The Hunter (29 page)

Janet was glad he didn’t seem to expect a response, as she was having a difficult enough time breathing. The sensations his hands wreaked on her body were commanding all her attention. Instinctively she arched into his hand, having discovered rather quickly that pressure increased the sensations.

But she hadn’t anticipated the feeling of his fingers on her nipple. The rough pad of his thumb over the sensitive, throbbing peak nearly sent her jumping out of her skin again, as another one of those lightning rods sent a flash of energy shooting through what seemed to be every nerve-ending in her body.

He made a harsh sound before his mouth covered hers again.

She sensed he’d reached the end of his rope. His kiss was no longer punishing, but determined. Every stroke of his tongue, every touch of his hands on her body, seemed calculated
to increase her passion, to bring her closer and closer to something that hovered just out of her reach.

She shivered with anticipation.

He lifted his head. “Are you cold?”

Aroused beyond measure
. She shook her head, managing a breathy, “Hot.”

“Good.” His eyes darkened. “You’re about to be even hotter.”

She shuddered again, hearing the sensual promise in his raspy voice.

He was as good as his word. A moment later when his mouth found her breast, she thought she’d fallen to the fiery bowels of hell, for surely it must be a sin to feel this good.

She cried out as his tongue circled her nipple and he began to suck. Gently at first, and then a little harder, as she arched deeper into his mouth.

The heat. The scrape of his chin. The silky brush of his hair on her skin.

It was too much.

It wasn’t enough.

She started to squirm in frustration, and he finally gave her the relief she unknowingly sought.

His tongue laved and flicked against her nipple at the same time that his fingers brushed between the juncture of her thighs.

She stilled, instinct telling her what he was about to do. She had a moment of panic. Twenty-seven years of maidenhood, of holding on to her chastity like a holy relic, was not relinquished without a small pang of uncertainty. Was this wrong?

Almost as if he’d heard her unspoken question, he lifted his head. Their eyes met, and any uncertainty she had faded in the intensity of emotion she saw mirrored in his gaze.

And then he touched her.
There
. In the place she’d unknowingly reserved for him for this moment.

Pleasure bloomed from deep inside her like a flower unfurling its velvety petals in the sun, as he held her gaze and stroked her. It was magical. Beautiful. The most natural, perfect thing in the world. How could it be wrong?

The sensations were building faster now, racing at a frantic pace toward a determinable end. And moments later when she looked into his eyes, as he stroked her to the very peak of passion, when her breath caught, her body clenched, and warmth spread over every inch of her, shattering into a blinding light, Janet knew something else: she was very glad she wasn’t a nun.

Ewen was lost the moment he looked into her eyes. Seeing her break apart, watching the passion spread over her face in sensual euphoria, swollen lips parted, cheeks flushed and eyes soft with pleasure, unleashed something inside him that could not be held back.

Lust surged through him, unlike any he’d ever experienced. It was more powerful. More intense. Deeper. It filled not just his cock—which was as hard as a pillar of marble—but his bones, his blood, every inch of his body, including a part of him that he wished it didn’t: his heart.

His need for her was elemental. Like water and food, and the air he breathed, he had to have her.

The last ebb of her release had yet to fade before he had her on the ground, the discarded plaid underneath her.

He fumbled with his braies.
Next time
, he swore. Next time he would make it perfect. This time he’d be lucky if he lasted a few minutes.

He was out of control, past the point of reason, his body moving on its own command. He didn’t want to let himself think. Blood pounded through his body, in his head. Sweat gathered on his brow. He’d never wanted anything so intensely in his life.

Blissfully cold air hit his hot skin as he released himself from the painfully binding braies. He moved himself into position, levering his body over hers, inches—seconds—from sweet relief.

He was hard as a spike, red and throbbing. Painfully throbbing. I-need-to-come-right-now throbbing. A drop escaped in wicked anticipation.

His teeth clenched. A few more seconds …

He couldn’t wait for that first exquisite moment of contact, when the hot, sensitive tip would meet warm, feminine dampness. He could almost feel her tight and warm around him, a velvety tight glove, gripping … squeezing … milking. His buttocks clenched.

Her eyes fluttered open. The smile that spread across her face squeezed his chest like a vise, cutting off his already labored breathing. So beautiful …

“That was wonderful. I never imagined …” She looked up at him. “Is there more?”

Greedy lass!
He smiled. “Aye, this is only the beginning. I am going to make you—”

Mine
.

He stilled. The word jarring something inside of him, rousing his conscience from its drugged slumber.

“Make me what?” she said gamely. She glanced down, eyes widening as they fell on him. “Oh … 
Oh
!”

Her eyes shot back to him uncertainly, and with more than a little fear. It wasn’t without cause. He was built for a woman’s pleasure.

But she wasn’t a woman, she was a maid.

Is
a maid, he corrected.

Every muscle in his body flexed with restraint. It would be so easy to surge inside. He bowed his head, his body shaking, fighting for control as the need of his body warred with his mind. A mind he wanted to shut off.

Just finish. You can make it good for her. She wanted this. It’s too late, damn it
.

But it wasn’t too late. Not yet.

She isn’t yours. But she can be. A few more inches, and you can make it so
.

But at what cost? Everything he’d been fighting to achieve? Was he like his father after all?

He swore, not realizing he’d uttered the vile oath aloud until she gasped.

“What’s wrong?” She reached up and touched his taut face.

He shrugged her off and pulled away, every instinct in his body roaring in protest.

“I can’t do this.”

“Why not?”

He was already on his feet, moving away. He couldn’t look at her; the emotion in her voice was eating away at him enough. He needed a minute—more than a minute—to get himself under control. “There’s some soap and some extra clothes in my bag. Wash off the damned flowers. As soon as you are done we can go.”

Walking away was the hardest thing Ewen had ever done. He cursed every step that took him away from her. His honor and loyalty had been pushed to the very breaking point, leaving him nowhere to go.

Sixteen

Janet didn’t understand what had just happened. One minute he was there with her, and they were as close as two people could be; the next he was somewhere else. Somewhere she couldn’t reach. The fierceness of his expression alarmed her. He looked broken—tortured. She called after him as he walked away, but he acted as if he hadn’t heard her and continued on.

Leaving her flat. Literally, on her back. If she weren’t so confused, she might have felt like crying. How dare he leave her like this! She’d been ready—eager—to experience it all. She’d given herself to him, and he’d rejected her.

Alone, and without the heat of his body, she shivered. The chill of the misty morning once again seeped into her bones. But it was nothing compared to what was to come. With no choice but to do what he said, she then spent two—perhaps three—of the most unpleasant minutes of her life, bathing in the icy pool of water below the falls.

Forcing her feet off the rocky ledge was no mean feat. Only knowing that she was to blame for the English tracking them compelled her forward. She jumped. To say the water was a shock was an understatement of prodigious proportions. It leached every bit of sensation from her bones, taking her lethargy and any lingering memory of what had just happened with it. But she would never forget. He’d shown her a glimpse of heaven, and nothing could take that away. Not him. Not the water. Nothing.

Sputtering to the surface, she scrubbed her hair and limbs with the sliver of plain soap, attempting not only to erase the “reek” of bluebells, but also to keep the blood moving so she didn’t freeze to death.

Getting out didn’t provide much relief. Her teeth were still clattering minutes later when he returned. She didn’t have to ask where he’d been. From his damp hair, she realized that he, too, had bathed, albeit farther down the river.

His gaze swept over her. If he was pleased to see that she’d done as he bid, she couldn’t tell. All evidence of the tortured expression was gone from his face, his features once again schooled into a blank mask.

The lack of emotion rankled. How could he be so unaffected, when she was so
very
affected? Her mouth pursed, anger breaking through some of the confusion.

“Do you need any help?”

Apparently, he’d noticed the difficulty she was having getting dressed. Though she’d managed to don one of his shirts and a pair of wool breeches, the shirt was already half-sopping from her wet hair and her fingers weren’t cooperating as she tried to pull on the hose.

She shook her head. As a peace offering—if that’s what it was—it wasn’t enough. He’d rejected her, leaving her like that, and she wasn’t going to let him pretend it had never happened. As if putting
on
her clothes could blot the evidence from memory!

She was just about to wrap herself in the plaid again, when he stopped her. “You can’t wear anything you had on before. We’ll leave it with the other things.”

“But it belongs to Eoin, and it’s
warm
.”

She thought his mouth pulled a little tighter. “MacLean will understand.” Ewen took off his own plaid and handed it to her. “You can wear mine.”

Their eyes held for one long heartbeat, as if there were some kind of significance beyond the heat it would offer, but then he looked away, and the moment was gone.

She took the plaid and quickly wrapped it around herself, unable to hold back the sigh of pleasure as warmth enveloped her frozen limbs. The heat from his body seemed captured in the intricate weave of the woolen threads. If she inhaled (which she did), she could just catch a faint scent of the familiar pine and leather.

After a few minutes she was warm enough to finish dressing. She gathered the sopping strands of her hair into a tight braid at the nape of her neck and fastened her boots. At least he hadn’t insisted she go barefoot.

He held out a piece of rope, which she looked at blankly.

“For the breeches,” he explained. “The ties don’t seem to be working very well.”

Indeed, she had to constantly yank the pants up from riding down over her hips. Still, they were better than her other options: her habit or the fine gown Mary had sent for her to appear in at court.

She tucked the linen shirt into the breeches and bunched it around her waist, using the rope as a belt. Noticing the way his eyes fell on her hips, lingering with almost palpable hunger for a moment until he forced his gaze away, she made sure to take her time. Petty revenge perhaps, but it proved surprisingly satisfactory.

The added belt helped, and a few moments later, after he’d bound her old borrowed clothing around a pile of rocks and tossed it in the pool, he gathered their belongings to go.

But Janet wasn’t ready to leave. Not without an explanation.

She caught his arm before he could walk away. “Why did you stop like that? Did I do something wrong?”

His jaw clenched, his steel-blue gaze meeting hers. “Not now, Janet. We need to move higher into the hills. They will not have given up the hunt.”

“Perhaps not, but unless you think they are right behind
us, surely you can spare me a few minutes? Do I not deserve some kind of explanation?”

His expression turned pained. “You did nothing wrong. It was my fault. It never should have happened.”

“Why not?”

His eyes flared hot. “Because it’s not right. Your innocence belongs to your husband, damn it.”

Janet stiffened, trying not to overreact or be disappointed. His reaction was understandable—that was how most men thought. But she didn’t want him to think like most men. She wanted him to see her for herself and not as a possession or accessory. Was that too much to ask?

At times she could almost be convinced he was different. That his unreasonableness was just a result of inexperience. That he didn’t know any better, but that once he got to know her, he would see her as … what? Capable. Certainly not a virgin to be bartered and sold like a prized cow.

“My innocence belongs to me,” she said firmly. “It is mine to lose or not.”

“I wish that were true. But it isn’t that simple, Janet. You are the daughter of an earl and the sister-in-law of the king. Your husband will expect—”