Bedding the Enemy (12 page)

“I dinnae think ye are made for the life of sleeping in a cold bed, forever a virgin.” His gaze lowered to her lips and her mouth suddenly went dry.

What would his kiss taste like….

She shook her head to banish the idea. Keir's fingers cupped her chin to still her.

“'Tis the truth that ye are far too responsive to my touch to devote yerself to such a life.” He brushed a fingertip over her lower lip, drawing a soft gasp from her. Her heart accelerated and her breathing deepened. His scent filled her senses once again. It was full of dark mystery that touched off heat deep in her belly.

She slipped to the side, away from his disturbing touch. The fact that they were alone suddenly filled her thoughts. Her confidence deserted her in the face of that knowledge. The heat growing in her belly frightened her with the fact that she could not seem to control it.

“I do assure you I have the will to devote myself completely to what I choose. A convent will be devoid of temptations, making it much easier.”

“Well, I agree that ye are a temptation.”

His mouth touched hers. The kiss wasn't timid but it lacked the hardness that she expected from so large a man. She jerked away from him but he followed her, one arm slipping around her waist to keep her close.

A small whimper passed her lips. She couldn't hold the sound back. There was too much sensation to keep it inside. No amount of practice or self-discipline could help. She was overwhelmed. It swept over her, drowning her will to deny what she craved.

His lips toyed with hers, playing across their tender surface, slipping and toying with her until she moved hers. Another hand cupped the back of her head, tilting her face up so that his mouth could cover hers more completely. His kiss deepened, demanding more from her. He pressed her lips open, the tip of his tongue invading her mouth. He was suddenly too close, his body too hard and overwhelming. Need pulsed along with her blood and fear rose along with the heat—fear of her own response to him.

She struggled to regain her freedom but her hands were still bound. The leather biting into her wrists provided the leverage to regain her wits. She felt her skin tearing with her fight, the scent of blood rising up to mask the smell of his skin.

“No…release me!”

He muttered in Gaelic. She didn't need to understand the language to recognize a curse. His tone drove the meaning home.

“Aye, that needs doing. Here, sit up.”

He didn't remove his hands from her. He shifted his grip until his hand was holding her upper arm. “Hold still, lass. I don't want to cut ye.”

He was correct, of course, but her body wouldn't listen to her brain. Standing, she quivered and fought the urge to move away from his disturbing form. He ended up following her, turning in a small circle when she retreated even more.

She clenched her teeth and forced her feet to stand in place. The cool blade of a knife pressed against her wrist the moment she stilled. The bindings popped and she spun away from him.

“Easy, lass. I'm nae the one that keeps laying me hand across yer face when I'm cross with ye.”

No, what he did was far worse because she could not shut it out….

“I should have run that bastard Ronchford through. Yer wrists are bloody.”

“It is nothing.”

With a frown, Keir slid his dagger back into the sheath that was attached to his belt. “It appears that we are back to disagreeing.”

His gaze settled on her wrists for a moment, anger flickering in his eyes. There were only a few cuts that actually bled. Helena forced herself to stop rubbing at the bruises and lowered her hands to her sides.

“I don't believe we ever began agreeing on anything.”

He grinned, flashing his teeth at her. “Well now, come back here and I'll be more than happy to remind ye how much we both enjoyed that kiss.”

“No.”

He lifted one eyebrow and took a lazy step toward her. “No?”

“You heard me correctly.”

“Tell me why not.” His voice deepened and took on a thicker brogue. “Ye kissed me back as sure as the sun will rise in the morning.”

She moved away from him. “I didn't deny that. It doesn't mean I want to…to…”

“To kiss me again?”

“Stop toying with me.” She snapped at him. She needed him to return to the suspicious man who had watched her from across the room. This teasing Keir was too hard to ignore because she had allowed her dreams to be filled with him. It had been such a foolish mistake to allow her thoughts freedom.

“I do assure ye, Helena Knyvett, I'm nae playing.” He raised one hand and offered it to her with the palm facing up. “Come to me.”

“I will not.” Even if her body was clamoring for her to comply. “It would be wicked.”

His eyes flickered with something that sent a ripple of excitement through her.

“Exactly.”

He captured her in one long stride, his body closing the distance exactly the way she'd suspected he might be able to do. In a mere breath she was surrounded by his heat once again. The scent of his skin filled her senses and triggered a response that threatened to wipe all thoughts from her mind. There was only his touch and her desire for more of it.

“Please, Keir…
I am a virgin.
”

She hated her weakness. Hated the fact that her body quivered in his embrace. Tears stung the corners of her eyes because the hands she'd placed against his chest didn't want to push him away. Her fingertips longed to seek out his skin. But her honor demanded she resist, demanded that she not allow him to treat her as though she was a light-skirt. Even if he had found her in the street at night.

“I know, lass. I never doubted that.”

His voice was too tender, too sweet. Tears eased from her eyes because she longed to just melt against him. She was so tired of standing firmly in control, as she was expected to do.

He cursed again in Gaelic. But he didn't release her. One hand cupped her chin, raising it up so that he could view her shame. She shuddered, biting into her lower lip to contain the tiny moan that wanted to escape.

“Ye didna cry when that bastard hit ye.” His voice was husky and full of some emotion she could not name. But it pierced her heart. Two more tears eased down her cheeks.

“Edmund hits harder.”

His gaze lowered to the side of her face that was still black and blue several days later.

“But ye shed tears for me.” He leaned down and kissed one. She shuddered, that single kiss burning hotter than a coal. A moment later she was free. She felt the chill of the night air, her body lamenting the loss of his hard body against it.

“I do nae understand ye, Helena, but best ye understand that I'll no' be allowing ye to come to harm. My men will not allow ye outside. Dinnae make a fuss about it.”

“But…why are you intent on keeping me?”

Keir paused with one hand on the door. Creases appeared on his forehead.

“I'm nay a fool, Helena. Dinnae think I'll be easy to bend because yer tears gained ye what ye want tonight. I'll be sharing that bed with ye tomorrow night as any groom would expect.”

He shut the door firmly behind him. Helena stared at it stupidly. Groom? For all that she knew of the definition of the word, it made no sense to her mind.

Edmund had told her she was to wed Ronchford, but the man had tried to abduct her.

And Keir had rescued her, only to imprison her….

It was a tangle of deception that nauseated her, threatening to make her retch when she reduced every man down to one thing—his desire to possess her. Like a pair of silver candlesticks.

The memory of Ronchford's hands clawing at her breasts made her adjust her thinking. Not like a set of candlesticks. Yet still the same sense of ownership. Always what they wanted. Always a matter of what she was expected to surrender to their whim.

Behind her stays, her nipples beaded, the soft tips becoming more erect until they were hard with longing. There was no banishing the need. It lived deep in her belly, growing hotter when Keir was in the same room with her. She was suddenly repentant of every time she had thought herself superior to women who followed their longings into the arms of lovers. She had been so ignorant. Perhaps it was wicked, but it was also more intense than anything she had ever experienced. Dismissing it was impossible, but more importantly she did not want to part with it.

Oh no. She wanted to unbutton her doublet and let the air brush across her skin. The garment was stifling, her skin was begging for freedom. More than her skin. Her body clamored for release from the bonds of her childhood learning. Maybe it was the darkness, but she longed to see Keir back in the room in spite of her rejection of him.

Her tears had sent him away. She shuddered again because it was so tender, so noble of him. How was she to resist her longing for him when he continued to act so gallant?

Maybe you shouldn't…

Temptation was cruel. Her flesh now warred with her pride. She was so alone, she ached with it. Her groom? Who exactly was she expected to marry and when? Sitting down on a small lounge, she laid her head down on its silk surface. Resting in the bed was out of the question; her mind rejected it. She could barely tolerate the sight of it, so she allowed her eyelids to close.

As much as her body longed to lie with Keir, her pride refused. She didn't want to give him her purity because he believed it belonged to him. Ronchford was that sort of man. So was Edmund and a hundred others who had viewed her at court like a mare on display with her bloodlines neatly laid out to increase her value.

She wanted Keir to remain noble—untarnished by the marriage game. She wanted to make love with him, not part her thighs so that her blue blood might be bred into children who would be reared to take their place. She'd always been instructed on what was expected.

Tears eased from her eyes for the fantasy that would dissipate the second she opened her eyes again. But for the moment, she allowed her dreams to take her away from the aches and pains of her flesh. The longings remained, keeping her warm as her lover held her.

 

“Well ye don't look very pleased with yer victory.” Farrell glanced around the kitchen. “I, for one, am rather impressed with the new accommodations. If ye're going to have to pay the inheritance taxes on a title, at least ye got something in return.”

Keir had to agree. The Hurst Barony came with little. Most of the land was bound to his sister Bronwyn, but the king had settled a small estate on him along with the title. There were taxes due on the inheritance of such a title, but it had gained him a town home that he was not ashamed to bring his bride to.

There would no doubt be wages due the staff as well.

He looked around the kitchen. Nothing was rundown. The long table used for preparing food showed use but not more than any in the kitchens of Red Stone castle. He decided that he did not need to know why the house was in such good repair if the title had been without a lord for over thirty years. It was his now and that was what mattered.

“I need the men to take shifts tonight. My bride is nae to leave the house or send any letters.”

He clenched his teeth, grinding his jaw with the tension that held him. Farrell abandoned his lazy position.

“She doesna want to marry with ye?”

She'd wept….

Keir snarled and poured himself a glass of whisky. Farrell watched him for a moment before standing up and leaving to post the guards Keir had ordered. The whisky failed to burn away the bitter taste in his mouth.

She'd wept….

Why?

The whisky burned but his question burned hotter. He needed to know.

The little drops had stabbed into him deeper than any dirk ever did. It did not make any sense. She'd enjoyed his kiss. He knew the difference between a woman who kissed a man back because she desired him and one who merely wanted to stroke his ego. Being the third son of a laird, he'd experienced plenty of girls trying their hand at deceiving him with false affection in the hope of securing a future by his side.

Helena had trembled against him and offered him innocent little kisses that were enough to burn away any sense of control he had. All he wanted to do was go back into that chamber and kiss her until she shivered again.

The candles had burned low in the bedchamber. Keir opened the door slowly, taking care that the hinges wouldn't squeak. It was a fine chamber, the windows hung with velvet and the bed canopy made of rich brocade. There was a fireplace but it was cold because the staff hadn't realized that they were getting a new master.

The bed was empty.

Keir swept through the room, stopping when he found the cause of his mental dilemma. Small wet spots marked the silk beneath her cheek, but the smile on her lips made his own curve up. Maybe he was a fool to care about a woman at all; there were plenty of men who would tell him that.

But he enjoyed knowing she was in his care.

Aye, the knowledge settled a great deal of his unsettled thoughts. There would be plenty of time to discover what caused her tears. They were not the first couple who married while still mostly strangers. Pulling a blanket from the bed, he covered her with it. She looked too content to move and there was a part of him that wanted to join her in that bed too much to risk carrying her there.

He was not sure he had enough self-discipline to walk away.

 

“You imbecile.” Edmund Knyvett, heir to the Earl of Kenton, felt fear creep into his heart for the first time in a very long time. He was not a man who feared. In fact, he was not a man who worried very often. His place was secured and he had been born to it by divine decision.

“It was such a simple plan. I sent her right into your hands!”

“Well, that Scot took her out of my hands!” Lord Ronchford snarled and reached up to gingerly test the lump on the top of his head. He winced and cursed. “I want my money returned.”