Mad for the Plaid (21 page)

“There, much better.” Nik stooped in front of her, so close she could smell him, wood smoke and leather mingled with fresh pine. His hands closed over her ankle. “Where does it hurt?”

She looked at her leg. Most of the pain had been in the back of her calf, right below her knee. Yet somehow, her finger touched above her knee, on her thigh.

“Here?” He placed his hand where her finger had just been, his palm warm through her breeches.

She nodded, mute with wonder in the face of her own daring. She wanted him to touch her, and had wanted him to do so since that blasted first kiss.

The realization was breathtaking. She'd never wanted a man before. Not in this way. But that first kiss had haunted her nights and ruled her days. He was just so damned delicious, and she'd never been able to turn away from a dessert.

He cupped her thigh above her knee, his hands warm through her breeches as he gently rubbed his palm in a slow, slow circle.

The very languidness of his touch made her think of long rainy days reading under a blanket; of the languorous, sleepy warmth of the sun on a hot summer day; of hours of sensual kisses from lips so beautiful they made her moan with desire.

Unaware that she was slowly melting under his touch, he continued. The heat from his fingers traveled all the way through the layers of clothing to her welcoming skin. Her heart leapt with awareness, her hands ached with the desire to reach for him. She gripped them together in her lap, fighting for the control she so far seemed to have lost, if she'd ever possessed it to begin with.

“Your mouth is white. Does it hurt so?”

His deep voice made her breasts throb. Delightful agony was what it was—an exquisite, breathless agony. Aware of his gaze, she swallowed noisily and shook her head, unable to form a single word.

He continued to rub her thigh in a slow circle, tormenting and teasing. “As I increase the pressure, it may
hurt more.” His gaze traced over her face. “If it becomes unbearable, you must tell me.”

He was so close that she could see the golden flecks in his green eyes. And he was
touching
her. Her entire body tightened and tilted. She bit her lip to keep from moaning his name.

He pressed more firmly, and her muscle—so tired from the ride—eased under his touch. She bit her lip and closed her eyes, her hands now fisted at her sides as awareness tore through her, making her want and desire, while her heart raced furiously.

Never had she felt this sort of longing. Was it unmaidenly to experience such raw desire? Did she even care?

All she cared was that Nik never stop touching her.
Ever.

He pressed a bit harder. “How is that?” he asked, his voice a rumbling whisper in the quiet.

She released her lip and ran her tongue over the bruised surface. She had to swallow before she could speak. “'Tis fine.” Her voice sounded deep and husky, as if she'd been asleep.

He continued to rub her thigh above her knee, but every once in a while, his fingers would brush higher. So close . . . and yet so far. She clenched her eyes closed even harder and fought the desire to grab his hand and slide it up, up to—
Good God, I'm so wanton! When did this happen?
How
did this happen?

“Ailsa?”

His breath brushed her cheek. She opened her eyes and found that he was leaning closer, watching her, his
eyes dark with the same desire she fought. Her body leapt in response, and without another thought, she threw an arm about his neck, and pulled his mouth to hers.

She kissed him with all the pent-up longing his touch had rendered, all the stored emotion the trip had caused her, all her concern and worry—everything she had and felt, she put into their kiss.

And he responded, covering her mouth with his own, his hand now gripping her leg instead of rubbing it—insistent, demanding, and sensual.

God,
this
was what she'd wanted. She'd wanted
him
. All six feet four of passionate, delicious, forbidden
prince
. She didn't care if her actions defied prudence. She was here, on an adventure, and she wanted everything that entailed.

His mouth plundered hers, his tongue teasing and tormenting.
This
kiss was demanding and passionate, as if a door had been opened and he was storming through.

She grasped his coat and pulled him forward. His hand slid up her thigh, and he moaned against her mouth, his breath warm over her lips, as he slipped his other hand to her breast.

She gasped in pleasure, arching into him as he kneaded her breast. The heady sensation made her wish for more. She wanted to yank her shirt open, rip off her chemise, and pull his hand to her—

“Ailsa!” Gregor's voice arose from a distance.

Ailsa's eyes flew open, and she froze.

Nik's gaze met hers, and for a long moment, lips locked, they looked into one another's eyes.

Chapter 12

She would
kill
Gregor.

Nik sighed and rocked back on his heels. “Your cousin, he is always close by,
nyet
?”

“Too much so.” Ailsa took a slow breath, her heart thudding wildly as she pressed her hands to her heated cheeks. Her mind whirled. “That was—” She shook her head.

His eyes gleamed and he smoothed the back of his hand over her cheek. “There is passion between us.”

“So it seems. I never thought I'd . . . But now . . . after all of that . . . It's as if I . . . But then Gregor . . .” She bit back a grimace when she heard herself sounding so flustered. “I will kill my cousin.”

Nik laughed, his eyes crinkling. “And I will help you,
krasavitsa
.”

Gregor called again, closer this time.

“Good lord,” she muttered. “I must go.”

“So I heard,” Nik said in a dry tone. He cupped his hand over one of hers. “I must say, you kiss very well.”

She blinked.
What does he mean by that? Is he sincerely complimenting me? Or is he asking a probing question of
some sort? Perhaps he is trying to ascertain whether I've had lots of practice—perhaps even too much?

Which was ridiculous considering her “practice” consisted of a few hasty kisses with the vicar's son, and a more lingering, but infinitely more awkward embrace with a young peer when she'd been seventeen and left unchaperoned by one of her sisters.

None of those kisses were worth remembering. The kisses she'd shared with Nik were neither gentle nor polite. They weren't questing or uncertain. They were raw. Instinctual. Spurred by a blind passion that she could not resist.

When the prince merely looked at her, her heart leapt, her palms grew damp, her legs felt restless, and she was possessed with a deep hunger for the taste of him. She'd never known this feeling before. Should she avoid him?
Could
she? She
wanted
those kisses.

Pure, unchecked sparks of passion between them flared like tinder to dry wood, and they were growing. Surely there was no harm in indulging in a few forbidden tastes. Their adventure would soon be over, their loved ones rescued, and the prince on his way back to his own country. The very brevity of this mission guaranteed her a certain safety.

And after, she'd be left here, kept warm by some excellent memories and only a few regrets. She could find no fault with that.

“Ailsa?” Gregor yelled. “Are you there?”

“You should answer him.” Nik stood, sending a black look in Gregor's direction. “He is like an annoying little brother, always where he is not wanted.”

It was such an accurate description that she had to smile even as she hurriedly put herself to rights. She found her boot and put it back on, and then straightened her clothing.

Nik looked back at her. “Wait. There is a leaf—” He plucked a brown leaf from her hair.

She smoothed her hands over her hair, tugging her braid free from where it had been tucked behind her.

“Ailsa!” Gregor's voice was much closer now.

“I'm here!” she called. She made a face at Nik. “We must go. The others will be wondering where we are, too.”

“Tell them you were thirsty, and I escorted you to get some water.”

“There's a stream by the camp.”

“It was muddy because we rode the horses across it.”

She shot him a considering look. “You're verrah guid at dissembling.” She stood and shook out her skirts.

Nik's gaze flickered down to her leg. “Your leg is better?”

“Aye.” All of her was better. Except that she felt oddly lost, as if in allowing this moment to be interrupted, she'd given up something. She peeped at Nik through her lashes. “I did nae expect . . . this.” She waved her hand in a general way.

“Nor did I.” Nik saw the uncertainty in her gaze and quickly bent to brush a kiss over her temple.

She flushed, looking adorable and womanly, and oh so desirable. The sunlight that filtered from above seemed as enamored of her peach-soft skin as he was.
Her nose and cheeks were pink from the cold, her lips plump and still damp from his kisses. Her braid was mussed where it had rubbed against her cloak, gold and brown curls clinging to her neck and shoulder.

She wore no face paint, no artifice, but looked freshly scrubbed and natural.
Bozhy moj
, how he wanted her. He couldn't remember when he'd lusted for a woman this strongly.

“Ailsa? Where— Ah! There you are!” Gregor appeared through the thick shrubs that grew along the bank of the river. He came to a surprised halt when he saw Nik. “Oh! I didn't know you were here, too.”

“Your cousin wished for a drink of water. I didn't think it was a good idea that she go alone.”

Gregor's brows rose and his gaze flickered to Ailsa. “You certainly walked a long distance just to get a drink. There's a stream near the camp.”

Ailsa waved her hand. “It is muddy from all the horses crossing through it. I could hardly be expected to drink from that.”

Nik had to give her credit; she repeated his suggested falsehood so naturally that no one would ever assume she wasn't speaking the truth.
She has many talents, this one
.

She walked over to her cousin. “Did you find a log for the saddles?”

“Two. I've dragged them to the campsite, and set the saddles on them.” Gregor looked past her to Nik. “MacKean and Rurik have returned.”

“And?”

“No signs of the brigands. MacKean said the trail
was too mucky to read, and Rurik couldn't recall exactly where he'd surprised the louts on the path, so there was no way to find signs there.”

Nik nodded. “We will set a double watch tonight, just to be safe.” He turned to Ailsa, and inclined his head. “I should return to camp and help set up for the night.”

“We'll join you shortly.” She watched as Nik left, striding through the woods as if he owned them. For a prince who spent a significant amount of time in the ballrooms of Europe, he was oddly at home in the forest.

She turned to Gregor and found him looking at her with a narrowed gaze. “What is it?”

“Your hair.”

She slid her hands over her braid. “Are there leaves in it? I was sitting under a tree—”

“No.” Gregor laughed, though he looked at her strangely. “There are no leaves in your hair. I was merely going to say your braid needs to be redone.”

“Traveling as we've been, 'tis a wonder 'tis still braided at all.”

“It has been a far more difficult trail than I expected.” He turned toward the camp, Ailsa falling in beside him. “I fear my back will never be the same.”

“My legs will be so sore in the morning. I long for a hot bath.”

“So do I.” His expression grew serious. “It would be best if you didn't slip away from camp again, not with brigands about.”

“I was nae alone.”

“I'm not sure that made you any safer.”

She came to a stop. “What do you mean by that?”