Her Highness and the Highlander: A Princess Brides Romance (16 page)

Then there had been that moment in the doorway when she’d thought he was going to
kiss her. When she’d been a hairbreadth away from letting him.

I am not sharing his bed tonight, no matter how frightened I am.

“You are only on the other side of the doorway,” she stated, realizing as she spoke
that her words were as much for her benefit as his. “I am sure that knowledge alone
will help me sleep soundly.”

He turned his whiskey glass in a small, contemplative circle between his fingers.
“I’ll crack the connecting door open before I go to bed. Just in case you decide you’ve
need of me during the night.”

Her nerves fluttered, but she tamped them down, resolute in her conviction. She only
hoped once the darkness settled over her that her resolve did not crumble like so
much dust. Still, she could not summon the will to refuse his offer.

“I will not require your assistance,” she said bravely, “but you may open the door
an inch or two if you prefer. Once your candle is out.”

He spun his whiskey glass again. “Of course.”

“Good night, Major.”

“Good night, Your Highness.”

Daniel came awake in the dark, listening for whatever it was that had disturbed him.

For a long moment he heard nothing. Only the peaceful stillness of deep night.

Then the sound came again. A high, thin whimper followed by a long, choking sob.

“No,”
he heard her cry.
“Don’t.”

Without giving himself even a second to consider, he flung back the covers and leapt
from the bed. He paused only long enough to grab hold of the fireplace poker as he
stalked on bare feet to the connecting door.

Whoever is hurting Mercedes will be sorry. Very sorry.

But as soon as he entered the room, he realized that no one was there, no one was
attacking her. She was alone in her bed, asleep and in the grip of a nightmare. One
so strong she apparently could not wake.

“Your Highness,” he said in a clear voice, setting down the poker.

She shifted restlessly beneath the sheets and whimpered again, but did not awaken.

“Mercedes.”

“No!” she sobbed. “No, please, don’t. Don’t.”

He walked to her bed and reached out. Laying a hand on her shoulder, he gave her a
gentle shake. “Wake up. You’re dreaming.”

She rolled her head and cried out again, still locked inside her nocturnal visions.
He shook her again, a little harder this time, and called her name once more.

With a loud, ragged gasp, she sat straight up, striking out with her fists.

He caught and held them in a firm but gentle grip. “It’s me, Daniel. Ye’re having
a nightmare, lass. ’Tis only a dream.”

Abruptly she grew still, slumping slightly beneath his hand. “Daniel?”

“Aye.”

She shuddered. “I was…dreaming,” she whispered.

“That you were. I heard you from my room.”

Another shiver ran through her.

“Do you want to talk aboot it?”

He sensed, rather than saw, her shake her head.

“All right. Budge over, then, lass, and let me in the bed. It’s the middle of the
night and I’m tired.”

Despite the darkness, she reached for the covers and drew them high. “Y-you do not
have to stay. I—I shall be f-fine on my own.”

“You’ll be terrified on your own, so why pretend otherwise? Scoot over so we can both
get back to sleep. We’ve another long day ahead of us tomorrow.”

She sat unmoving and he wasn’t sure if he’d pushed her too far by demanding that she
let him into the bed. But then she gave a quiet sigh, lowered the sheet, and moved
over.

He climbed in, folded the pillow under his head, and very deliberately closed his
eyes. “Good night.”

“Good night,” she murmured, so low he barely heard her.

This time she didn’t roll over and snuggle against him. Instead, she lay on her back,
the sheet tucked over her like a shroud.

He lay on his back next to her and concentrated on his breathing, her sweet scent
drifting over to tease his nose and fire his senses. He ought to have done as she’d
said and left her on her own to go back to sleep. But if the past two nights were
any example, she would just have come running into his room a short time later, begging
him to let her stay.

But it didn’t matter. One bed was the same as another and all he was going to do was
sleep. He wouldn’t even notice her beside him.

His shaft twitched, then hardened in a kind of taunt.

He stifled a groan and squeezed his eyes tighter.

He’d endured hunger. He’d overcome cold. And by damn, he would endure lying next to
Mercedes for yet another long night.

Beside him, she shifted against the sheets, then slid a hand toward his own. “I’m
sorry I woke you. I really don’t mean to be such a bother, you know.”

Calling himself ten times a fool, he laced his fingers through hers. “Ye can’t help
what ye dream. And you’re not a bother. Now close your eyes and try to think of happy
thoughts.”

“Happy thoughts,” she repeated. “Yes, I shall try.”

He lay, his thoughts far from happy, since they were focused on the one thing he didn’t
dare dwell upon. Maybe he would sneak back to his own bed once she was asleep again.
It was the middle of the night. Hopefully she would make it through the remaining
hours before dawn without another nightmare.

He waited, listening to her quiet breathing, aware of the gradual slackening of her
fingers curled trustingly inside his own. After another five minutes, she was asleep.

Carefully, slowly, he began to ease away. But she murmured something unintelligible
and tightened her hold.

Damn.

Relaxing again, he lay still. He would wait ten minutes more. Ten minutes for her
to fall into a deep slumber. Closing his eyes again, he reconciled himself to wait.

And then, without quite realizing, sleep claimed him again too.

M
ercedes drifted gradually awake, relaxed and warm and blissfully content. She’d slumbered
as deeply as a babe, her dreams untroubled and easy.

She stretched and tried to roll onto her back, but stopped when she felt an unmistakable
pull against her scalp. Her hair was caught, wrapped around something—or rather someone.

Her eyes slitted open a fraction of an inch and she found herself gazing at Daniel’s
slumbering face, where his head lay pillowed next to her own. Her heart jumped at
the sight of him; she was surprised to find him still abed. On their two previous
mornings together, he’d been up and dressed long before she’d awakened—or before he’d
come to shake her awake as he’d done yesterday.

He must be very tired to still be sleeping so deeply, she realized.

She opened her eyes fully and took the opportunity to study him. Even in the room’s
dull, early morning light, she was able to see all the small details of his face that
she’d never really noticed before. He had short, full eyelashes that fanned against
his cheekbones, a slight bump on the bridge of his nose that made her wonder if he’d
been in a fight—which
was quite likely—and a mouth that appeared fuller and redder in sleep. His hair lay
tousled in a fiery disarray around his head—appealing despite its need of a combing.
Just as appealing was the light growth of reddish brown whiskers that shadowed his
angular jaw.

He looked utterly relaxed and surprisingly youthful without the careworn lines and
furrows that usually creased his forehead when he was awake. She wondered if this
was how he might have looked all the time had he never been to war, if he’d never
suffered the loss and strife she knew must have been his daily burden to bear.

She let her gaze rove lower and felt her pulse accelerate as she drank in the sight
of his muscled shoulders, broad chest, and long masculine arms—his very naked muscled
shoulders, broad chest, and long arms! A darker thatch of auburn hair curled invitingly
over his hard chest, while a lighter scattering lay on the taut length of his visible
forearm. The very same forearm, she realized, that was currently holding her immobile.

Casting her gaze downward, she saw that the rest of him was thankfully covered by
the sheet. Although on second thought, she wasn’t so sure she was all that thankful,
curious to know what she was missing. If his lower half was even a fraction as good
as the top, then the loss was great indeed.

Warmth rushed into her cheeks. She was turning as brazen and bold as Ariadne, who
made a point of thoroughly eyeing every nude male statue, sculpture, and painting
she could find whenever she visited a museum, gallery, or private collection—usually
with Mercedes and Emma in tow. But those inanimate artistic renderings paled against
the warm reality of Daniel MacKinnon lying in all his glorious masculine grace beside
her in bed.

She skimmed her gaze over him one last lingering time, then decided she ought to find
some way to extract herself before he awakened and found her watching him.

Experimentally, she gave her hair another tug, but it wouldn’t budge;
the long strands were good and trapped beneath him. Maybe if she grabbed her hair
closer to the scalp, she could slide it free without causing herself too much pain.
Reaching up, she secured her fingers around a hank.

Slowly she started to pull.

Her hair slid an inch, then another, then a third.

Encouraged, she pulled harder. But rather than continuing to slide free, it abruptly
stopped.

Frowning, she tugged again.

Nothing.

Fustian,
she cursed silently. Now what was she supposed to do?

Beside her, she felt him shift.

She glanced up and looked directly into his deep green eyes.

Her heart jittered and she jumped, wincing as pain shot through her scalp. “Ow!”

“What?” he said, his voice thick with residual sleep.

“My hair. You’re on my hair,” she cried.

“Oh, sorry.” He leaned forward to free them both, but his movements only made it worse.

“Ow,” she cried again, louder this time, her eyes tearing slightly as she pulled again
in hopes of extricating herself.

“Lie still, lass. Ye’re only snarling us up more.”

“Me? You’re the one who’s got me trapped.”

And she was right. He did have her trapped. But since he was the one lying on top
of her hair, she realized she had little choice but to let him do the untangling.

“Shh,” he hushed. “Don’t move and I’ll have ye loose in a tick.”

Relaxing back against the pillow, she kept quiet while he slowly sat up. As he did,
he gently freed the waist-length strands that had gotten caught beneath not only his
forearm but his shoulder and side as well.

No wonder I wasn’t able to get loose,
she thought.
He had me pinned like a rabbit in a snare.

And like a rabbit, all she could do was lie helpless and at his mercy while he worked
slowly to gather her hair up and away until it trailed across the pillow behind her
head.

“There, lass,” he soothed, meeting her gaze. “Better?”

“Yes,” she breathed, unable to look away.

His eyes really were the most beautiful and unusual shade of green she’d ever glimpsed,
like moss after a warm summer rain.

“Where does it hurt?” Without waiting for her response, his fingers slid into her
hair to curve against her scalp. “Here?”

Lightly he probed.

She couldn’t keep from shivering, a delicious tingle that flowed like live current
radiating from her head down through her body. The sensations turned her weak, her
limbs waxen, and she knew she couldn’t have moved, not even if her life had hung in
the balance.

Then he began to massage her scalp.

She bit her lip to hold back a groan.

Oh my heavens, it felt good. Sinful. Nothing should feel this good.

“Better?” he asked again as he continued to move his fingers in easy circles and slow
sweeps against the side of her head.

“Hmm, much better,” she sighed.

He smiled and continued his ministration.

As he did, their gazes locked again and held. The smile gradually disappeared from
his mouth, and then his fingers slowed, then slowed some more, until eventually they
stopped.

She waited, wistful and, yes, disappointed, knowing that any second he would release
her and leave.

Instead, he continued staring down at her. As he did, something shifted on his face,
his eyes darkening, their color deepening, his expression one she didn’t entirely
understand.

He shuddered almost imperceptibly, his fingers trembling against her skull as if he
were waging some internal battle.

Seconds ticked past, time seeming to slow.

Suddenly he muttered what sounded like a curse in a language she didn’t understand.
Gaelic? she wondered.

Then he bent his head and touched his mouth to hers.

He’d tried to resist, truly he had, but there was only so much denial a man could
endure before he broke. After all, he was only human, and she was far too tempting
lying beneath him in bed.

So close.

Much, much too close for any man’s sanity.

God, but she tastes sweet,
he thought, as he slanted his mouth more forcefully against hers, taking both of
them into deeper and ever more dangerous territory.

He’d known she would be delectable, but not like this, not so that he shook with the
longing that went far beyond any he’d ever known. Kissing her was far better than
he’d imagined—and he’d never been the kind to suffer from a shortage of imagination.

In fact, he could already picture the scene, the two of them lying naked in bed, whiling
away half the morning making love. With nothing to separate their flesh but her thin
cotton nightgown and his thin cotton drawers, divesting themselves of their clothing
would be an easy problem to remedy. A button here, a tug there, and the rest would
take care of itself.

How simple it would be to lose himself—he was half gone already, drowning in the very
scent and taste and texture of her. Her kisses might be hesitant and untutored, her
innocence plain, but her touch had more power, more beauty than that of any woman
he’d lain with before.