The Reiver (2 page)

As he watched her tear off a hunk of the bread and wrap it around the sausage, he pondered what name to give her today.

It was a game he had devised since her second day at Lochmorton. At each meal, he greeted her with a different name, hoping she might betray by some small reaction her true first name. She had, of course, never so much as flinched as he worked his way through all of the more common women’s names, both Scottish and English, and a few much more uncommon ones as well. At this point, he was fairly well out of likely options, but he wasn’t about to give up the game.

When she opened her small, bow-shaped mouth wide to encompass the makeshift sausage roll, which bore an undeniable resemblance to a phallus, Duncan went soft and hard all in the same moment. Of course, she immediately spoiled the effect by sinking her teeth into the sausage and tearing a large bite from it, but the sheer bliss that suffused her features as she chewed was equally, if not more, erotic. Christ, he wanted to see that look on her face when she was naked and spread out beneath him. He wanted that look to be for
him
.

His body’s response was an absolute puzzle to him. In any other circumstance, he would likely not have given her a second glance. Although six weeks of proper meals had eliminated the emaciated, hunted look she’d had that first night and filled out some of her curves, she had
not
been binding her breasts as he had suspected. The dark green gown she wore—a cast-off from his sister, Alys—fit well enough from top to bottom and across the shoulders, but gaped at the chest despite obvious attempts at alteration.

Duncan found himself trying to catch a peek down the bodice as she bent over her trencher. He cursed himself. Even when he couldn’t think of a single reason to be attracted to her, he couldn’t stop thinking about bedding her. It was perverse. She was nothing he thought he wanted in a woman…and everything he desired.

And that gave him this morning’s name.

“Good morrow, Venus.”

He expected the same response he always got, which was, of course, none. So he was surprised when she raised her chin with a jerk and fixed him with a blistering stare. A casual observer might have called her eyes brown or perhaps hazel, but to Duncan, her eyes were the color of the moors—a dark, mossy green flecked with rich brown and bright gold—and like the moors, they could appear at one moment soft and inviting, at another fierce and forbidding.

At the moment, their mood was definitely the latter. “It is one thing to attempt to make me betray myself, but quite another to openly mock me, sir.”

Duncan’s eyebrows went up. “Whatever makes you think I’m mocking you?”

“I have looked in a mirror on more than one occasion,” she said with a snort, “and I am well aware I am no man’s ideal of feminine beauty.”

“Perhaps you have spent your life in the company of the wrong men.”

“And if you think you will trick me into revealing who those men are with such a transparent attempt at flattery, you are bound for disappointment.”

Duncan blinked. Of course, he hadn’t been thinking that at all, but he
should
have been. After two months of good food and a warm bed, she ought to be softening by now. Any other woman would have cracked, he was sure. Yet if anything, his reiver seemed to be digging her heels in even more. It was almost as if she
wanted
him to execute her.

Christ, what sort of a monster did she take him for?

The sort who plans to execute her loved ones if she reveals their identity, his conscience pointed out.

But that was the way of the border. Reivers must be brought to account. She knew it as well as he did, which was no doubt why she guarded her secrets the way a vestal virgin guarded her virtue.

She didn’t trust him, and she shouldn’t. But he wished, with a heavy ache in his chest, that it were otherwise.

There was no denying it: Lochmorton Castle was a happy place. Everyone had enough to eat, warm clothes, and a solid roof over their heads. Children frolicked in the courtyard when the weather was good and in the hall when it was not. The clansfolk went about their daily tasks with great cheer, unconcerned about what the morrow would bring.

And it was all because of
him
. The Maxwell.

They could do nothing but sing his praises. Since he had become chieftain two years ago upon his father’s untimely death at Dryfe Sands, the clan’s fortunes had been utterly transformed. The livestock were plentiful, the crops meticulously tended, the larders well-stocked. They felt safe and secure. No one dared to threaten Duncan Maxwell openly, and though the occasional raid could not be prevented—
begging your pardon for mentioning it, miss
—they had never in memory been so prosperous or content.

The worst part of it was that their contentment was contagious. She had expected to be treated with disdain, or even contempt. Instead, she had received nothing but kindness. When the women had discovered that she could not sew, and so could not alter the gowns they thoughtfully provided her, they did not deride her, but rather offered to do the task themselves or to teach her if she was willing to learn.

After a lifetime of being told that the Maxwells were the root of all evil, it was disorienting, and she had slowly found herself admiring Duncan Maxwell in spite of herself. He was everything a clan chieftain should be—wise, strong, dependable, and honest.

In short, everything her uncle was not.

As her hatred had seeped out of her over the course of the past few weeks, it was replaced with something even more difficult to bear: the hopeless, soul-deep longing that he could be hers.

Which was why, when he had called her Venus this morning at breakfast, she had reacted so sharply and uncharacteristically. She wanted more than anything for him to find her beautiful and desirable, but she knew such a wish was as foolish as it was impossible. Yet, when he’d looked at her with his sharp blue eyes and told her she must have spent her life in the company of the wrong men, her throat had thickened with the realization that it was true. Her family was nothing
but
wrong men, although perhaps not in precisely the way Duncan Maxwell implied.

Still, she could not betray them. Despite their many shortcomings, they were her flesh and blood.

One thing was clear, however. If she stayed here at Lochmorton much longer, the Maxwell clan would become more of a family to her than her flesh and blood had ever been and pleasing Duncan Maxwell more important to her than a lifetime of loyalties.

She had to do something drastic. And soon.

When Reva didn’t appear at mealtime for the third morning in a row, Duncan went looking for her. Although she’d lost her gaunt, emaciated appearance, she was still too thin to stop eating. If she was fasting in the hopes he’d feel guilty and release her, she needed to be disabused of that notion immediately. And if she was ill—God forbid—he would see to her care.

He did not find her in her chamber, which came as something of a relief, for if she could exercise her freedom to roam the castle at will, she could not be sick—or at least not terribly so. After fruitless searches of several common rooms, he located her at last on the upper floor of the tower.

She stood in front of a tall, narrow window to the left of the stairs, her forehead pressed against the glass as she surveyed the harsh landscape that spread out below. The sky was overcast, and so the light filtering in through the wavy glass illuminated her profile in a cool, silvery glow.

“I do hope you are not planning to jump,” he said, hoping to inject a bit of levity.

At the sound of his voice, she turned to look at him. Her expression was so bleak, Duncan’s heart wrenched as if it were trying to twist its way out of his chest. For a few seconds, he was terrified that she really would go so far as to throw herself to her death just to escape him. Was he really that horrible a beast for doing what any other sensible landowner would do in his position?

A wry smile flitted across her lips. “I suppose if I did, it would rather severely damage my value as a hostage.”

Her words cut him to the quick.

“Do you really believe that is the only reason your death would pain me?”

She shrugged. “What other reason could there be?”

He shouldn’t have been surprised. He shouldn’t have been insulted. But he was. Umbrage collided with pent-up lust and frustration. With three strides, he devoured the broad expanse of floor separating them, grabbed her upper arms, and yanked her against his chest.

“What other reason? How about this?” he growled before crushing his mouth to hers in a fierce, hungry kiss.

To his surprise, she didn't try to pull away or resist, but instead parted her lips to accept the demanding thrust of his tongue. And then she went further, answering his strokes with small feints and parries of her own. He groaned and framed her face with his hands, angling her head to ensure the best possible access to the butter-sweet territory of her mouth. She wound her arms around his neck in response, answering him measure for measure, and he found himself grinding his rising erection against the slight swell of her belly.

She nestled against him like a tiny, delicate bird. The difference in their size and strength should have alarmed him. He had the power to crush her without even trying, and yet, he didn't for a second fear the possibility, for like the heather she might appear small and lovely and fragile, but she was strong and enduring and utterly suited to this world, a product of its harsh, unforgiving landscape.

And this kiss—this dark, needful, ardent kiss—felt like the first truly honest interaction they'd ever had. For once, she wasn't ignoring or evading or resisting his questions, but telling him with her lips and her tongue and her ragged breathing exactly what she was thinking and feeling. Things like
please
and
don’t stop
and most of all—
more.
And damned if he wasn’t thinking and feeling the same things. He might well have borne her to the cold, hard stone floor and taken her right then and there had not the flavor of salt interrupted his enjoyment of the moment.

He paused. It tasted like...tears.

She was weeping. Silently, even as she continued to kiss him without reservation, tears streamed from her eyes and mingled with the sweet, tangy taste of her mouth.

He broke the kiss and raised his head. Her eyes were glazed—both with passion and with misery. Christ, what was he doing to her? Perhaps he was capable of crushing her, after all. "Please do not cry. I do not want to hurt you."

"Then let me go," she whispered.

"You know I cannot do that." Although now he wasn't sure why he couldn't. Was it because he had to punish the raiders for challenging his authority and stealing his clan's property? Or just because he wanted to keep her for his own selfish and impure reasons? He wasn't even sure which notion he hated the least. But he knew one thing for certain: releasing her was not an option.

She turned her head and gazed out the window again. "Perhaps I should have jumped."

Panic gripped his chest. "Do not say that. You would not."

"Nay, you're right. I would not. I'm far too great a coward." She swiped at her eyes and gave him a watery smile. "And perhaps a wee bit melodramatic. I’m not accustomed to being cooped up indoors for such long periods of time, you see."