Beloved Warrior (22 page)

 
 
T
HE moment her hand struck the Scot, Juliana had been horrified at what she’d just done.

Not just because it hadn’t been a very wise thing to do in her position, but because a lady just did not do that type of thing. Not even when provoked. Her mother would have been mortified.

How many times had her mother stood there and taken blows without a sound? Then later explained it was part of marriage?

Just as humbling was the reason she’d so instinctively hit the Maclean in the chest. The fact that she felt betrayed by his test, that she thought he had felt something, then he’d shown everyone he obviously had not.

Foolish. Beyond foolish. Yet those moments on the horse had been magical. Enchanting. Or she’d imagined so.

Once in her chamber, she plopped down on the big feather mattress and fought back tears of humiliation. She remembered his retort, the laughter among his clan members.

Unfortunately, she also remembered, all too vividly, the way his body fit hers so perfectly as they rode, the heat that still puddled inside. Not just heat, but electricity. Painful. Exhilarating.

She moved to the window and looked out. The horses were being led to the stable, and small groups of plaid-clad men talked. Even with Carmita tending her, she felt alone.

Would there be a repercussion for her rash action in striking the Maclean? Especially in front of his clan? Yet at the moment it had felt very good. All the fear and past humiliation and uncertainty had been packed in that blow. And then his comment . . . and the laughter.

A knock echoed through the room, and Carmita opened the door.

He
stood there. “You may go,” he told Carmita.

Her little maid stood up as tall as she could and did not move. To watch little Carmita try to protect her humbled Juliana even more.

“It is all right, Carmita,” she said gently. “You can go down to the kitchen and get something to eat.”

Carmita did not move, but stood stubbornly ready to defend her mistress.

“I swear not to slay her,” Patrick Maclean said with just a trace of dry humor.

With a dubious look, Carmita left.

“You have a brave champion,” he said walking toward her.

“Si,”
Juliana said cautiously. Was he going to do now what he had not down in the courtyard?

But there had been no anger in his voice. And now she saw the smallest hint of a smile on his lips.

It was remarkable what it did to his face. A small but distinct dimple appeared in his cheek.

“I should not have struck you,” she said. “It was not the act of a lady.”

The hint of a smile turned into a full one. But then it disappeared as quickly as it had come. His gaze rested on her. She wished she could read his expression, but she had discovered that few could hide their feelings as well as this disturbing Scot. She wanted to turn from his steady gaze, yet she could not.

The beat of her heart quickened, and, Holy Mother, her legs were turning to melted wax. Their gazes caught, and the storm she’d felt earlier was nothing compared to the explosive energy radiating between them now. Heat flooded her. Expectation hung in the air. Frightening.

Compelling. Irresistible.

He skimmed his fingers over her skin, lingering on her cheek. Each touch sent new tides of warmth and sensation through her.

Her mother’s words rang in her head. That last conversation about a woman’s duty. But what she felt now wasn’t ugly. Instead her body was reacting in exciting, expectant ways.

She swallowed hard.

“I am sorry for whatever offended you,” he said in a voice that was intimate now. Not cold and harsh but melodic with the soft Scottish burr. “I did not want to hurt you. I never wanted to hurt you.” He paused. “I should not have said what I did.”

There was regret and something else in his voice, a sadness that transcended any lingering anger.

She put her finger to his mouth, quieting any more words.

He started to back away, one short step before he stopped. “Lass, I . . .”

His voice trailed off.

Lass.
The word spread like warm honey through her consciousness.

She tried desperately to hold on to her dignity, to who she was. Who her mother hoped she would be. She was promised. It did not matter that the man had not been her choice. The papers were signed. The arrangements made. Her mother would be safe. Or as safe as she could be in her husband’s home.

Yet when she looked up into the Scot’s eyes, they were blazing with an emotion so strong it wrapped around her. She had never been kissed and now she desperately wanted his lips to touch hers. She wanted to run her fingers across his face as he had touched hers. She wanted to hold out her arms and erase all the pain-wracked days and nights he’d endured.

He leaned down and their breath became intermingled, the sound of their heartbeats melding as they pounded in quickened rhythm. Her fingers moved to his face, to the lines so deep for one his age, and her fingertips sought to ease the pain engraved there.

His lips brushed hers. Softly at first, then swiftly. Savagely. Hungrily. She felt his hunger and wondered at her own. How could she want something she’d never had? Her hands went around his neck, entwining her fingers in his thick, auburn hair.

A tremor ran through his body, and she felt it as if she were part of him. He stiffened against her, and that strange yet compelling want intensified. She knew she should move away. She was promised. And he was . . .

He was many things. Murderer. Pirate. Warrior.

Emotions clashed inside her. Everything she thought she believed, knew, understood had changed. Her breath was gone, caught someplace between her heart and her throat.

His lips left hers. He touched his fingers to her chin and lifted her head until her gaze met his. His eyes were more amber now, and piercing, and there was a bright glitter in them. They weren’t cold and empty, but raging with confusion and want and need, emotions she knew must be mirrored in her face. She swallowed hard. They had started a blaze together, and she didn’t want to quench it.

He did, though. She heard a moan. It came from deep inside his throat like an animal in pain.

“Juliana,” he whispered, and her name on his lips was like a song sung low. “Bloody hell, but I did not mean this to happen. I just wanted . . .”

He stopped suddenly, and she wondered whether she would ever know what he “just wanted.”

His callused fingers touched her throat with lightness—and something like tenderness. He lowered his head and his mouth went to her throat, running his tongue over nerve endings. Then she knew why he’d moaned. She heard herself whimper with the burning inside.

Part of it was fear. She wasn’t so much afraid of him as much as she was afraid of caring for him. There was an inherent violence in him. A tension that never relaxed. Whether it had been there before he had been taken to the galley, she did not know. She only knew it was now a part of him and she feared it would tear him apart, and everyone around him.

He moved closer.

She couldn’t. Instead she stood on tiptoe until his mouth was an inch away. His lips met hers, and her world exploded. All caution left with it.

THE power of their kiss rocked through him. Need curled inside his loins, but even more compelling was the warmth in the upper region of his body, in the area of his heart.

That warmth, the odd sense of belonging somewhere, was more seductive even than the physical need of his body. The sensations more perfect. The need far deeper.

And more deadly.

Madness. It was madness!

He forced himself to step back, to release her lips, and as he did so, he saw she was as stunned as he was.

Surely the devil must have a hand in this. Patrick had had no intention of doing anything but uttering an apology for what he’d said in the courtyard, for the necessity of holding her prisoner.

His comment in the courtyard had helped his standing in the clan. But he’d seen the swift flush in her cheeks and he’d instantly regretted it. It had been ribald and biting.

It had been a very long time since he’d been with a woman, and longer still since he had courted one.

Not, he told himself, that he was courting one now. He’d lost the skill of courtly manners. They were buried deep on the
Sofia.

And yet he longed to reach out and touch her again.

As if she read his mind, she touched his hair, and that gesture both inflamed and healed at the same time. His body—nay, it seemed his heart—longed for her with a compelling fierceness he could not control.

He stepped nearer again, knowing full well he was moving toward the fire and helpless to do anything else. Her warm breath tickled the skin of his cheek. Her scent intrigued him. Woman and flowers. A heady mixture. Her eyes—the soft blue-gray ringed by violet—were dazzling in their clarity and intent.

He touched her face, traced her lips, delighted in the softness of her skin and regretted the coarseness of his callused fingers. But she didn’t draw back and her cheeks took on a soft, becoming blush from the passion streaking between them.

End this now!
For his sake, for hers, he knew he should stop.

But no one had ever looked at him like that, no one had ever touched him like that.

He bent his head and kissed her slowly with a longing he couldn’t control. He moved his hands over her gown, paused at her still-covered breasts, then moved on, exploring, feeling the shudders of her body as she reacted. His kiss deepened, his tongue sliding over her lips. She parted them, and his tongue entered, seducing, exploring . . .

Despite her welcome, though, he was experienced enough to realize she was not. He knew it from the small gasp as his tongue entered her mouth, the sudden tightening of her body as if she knew not what to expect. Then participation. Full and unqualified.

He pulled his mouth from hers and searched her face again, fascinated by the emotions running across it. Wonder. Anticipation. A touch of anxiety. He caressed her temple with his lips, then her cheeks. His mouth moved down her neck, his tongue fondling and stroking until he felt her body quiver and her hands go to his neck.

His mind commanded but his body refused to obey. There was no stopping, particularly when she raised her lips to his, and her arms went fully around his neck, burning their own brand on him.

He wanted her. He wanted her more than he thought possible. If it were only physical, he could control it. But he knew now that it was not just physical. Far more vexing was the tenderness he felt for her. He closed his eyes against the feelings assaulting him. How could he have come to care for her in such a short time? A
Sassenach
, for all that was Holy.
Sassenach and
Spanish.

But even if that had not been true, there was no hope for a union. Even discounting the curse, he had no future and he would not make a woman, any woman, pay a price for his bad decisions.

Rory had mentioned a possible marriage. Even if she agreed, how would he explain a Spanish wife? Someone would see her, ask questions and fit the puzzle pieces together. He knew now his presence alone might be a danger to his clan. Hers would dramatically increase it.

Still, as she gazed up at him with what he thought must be the loveliest eyes he’d ever seen, all those concerns faded away. They held so many emotions: passion, yearning and a touch of uncertainty.

“Ah, lass,” he said. “I should not be here. I have taken everything from you and can offer you nothing.”

“I know,” she whispered, but certainty was missing. Instead, she seemed to be searching for something in him.

Something he feared had left him long ago.

Or had it?

God’s blood, but he wanted her, and he suspected at this moment he could have her. Her eyes told him, her tense body told him. The thought was torment.

That damnable attraction had been between them from nearly the first time they’d met. He’d felt it when she made the stitches with those gentle hands and eyes full of concern, even as she tried so valiantly to be defiant. And every time he’d touched her, by accident or purpose, she had warmed the cold parts of him.

But until this minute, he had not realized the full extent of that attraction, nor its power.

Now they were both caught in a whirlwind of something he didn’t understand; nor, he suspected, did she. Swirling, compelling currents battered all reason, pulling down all obstacles but the irresistible attraction between them.

He felt the touch of her hand against his neck, the fingers almost reverent against his skin, and the sensation was warm and tender beyond anything he’d ever experienced. He was lost. . . .

A sharp rap came at the door.

They stilled.

Another rap.

She took a step backward, her face still flushed.

He moved to the door and opened it.

Carmita stood there with a tray of food. Manuel was behind her with a bowl of water. Both wore worried expressions as if they’d expected he had ravished her.

Carmita had obviously sought reinforcements. Patrick would have been amused if his groin didn’t ache as much as it did, if his heart didn’t hurt as well. . . .

A small maid and a young thief were ready to do battle if necessary.

Manuel had evidently switched his allegiance from Patrick to Juliana.

Stymied by two who were little more than children. Or saved?

He moved toward the door. “My brother is planning a feast tonight with our clansmen,” he said, but his gaze did not leave Juliana. “You will attend, senorita?”

She nodded her assent.