lass.”

For a moment he wasn’t sure if she would flee or fight, but finally she spoke, her tone cool. “You needn’t pretend to be what you are not, MacGowan. I care not either way.”

He studied her carefully. For a moment while he touched her it had seemed that she too felt something. Had he imagined it or was that why she persisted with her foolish notions? To protect herself. To hold him at bay.

“Indeed,” she said. “I do not think less of you because you prefer men.”

He said nothing.

“You are a warrior,” she continued. “Brave and strong. You have no need to prove your sexual prowess, for as I’ve said, I have no interest in you.” She lifted her chin and gave a single nod, like a punctuation of her decision.

An odd mix of emotions churned in Lachlan ’s stomach, but damned if he could keep them straight.

“So tell me, lass,” he said. “After all this, you still believe I see you as a man.”

“‘Tis no great surprise,” she said. “Others have been believing that very thing for years.”

“Which merely proves me theory.”

“Which is?”

“Most men are dolts.”

She laughed. “Do not try to pretend you were unfooled by me disguise.”

“Nay, I readily admit that at the beginning I thought you a man, for you make a bold warrior and a formidable enemy. Yet I cannot help but wonder what you would be like as a-”

A dirk appeared like magic in her hand. In truth, he had no idea where it came from, but she held it waist high, where it could do a good deal of damage.

He sighed. “Lass,” he said. “I tire of this drama.”

“As do I!”

He failed to do so much as glance down at the blade.

Instead he met her eyes full on. “What are you so afeared of, lassie?”

“Afeared!” she snarled. “You dare insult me again?” “Nay,” he said, and took a step closer as he skimmed his gaze down the ethereal length of her body. His chest swelled at the sight of her, squeezing in on his heart. “I could not see you thus and insult you. I but wonder if you lie.”

She shifted the knife slightly in her hand. ”As if turns out, MacGowan, you are a bigger fool than I thought at the start.”

“Truly?” he said and took a step closer still. The point of the knife pressed low on his abdomen, but he ignored it. “How so?”

“Few would be daft enough to cry liar in your current situation.”

He shrugged. The movement felt slow and heavy, as if he were swimming upstream. “I readily admit that there are few like me, lass. And perhaps that is why…” He paused, and reaching up, brushed the back of his fingers against her cheek.

She didn’t move, but remained absolutely still. “Why what?” she breathed.

“Why you must guard yourself against me,” he said. For a moment he thought she might actually stab him, might drive her blade into him without a second thought, but instead she threw back her head and laughed.

He watched her and waited for the anger. After all, he was not a man known for his patience. And yet the fury did not come, not through the long moments as her laughter rolled on.

“So you think yourself irresistible, do you, champion?” she asked at last.

Nay, he was not angry, but perhaps a bit of heat warmed his cheeks, a bit of embarrassment for her mirth at his expense. He would be the first to admit he was no lady’s man-no coxcomb wont to draw the maids. And not one to put himself in a position to invite ridicule, but this once, perhaps for the first time in his life, it seemed worth the risk.

“You say you are not the least attracted to me?” he asked.

“I am not!” Her tone was scoffing. He remained absolutely still, and she backed away finally to indicate him with a wave of her dirk. “You are…” She skimmed him with her gaze, but for a moment he almost believed she hesitated, almost faltered. “You are hardly the sort to draw me own interest.”

“Indeed?” He canted his head slightly. ”Then ‘tis you who is attracted to your own sex.”

Her mouth opened and closed. He thought she would object, but she did not. “‘Tis none of your concern,” she said instead. “But this much I will tell you…” She leaned forward to point at him with her dirk. “I’ve no interest in you.”

He forced himself to shrug. “‘Tis just as well,” he said, “for then you will not be overcome with desire when I bathe you.”

Hunter held her ground. Her heart was beating like the hooves of a wild destrier, but she would not let him see her panic.

“‘Tis kind of you to offer,” she said, making certain her tone was disdainful. “But I changed me mind. I need no help bathing.”

He watched her. His eyes were dark and somber, his tremendous body still. “‘Tis no trouble. I have little else to do,” he said and in one fell motion, yanked his tunic from beneath his belt and over his head.

Muscles bulged into view, capping his shoulders, rising from his chest, stretching from his throat to his waist in tight hard rows. She stumbled back a pace. “What the devil are you about?”

He shrugged. Muscles shifted like magic beneath his skin. Indeed, every inch of him bulged and danced as if set to music. His arms were broad and corded, his chest was hard and honed, and beneath the pronounced rows of his ribs, muscles rippled across his abdomen like marching soldiers.

Damn! she thought, and was completely uncertain whether she’d said the word aloud.

“You needn’t be afraid.”

His words spurred her gaze back to his. She was already shaking her head, though she couldn’t remember why exactly. “I am not-”

“I’ll not harm you.”

She lifted her chin. “I believe we’ve proven that already.”

“So we have, laddie. Remove your loincloth.”

He said it not as an order exactly, but more as an offhand statement. As if he didn’t particularly care if she obeyed, or rebelled, or ran screaming from the room like a deranged banshee.

“I’ll not-” she began.

“You can hardly take a proper bath until you do.”

“I’ve been bathing long afore-”