Taming the Barbarian (13 page)

“Tell me, lady,” he growled, “do ye disdesire to live?”

“Disde—”

“Could ye na think a simpler way to kill yerself?”

She shifted slightly. Through the fragile fabric of her night rail, he could feel the bulb of her nipple brush his chest, but her eyes never flickered away, as if she were completely unaware of her compromised position. “Did you destroy my gown?” she breathed. “Did you set the fire?”

He scowled, taken aback, then shook his head, trying to comprehend her words. “The fire I only just drew ye from?”

She watched him in silence as if she could read his mind, but he hoped desperately that she could not, for even now his body was wreaking havoc with his roiling thoughts. How long had it been since he’d held a bonny maid in his arms? How long since he’d felt the softness of her skin against his flesh.

“Who sent you?” she asked.

His mind sprinted back to the matter at hand. He had troubles far deeper than simple lust. He was in a time and place he did not know, for reasons he could not quite fathom.

“Mayhap ‘tis ye who should answer that question,” he said.

She reared back slightly, pressing her hip against his groaning erection. “No one sent me. This is my home.”

He watched her narrowly. “Ye are na a fool,” he said, “though ye sometimes act it.”

“Why thank you, Sir Killian. And you are not an overbearing warthog though—”

“I but meant that mayhap ye could tell me why I have been called here.”

“What?” She reared back even farther.

He gritted his teeth against the torturous feel of her movement against his ancient desire. “I believe ye know much ye are na saying.”

Her face was pale and perfect in the flickering half-light, her eyes round and innocent, but he had learned long ago to distrust a woman’s softness. Even now he remembered silvery eyes and a bewitching smile. Even now he felt the pain though he could not quite identify it. Oh, yes, women knew the weakness they wrought in men. They knew, and they used the effects against them.

“About what?” she breathed. Her lips remained slightly parted. They looked as red as poppy petals and just as soft. The muscles in his arms bunched helplessly against her back. Beneath her half-naked legs, his thighs ached with tension.

“Sir Killian?” she murmured.

He came to with a start.

“I think ye ken why I am here,” he managed.

She blinked and tilted her head slightly. The smooth length of her elegant throat shifted slightly, making a sweeping V down beneath her gown. The laces had come undone and lay loose against her breasts. Even in the uncertain candlelight, he could see the intoxicating bulbs of her nipples through the pale fabric.

“You don’t know why you’ve come?” she asked.

He swallowed, trying to think, to relax, but she shifted again, and his erection danced frantically against his belly. He could feel his face redden. Women had been an anomaly in his world, a rare and delicate hallucination in the midst of battle-ready warriors.

“Then why are you here?” She was watching him closely. He could not help but wonder if she could see the blush on his cheeks. He squirmed slightly and found that the movement only made matters worse, for now her hip pressed up hard against his shaft. “What do you want?” she asked.

Well now, finally a question he could answer, he thought frantically. He wanted her. Her softness, her toughness, her sassy tongue, her sunny laughter. Oh aye, he wanted her desperately. But he would not say so to her. Never to her. So he deepened his scowl.

Intimidation had rarely failed him in the past.

“Methinks ye know what I want.” He was breathing hard, and his head felt light. “Ye are na a nidget, despite evidence to the contrary.”

Her lips tilted slightly, as if she almost smiled. “Are you…” She paused, watching him. His erection bucked. He shifted again, trying to push her farther away… maybe. She reached up, steadying herself with a hand against his arm.

He froze like a startled stag beneath the touch of her fingers.

“Might you be trying to compliment me in your own incomprehensible manner?” she asked.

He deepened his scowl and hoped quite desperately he wouldn’t pass out. God’s truth, if he passed out, he would fall on his own sword and be done with it. “I am na the sort of man to spew foolish flattery, lass,” he rumbled.

And then she laughed. The sound was like magic, light and clear and as bonny as a skylark’s song. “No,” she said, “you do not seem like the flirtatious sort.” She tilted her chin down. Tiny, nearly indiscernible freckles were sprinkled across the bridge of her upturned nose, and diffused candlelight shone like stars in the evergreen innocence of her eyes. “Indeed…” She paused, and her expression grew serious. “You do not seem like any sort ever I’ve met.”

He scowled. He was not a bonny man, and he well knew it. Long ago, his nose had been smashed by a Frenchman wielding an ax. He remembered the man’s face as if it had been yesterday. Killian’s nose had never healed properly. Neither had the Frenchman, but he’d left his mark, and the scar that split Killian’s brow could not be considered handsome.

Yet she stared at him from nerve-wracking closeness and did not seem repulsed. His wick danced beneath the unnatural confines of his trews. Why would grown men wear such foolish garb? It was far easier to hide one’s appreciation for the fairer sex beneath a rough plaid and horsehide sporran. But maybe men in this time and place were not so easily moved. Indeed, that must be the case, for this irresistible maid moved freely among them with little seeming concern that she might be accosted at any moment. Indeed, women were constantly parading the streets in little more than a sheet to cover them from their nipples down.

And now the thought of nipples made his mind go numb and his wick dance like a sapling in the wind.

“Where do you come from?” she asked.

Another age, another time, another truth. But he could not tell her. Indeed, he could not understand it himself.

“I am Scot,” he said simply.

She still watched him. Still no repulsion, and why was that? The English had long detested the Scots, and round about, if the truth be told. “I had guessed as much,” she said, and gave him the flicker of a smile that made his breath catch tight in his throat. “I but wonder where Hiltsglen might be.”

” ‘Tis well up in the high lands,” he said, and tried to continue to breathe, though desire was like a hot brand within him.

“Is that where you obtained this?” she asked, and, lifting a hand, ran her finger ever so slowly along the scar that marred his brow and nose.

The touch of her fingers felt like magic, like the caress of a fairy’s wand.

“Sir Hiltsglen?” she asked.

He jerked back to reality with a snarl, bolted to his feet, and dumped her onto the bed.

Her night rail, displaced by the sudden motion, slipped past her knees to her thighs and pooled like forbidden waters around her barely hidden womanhood.

He stood transfixed, bunching his fists and trying to breathe.

“Wha—” she began, but he took a shaky step to the rear.

“Dunna light the wick, if ye’ve no means to douse the flame,” he snarled, and, hardening his faltering resolve, turned on his heel and marched down the stairs.

W
hat the devil was the matter with her? Fleurette sat at her desk, staring numbly out the window. From below, the sound of a hammer striking steel mingled with the hum of men’s voices as they worked. They would be producing the first Eddings vis à vis today, but she couldn’t quite seem to dredge up her usual enthusiasm.

Closing her eyes, she rubbed them wearily, and in the back of her head, she saw Killian’s face. He was not pretty, not flashy. Indeed, he was wholly unlike the elegant men of the
ton
, for there seemed to be no subterfuge to him, no sly cleverness. He was what he was. Solid and honest and—

Good Lord, what was she thinking? She didn’t know if he was honest. She didn’t even know why he kept appearing at the most unlikely times. Was he attracted to her? Did he find her unforgettable just as—

Dammit! Why the hell would she care? Didn’t she have enough problems as it was? Someone had breached the privacy of her home and destroyed her clothing. And though she had questioned the servants, none had given her any clues to the perpetrator. Thus, she had merely warned them to be on their guard. But there was no guarantee that that same someone couldn’t do something just as disturbing again. Or something far worse.

Indeed, her stable had nearly burned to the ground. Her beloved horses had almost been killed. And for all she knew it might well have been the barbarian himself who was the source of all her problems.

“Dunna ignite the wick, if ye’ve na means to douse the flame.”

For heaven’s sakes. What did that mean? She tried to chuckle at the idiocy of his statement, but her laughter emerged as a stifled groan. Her head made a clunking sound as she dropped it onto her desktop. She knew exactly what he’d meant, despite his archaic speech. She was, after all, no blushing virgin. She was a widow, for pity’s sake, experienced, seasoned, practical.

So why the hell had she been sitting on his lap? On his lap, for God’s sake! She felt the blush burn her ears. Oh yes, she’d like to believe he’d held her there by force, that he had overpowered her, and maybe for a time he had. Indeed, he was certainly capable of such a feat.

Without the least bit of trouble she could remember the strength of his arms as he’d crushed her to his chest. Holy heaven, he’d snatched her onto his stallion as if she weighed no more than a summer shawl. And still, several days later, she could easily recall the shift of his muscular thighs against hers. The entire episode had been like a dream, like an ancient, romantic vignette from times long past. The beleaguered maiden, fighting against all odds, and the chivalrous knight, charging up on his black destrier to save her. The determination of his granite expression as he sat the rearing stallion, his face illumined by the flickering blaze. The deep rumble of his voice. The flare of flame in his narrowed eyes. The glisten of his charger’s black hide. The sheer drama of it was breathtaking. As if—

Damn it all! She jerked to her feet and roamed her office like a caged hound.

And that was another thing! The hound. Where the deuce had that unearthly animal emerged from? In the uncertain light and the roaring fear of the blaze, it had looked as big as a stag and ungodly feral.

She snorted at her own foolishness. Obviously, her idiotically girlish fantasies were driving her mad.

Still… She paused by the window to gaze down at the street below. Barbarian or no barbarian, Hiltsglen had saved her horses. Indeed, it might well be that he had saved her very life.

For just a moment, Fleur let herself dwell on the panic, allowed herself to remember the pealing terror of her cherished herd.

Aye, he may have saved them all.

On the other hand, perhaps it was he who started the flame at the outset. How had he known about the blaze unless he had ignited it himself? And why had he been close enough to be aware of it? Was he watching her? Was he lingering in the woods nearby? Was it he who had snuck into her home? She had oft felt that she was being observed, but that had hardly begun just since his arrival. Indeed, it had often seemed that she was not alone, even in the absence of others. But try as she might, she could not imagine the Scotsman skulking about her house. If he wanted to come in, it seemed likely that he would tear down the door and enter at will. In fact—

“My lady.”

She almost screamed as she jerked toward the door of her office.

Mr. Benson stood in the opening, one hand on the door latch, the other fearfully clutching his hat. “My apologies,” he said, bobbing his balding head. “I did not mean to startle you.”

“No. No.” It was all but impossible to draw her breath, but she managed it, then paced fretfully back to her chair and seated herself. “I was lost in thought is all. What can I do for you, Mr. Benson?”

His eyes shifted toward the window and back. She tensed. Stanley Benson was a fine overseer and a wise advisor, but he had never been entirely comfortable about working for a woman, and he had never quite determined how best to deliver bad news. In fact, he tended to look exactly as he did now when there was a less-than-favorable turn of events.

“What is it?” she asked.

He cleared his throat. ” ‘Tis regarding Lord Gardner’s quarry, my lady.”

“His quarry?” She felt somewhat relieved. After the goings-on of the past few days, she found it quite simple to imagine much worse. Indeed, if nothing had caught on fire and no one was threatening her life, all seemed quite perfect.

“You asked me to purchase the stonery and the land that surrounds it,” he said, and nodded jerkily as if he feared she may have forgotten.

“Oh, yes. Of course.” She gave him an encouraging smile. “Is Lord Gardner being stubborn?”

Benson cleared his throat again. His Adam’s apple bobbed like a drinking chicken’s. “I’m afraid he ahhh… I’m afraid he offered the land to another.”

“To…” She half rose, then settled back into her chair and drew a deep breath. “To whom?”

He blinked. His eyes were watery and pale. A tic winked in his left cheek. “I believe the gentleman’s name is Sir Hiltsglen.”

She leapt to her feet. Her chair exploded to the floor behind her. “What?”

He actually took a step backward, as if he half expected her to fly across the room and attack him. Mrs. Benson was said to have a quick temper.

“I am sorry,” he said, and, judging by his expression, he truly was. “But I fear—”

“Well, that’s unacceptable,” she said, and paced the room once again. “You shall return to Lord Gardner and convince him to accept our offer.”

“But—”

“It does not matter what is required.”

“I fear—”

“Mr. Benson.” She straightened her back and looked him in the eye, not a simple task, since his tended to stray rather wildly. “That land once belonged to my dear husband’s estate.”

“I realize that, my lady, but—”