The Warrior Bride (22 page)

She batted her eyes at him. “I am, after all, a maid.”

“Sometimes.”

Her gaze held his. “You think I cannot do this?” He didn’t answer.

“You think I cannot gain his interest.” “I did not say that.”

“But you think it, don’t you, MacGowan,” she said and rose slowly to her feet. Water sprayed over him, but his throat went dry and his cock went crazy. Every inch of her was revealed, absolutely naked, damp and glowing, with water running over her like loving hands.

“Don’t you?” she repeated.

He rose stiffly to his feet. It was not a simple task. ‘Twas easier to walk with a leg wound than an erection. “You do not plan to seduce the marquis, lass.”

“Because I cannot?”

“Because…” It was difficult to think, harder still to put the thoughts into coherent words. “Because it is not in you. You might kill him or you might-”

“But I cannot seduce him,” she repeated and stepped from the tub. They were inches apart.

Lachlan swallowed hard. From this distance his cock could almost reach her and it was giving it a hell of a try. Unfortunately, his towel was a deterrent.

“Because,” she continued. “Although you’ve been telling me all along that I am a maid, you do not truly believe it. So what am I, MacGowan?” She took a brief step toward him, doing naught to cover herself. ‘Twas impossible to know if he should grab her or run. “Not quite a man, but not a woman either. So I am nothing. Is that the case?”

“I did not say-”

“I tell you this, champion,” she murmured. She was so near that her peaked breasts almost touched his chest. Her hair curled like magic against the cranberry hue of her nipples. His teeth hurt from clenching them. “I am what I choose to be, and I do what I choose to do. And if that includes seducing the marquis…” For one breathless moment she was silent and then she tilted her head to the side and pressed her lips to his. Her fingers slipped around his neck and her mouth moved, lightly, like a fairy’s kiss. Like a maiden’s kiss. Like utopia. But he fought the madness. She was playing him like a harp, using him, toying with him, and he knew better than to succumb. But just at that moment her nipple brushed against his chest.

Desire roared through him like a kitchen fire. He reached for her with a moan.

His hand curled about her waist, but in that instant the kiss was broken off, and something cold and sharp pressed against his ribs.

He gritted his teeth and closed his eyes. Damn, it was the dirk.

“Tell me again how I cannot seduce him, MacGowan.”

His erection throbbed between them. Perhaps she wouldn’t notice.

“In truth, lass, I said no such thing.”

She raised a brow. ”Then you admit that I can?”

“I am certain you could seduce a hay fork if you set your mind to it.”

Her lips parted slightly. It took every bit of his horribly lacking strength to keep from kissing her.

“But that is not why you plan to go there,” he said. ”Then what is me plan?”

They were still close. So terribly close that he ached, truly ached to have her.

“I do not know,” he said and releasing her, endeavored to take a step to the rear. Self-restraint was not his forte and for a moment he thought his legs might actually refuse to do his bidding. But in the end they did. Damn legs. ”That is why I will be going with you to visit the marquis.”

She raised the knife and her eyes narrowed. ”This I tell you, MacGowan, you will not be traveling with me again.”

He smiled and, touching his hand to his towel, let it fall to the floor. Between them, his erection sprang hopefully into the open air. There was not a tuber to be seen.

“Aye, lassie,” he said and, turning painfully away, stepped into the tepid water. “I will.”

Rhona awoke with a start. She was breathing hard, and her heart galloped madly in her chest.

What had she done? Opened herself to the ridicule that would most certainly come. Begged for her sisters’ acceptance when she knew they would never-

But nay! She glanced wildly about her old chamber.

Little had changed. Her secret was safe. No one knew. No one but-

And at that moment her gaze fell on Lachlan. He slept on the floor, wrapped in his plaid. Below the fringed bottom of the tartan, one dark leg was exposed to midthigh. Even in repose, the muscles stood out hard and well defined, and though she knew she was foolish she was tempted to go to him, to touch him, to awaken him with a whisper. Power lay in his hand, yet peacefulness there was too.

Against her will, she moved across her bed toward him, but in that instant, just when she was staring down upon him, he awoke.

Their gazes met. Emotions steamed through her, and then, like a startled deer, she bound out of bed, snatched up her clothing and stumbled over him to the door.

She drove him hard that day; there was much to be done and little time to do it in, for she must leave soon, must learn the truth before it was too late. The masonry was finished before long, and soon the thatcher arrived. Although she’d not asked for MacGowan’s company, they rode together into the woods and found timbers to replace the broken rails in the stable. Like a hero of old, Knight pulled the felled logs down from the hill to Nettlepath, and as Rhona stroked his bowed neck and murmured her thanks, Lachlan glanced up from his task of hewing the gargantuan logs.

He had removed his tunic. The dark hose he’d borrowed from Nettlepath’s coffers hugged his hips and thighs like a second skin. His muscles gleamed in the misty sunlight, and for a moment, as her fingers snagged in the stallion’s dark mane, she forgot to breathe.

Knight bumped her with his bowed nose, drawing her back to earth, and hurrying her to her next task.

Barely a word was spoken for the remainder of the day, but more often than not, she could feel MacGowan’s gaze on her.

By nightfall, Rhona’s every muscle ached. As for MacGowan, he did not look the least bit fatigued. He only looked irritable. In fact, he was not too tired to heat water or to carry it into her bedchamber and deposit it into the tub.

She glanced at him as she entered the room. He was just straightening from his task. Muscles flexed and ten-

dons tightened in his broad forearms as he dangled the buckets from square fingertips.

Without the least bit of effort she could remember the feel of his hands on her skin. Could remember the skittering emotions that soared through her. Could remember how his chest felt beneath-

He cleared his throat and she jumped as if caught peeping through a knothole.

“Well…” She shuffled her feet and barely kept herself from leaping back into the hallway. “I will leave you to your bath.”

“Nay.” He set the buckets aside and nodded toward the steaming tub. “‘Tis for you.”

She considered arguing. He had labored hard and surely deserved a bath. On the other hand, he had bathed yesterday and it had been all she could do not to stare, not to turn on her bed and watch his every movement, not to beg him for things she could not have.

She cleared her throat. “‘Tis… kind of you.”

A muscle jumped in his jaw. His eyes were dark and ultimately solemn. “I fear kindness is not me most outstanding attribute.”

She tilted her head in question. “I did not offer to leave.”

“I beg your pardon.”

“I did not tote the water for selfless reasons,” he said and continued to watch her.

Her heart picked up its pace. “You are planning… to stay?”

“I worked hard for you this day.”

It was a statement simply made, as if he were certain he was deserving of some reward, as if she owed him something, when in truth she had done all she could to be rid of him. The injustice of the situation struck her, and yet, strangely, she could raise no anger. Indeed, she felt nothing but a breathless, shameful impatience. “So this is the payment you would ask?” She meant to say it with disdain, but something had curled tight in her stomach and her face felt flushed.

His eyes were the color of amber, lit with a fire from within. “I am but your servant. I come cheap, but I do not come free. Do you need help with your garments?”

“Nay,” she said, but he stepped forward, and for reasons unknown, she lacked the strength to retreat.

“I worked very hard,” he said and reached for the ties that closed her tunic.

She knew she should slap his hand away, or knee him in the groin, or challenge him to a duel, or chant Hail Marys or… something. But she did nothing. Instead, she stood like a frightened hare, or a cornered doe, or perhaps, God forbid, like an enamored maid.

His knuckles brushed her skin. The ties eased open and then he tugged the tunic from her. Inch by inch he undressed her until she stood naked and vulnerable 000fore him.

“Lass.” His voice was soft, and his palm, when he brushed it down her breast, was as gentle as a sigh. It was all she could do to keep from leaning into it. “You would give this to an aging marquis with waning strength and little honor?”

She shivered beneath his gaze, aching for the things she refused to receive. “What do you know of his honor?”

“He has none. Not where maids are concerned. He is a strange man with strange tastes.”

“How do you know?”

“I knew his wife before she married him some years ago.”

“Knew her?” She tried to keep her tone level, but it was not a simple task. “In what sense?”

He watched her narrowly. “Lorna was with child when he met her.”

Drawing a careful breath, she forced herself to remain calm. After all, she had learned much of the MacGowan rogues in the past few months. The child had not been Lachlan ‘s. She was certain of that, and yet she could not help but ask. “The babe… was it yours?”

His brows lowered still further. “Would you care?”

“Damn it, MacGowan!” she snarled, then loosened her fists and stepped into the tub. “I but wonder.”

“Nay.” He watched her closely, but it seemed now that his attention was on her thoughts and not on her body. “It was not mine,” he said, “but me brothers.”

“Ramsay does not seem the type-” she began, but he interrupted even before she’d finished the thought.

“How did you know?”

“What?” She glanced up, sensing her mistake.

“How did you know the child was Ramsay’s? ‘Twas Gilmour what had the roving eye.”

“I…” She calmed herself. He knew nothing, not of her heritage, and not of her mission. “As I said earlier Ramsay punishes himself. I but assumed that was why.”

Perhaps he accepted that answer. In any event, he continued on. “Ramsay met her at court some years ago. He was young. She was beautiful. He thought himself in love, but he was called home to Dun Ard before he could declare his intentions.”

“And there he met Anora.”

“Nay, not for some time. Lorna sent a missive saying

she carried Ramsay’s child, but he did not receive it until it was too late. When he next saw her she had already wed the marquis.”

“And the babe?”

“He had no interest in the bairn,” Lachlan said.

That was not exactly what her spying had revealed.

Indeed, MacGowan was correct, the marquis had strange tastes, but though he may have wished to bed a pregnant woman, he did not wish to wed one.

“She had the babe taken before its time,” Lachlan said. “It all but ruined Ramsay when he learned she had sacrificed the child. Indeed, had it not been for his Anora and the heir she bore him, he might never have recovered. Late in the year they will hold a gathering to celebrate their-”

“And what of his wee lass?” “What’s that?”

She had reason to hate herself again, for she had not meant to speak, had not intended to mention the tiny girl child Ramsay had claimed as his own and named Mary. Nay, she had no intention of remembering how the MacGowan rogues fussed over the babe as if the wee lass were the most precious of children and not a bairn borne of shame and disgrace with no true parents to claim her. But recently her own childhood seemed so raw, so close to the surface. What would it have been like to be so adored by such a man? Adored instead of abandoned and forgotten. “‘Tis naught,” she said. “I but find it interesting that you blame the marquis for your brother’s loss.”

“What lass?” he asked.

She kept her body carefully relaxed. “I heard he adopted a child when he first went to Evermyst, an unclaimed lass born out of wedlock to a Fraser woman.”