The Warrior Bride (12 page)

But perhaps that was best, he thought as he clenched and unclenched his fists. Of course it was. She was not the type to get involved with anyway. She was more man than maid, he told himself, but at that moment, she sighed and shifted slightly in her sleep. The blankets were pushed aside and Above them he could see that the tunic he had loaned her had not been closed. Instead, the metal-tipped laces lay lax, leaving the neck opening twisted askew so that the sweet slope of one breast was visible. His throat felt dry. His erection tightened with painful intensity.

More man than maid? Who the devil was he fooling?

At that moment she looked more angel than human and suddenly he felt hot and cold all at once. He turned abruptly and paced silently across the length of the room.

What the devil was he supposed to do now? He could sleep on the floor, but glancing at the planks beneath his feet, he winced. It looked hard and cold and lone… Well, his back ached at the sight of it. The battle, after all, had taken its toll on him, too, though he had come out better than Hunter.

She had fought like a gladiator. In fact, regardless how she looked just now, he must not forget what she was: a warrior, trained and tested in the heat of battle. No more and no less. A few of his miscellaneous body parts were eager to dispute that idea, but he assured himself it was true. She was a warrior and he had shared sleeping quarters with other warriors innumerable times. ‘Twas the way of the world. Accommodations were oft harsh. More than once he’d slept in stables or under the stars, but surely he would be a fool now to turn down the comforts of a bed. In fact, she might well be insulted if he did. She had gone out of her way to make him realize she thought of them as the same. He dare not induce her ire by implying that he disagreed.

Fatigued by his intense justification, Lachlan took a step toward the bed. She lay as before, but now, just past the edge of the tunic, he could see the darkened skin that encircled her nipple. Something hit him in the gut, or perhaps it was just lust, wound tight as a crossbow inside him. Heat flooded his face. He turned rapidly away, crossed to the wash basin, and splashed water on his cheeks. They felt coarse and unshaven. He exhaled through his mouth, straightened, and washed his hands with a bit more decorum.

All was well. All was fine. Retrieving the soap, he lathered his hands. She wasn’t really a woman. Not really a woman. He ran the thought round and round in his mind like a mantra His stomach settled. He kept scrubbing until his fingers felt raw, then, rinsing his hands, he dried them thoroughly and turned back toward the bed.

The candlelight still glowed on her face, shone on her hair, and turned her throat a golden hue. Below that Damnation, it was hot! He turned back toward the window, braced his hands on the edge of the sill and drew a deep breath.

Hot! Aye, that was the problem. He had but to cool off before he could find sleep. ‘Twas simple enough.

Tugging his tunic from beneath his belted plaid, he whipped it over his head, then found the wash rag and applied it vigorously to his chest.

Upon the bed, Hunter lay very still, breathing softly through her lips, watching him. Oh, aye, she was awake.

She wasn’t certain why she pretended to sleep. It was not because she was unsure of her feelings for him. Nay, of course not.

And obviously, she had no reason to worry about his arrival, for he could barely even look at her. Every time he turned toward the bed, she could feel his glower before he pivoted away again. She would not be at all surprised if he chose to sleep on the floor, but there was no need for such foolish chivalry, for it was plain she would be perfectly safe with him.

His back was toward her now as he washed his chest.

His shoulders glimmered damp where he’d swathed the rag across them and when he moved they bunched with undeniable power.

He lifted one arm. Muscles swelled and danced beneath his dark flesh and for a moment she failed to breathe, but it was only because she was worried he would discover she was awake. It wasn’t as if she were aroused. She squirmed a little, pulling her knees higher, and he turned, exposing his phenomenal torso.

Candlelight glimmered on his flesh like moonlight on waves. Shadows lay in the dells between his ribs and on the valleys of his abdominals. His belly was flat except for the hard hillocks that sloped down toward his lean hips.

Her throat felt dry, her stomach odd. She closed her eyes in earnest and refused to open them. He was just a man. A man with no interest in women. None at all. And…

The room was cast suddenly into darkness, and she knew he had extinguished the candle. In a moment he was moving, pacing toward the bed.

She dared open her eyes now, though only slightly, and through her slitted lids she could see a vague outline of him. He stood beside the mattress with his back to the window, but what he did there was a mystery. And then, even in the blackness, she saw his arms move. The sound of his sporran hitting the floor all but shook the room, and then it was up to her imagination to guess the rest for she could see little and hear less. But finally the mattress creaked and bent as he sat upon its edge. She failed to breathe as he removed his shoes and when he lay down and rolled onto his side she remained frozen, not moving a muscle.

But the seconds ticked away and all was well. In fact, he had not come beneath the blankets, but remained on the surface, probably covered by his own plaid Aye, all was well, she assured herself, but in that moment she deduced the truth.

Lachlan MacGowan, the Rogue Fox, was naked.

Lachlan awoke groggily. He was tired. And sore. And as randy as…

But in that instant, memories stormed into his mind and he jerked to his elbow to stare across the bed.

Startled from sleep, Hunter awoke immediately, snatched her knife from beneath the blanket and sat bolt upright.

From their respective positions, they stared at each other for several hard heartbeats.

“Oh.” Her voice was breathy, her eyes wide. She cleared her throat and lowered her voice an octave. “‘Tis you.”

He said nothing, but stared at her, hoping he looked casual, or maybe even bored. As if he awoke every morning to a wide-eyed warrior woman. As if his heart wasn’t threatening to leap out of his chest.

“I- ” she began and lowered the dirk, but all words were now lost to him for when she moved her hand, he saw that her tunic had slipped, revealing one creamy shoulder.

His gaze snagged on that ivory hillock. but beneath that, where the garment slanted sideways, much more was revealed, for one nipple was just visible in the tunic’s opening.

Desire crashed through him like high tide, leaving him shaky.

He tightened his grip on his plaid and remained very still.

“MacGowan!” she said, but in that instant she realized his lack of attention and lowered her own gaze. “Oh.” Her hand moved with poetic slowness, covering herself, but against the pale fabric he could now see that a flush of color brushed her throat and cheeks. “Me apologies,” she said.

“Apologies?” He hadn’t meant to say the ridiculous word aloud, but he was caught off guard and floundering rather hopelessly in the wild sea of desire.

“Aye.” She tightened her fist in the shirt’s front, pulling the fabric tight across her bosom.

God help him.

“I didn’t mean to…” She paused. The color had faded from her cheeks a bit, but her eyes still looked large enough to drown in. Her hair framed her face in bright disarray and her lips seemed extraordinarily bright. She looked like nothing more than a startled archangel. Ethereal, but dangerous.

The dual image was disarming, but hardly unmanning. He shifted uncomfortably as he searched for something to say to fill the silence. Still, try as he might, he could think about nothing but that nipple.

She licked her lips. He watched her tongue dart out and in and wished he could swallow. “I did not mean to offend you. But…” She smiled a little sheepishly. ” Highland warriors oft shed their garments before going into battle, do they not? Surely you are accustomed to it.”

“Accustomed.”

“Aye.” She nodded curtly and cleared her throat. “‘Twas wise of you to share the bed.”

He didn’t respond. She would have to survive for a few moments without his clever repartee, for he felt entirely uncertain of his ability to talk. His body felt as tight as a crossbow, arched and ready for action.

“You must ache.” He stared at her.

“You fought bravely,” she explained.

“Oh.” It was difficult to breathe, but he managed it with a Herculean effort. “You speak of the battle.”

“Aye.” She scowled a little as if he were daft, and it was entirely possible that he was, for he felt as dizzy as a dervish and as dense as a rock. “I am not sure I thanked you properly.”

He could feel his heart beating in his chest and wondered if she could see it pounding there, for now and then she glanced down from his face.

“Warriors are not always adept at…” She paused again. Her gaze darted lower, then she licked her bright lips and breathed through them for just a second. His erection thrummed to the rhythm. “I am not always good at expressing me gratitude.”

She held her dirk against the mattress now, and her borrowed tunic drooped in that direction, covering her hand to the fingertips. It seemed a strangely erotic image. He stared, first at her fingers, then at her face, trying his damnedest to avoid everything in between, for if the truth be told, he could barely trust himself with those two innocuous body parts.

She cleared her throat. “And what of you, MacGowan?”

It took him a moment to realize she’d asked a question. “What’s that?” Perhaps quick-wittedness was not his forte, but he liked to think he was somewhat brighter than he sounded at that very moment.

“We are much alike, you and I. I but wondered if you have trouble…” She shrugged. Her shoulder nudged into view another half an inch. “Expressing your emotions. After all, I think we do not, either one of us, fit into the usual mold.”

“And what mold is that?”

She shrugged again. The strain was beginning to tell on him as he waited with bated breath for the tunic to fall like the damned walls of Jericho.

“You were raised as a laird’s son, used to fine trappings and willing maids, and yet you have turned them aside. Instead, you have chosen a warrior’s path so that none will suspect…” She paused. A glimmer of worry troubled her brow.

He pulled his attention from her shoulder with an effort and concentrated on her expression. “Suspect what?”

She stared at him. “I do not mean to offend you, MacGowan.”

“And I am not offended,” he said, though the first glimmer of foreboding was souring his stomach. “What will none suspect?”

“I know the truth,” she said, holding his gaze. Her expression was resolute, her delectable lips slightly pursed.

He waited for her to continue. She remained silent for some time and when she finally spoke her words were measured.

“Some think it a great advantage in a warrior,” she said. “Indeed, in days of yore, your kind were much revered.”

He canted his head at her, confused and still aching. ‘The Roman army encouraged it in fact. I have done some study of history. I know it to be true. They considered their soldiers to be more content, indeed, more self-sufficient if they were… like you.”

Something twisted in his stomach. He narrowed his eyes. “Like me?”

“You needn’t worry,” she said. “I’ll tell no one.” “And what is it you’ll not tell?”

She scowled at him, but delayed not a moment longer. ‘That you’ve a fondness for other men.”

“Fond…!” He bounded from the bed in one leap and grabbed his plaid as he did so, but in his wild dismay, his fingers barely worked. The woolen slipped. He caught it before it hit the floor and dragged it back in front of his body. “You think I favor men?”

Her eyes had gone suddenly wide. She watched him unblinking, sitting rigid upon the bed. “As I said it matters not to me, MacGowan. I-”

“Holy mother!” he gritted and bunching the fabric sloppily about his waist, stormed from the room would leave her in Jedburgh after she’d discovered his secret. But she’d been wrong. Minutes later, she’d found him in the stable, silently throwing a saddle onto his stallion. In fact, he’d been silent most of the time since. And it had been many hours. But this was the end of their travels together. She would see to that.

“Well, MacGowan…” She halted Knight and faced him as the sun sank into the west. “This is where you turn back.”

He glowered at her. There had been a lot of that recently, mostly in lieu of conversation. “I say when I turn back, laddie.”

He said the word with some scorn, and she regretted again having spilled his secret. After all, it was obviously a sore spot, and he was trying harder than ever to prove his onerous masculinity.

“Nay,” she said, and straightened slightly. Her back ached from hours in the saddle. She could only assume that his did too. “‘Tis me own decision, MacGowan, and I say you leave off here.”

“Do you?” Perhaps he’d been difficult before, but now challenge seemed to flow from his every pore. “And why is that… laddie?”

“It matters not why… champion.” Her own ire was rising steadily. After all, it wasn’t her fault that he was attracted to men. In fact, if she could change that fact… Well, the point was… she didn’t care who he was attracted to. She raised her chin and stared at him from beneath her helmet’s visor. “‘Tis simply that I’ll not have you trailing along any farther.”

”Trailing along.” He leaned toward her aggressively.

His neck, she realized, was the approximate size of her

Hunter stole a glance sideways. He was still there and, truth to tell, she was surprised, for she’d thought he waist. A vein throbbed in it just now. “So that’s what I’ve been doing, is it?” he asked and pressed his steed toward her.