And this time he doubted he could quell even one unrepentant inch his bodys . . . masculine determination.
He
did
try not to let his gaze fasten on the red-gold curls beckoning so enticingly from betwixt her thighs. Nor did he risk more than a quick glance at the deliciously hardened nipples cresting the full rounds of her naked breasts.
Even more difficult was pretending the cloud of lavender-scented air drifting out from the confines of the bed recess did not hold a wee bewitching tinge of a darker, muskier scent.
A thread of wafting temptation to water his mouth and make his tongue itch to . . . savor and taste.
He wisely ignored what the scent did to his nether parts.
But then the very air seemed to quiver and her gaze cleared, fixing on him with slow-breaking comprehension.
You . . .
She peered at him, her luminous eyes, moss-green pools of distress, her dazed expression worlds different from the snapping indignation shed bristled with on their journey.
A pink flush rose on her cheeks, its poignant innocence unraveling him as his breath caught at the transformation. He swallowed, his heart tumbling uncomfortably as he waited for ire to spark in her eyes.
For her to cross swords with him again as shed done beside the lochan. Perhaps upbraid him for being a high-minded knight. Or chastise him for disturbing her night-rest by brazen-heartedly invading her bedchamber and accosting her when the full shapeliness of her, all her unclothed curves and hollows, fair beckoned for a mans touch.
His
touch . . . his caresses and warmth.
A deep silence bloomed between them, deafening but for the heated anticipation pulsing so loudly in Robbies ears. No other sound save the pelting rain and wind stirred in the great black-raftered chamber. He simply stood, still as stone, and rooted to the rushes.
Slack-jawed and smitten.
Almost forgetting to breathe.
What are you doing here? she spoke at last, her cheeks flaming with color, the agitated rise and fall of her rounded bosom driving him to madness. Your eyes talk plain enough, but I would hear the words from you.
I he broke off, held up a hand. It is not what you think, he said, wishing he could reenter the room and begin again.
She made no response, simply peered up at him from within the canopied bed.
Robbie shifted his feet, then immediately wished he hadnt for the crackling noise of the dried floor rushes only underscored the nervous shuffling.
She
appeared none too troubled . . . merely vexed by his unexpected presence.
But then she moistened her lips and her eyes began to focus on him most intently.
Robbie squirmed.
Aye, to be sure, any moment shed pull back her magnificently bared shoulders and rant at him for standing before her roused to bursting like a stag in rut.
Even wee Mungo, nestled in a welter of pillows at the foot of the bed, stared at him from bright quizzical eyes, his tiny jaws opened in silent reproach.
Saints of mercy!
Realization, cold and stark, cuffed Robbie soundly round his ears . . . an icy clump of good, knightly conscience reawakened, landing with a dull and damning
thud
in his gut.
There could be no denying it.
He
was
standing before her like a rutting stag.
And the dim lighting in the room was nowise poor enough to conceal his . . . depravity.
His face burning, he latched his gaze on hers, willing her not to even dare glance downward as he snatched one of the many pillows strewn across the bed and positioned it strategically. That feat accomplished, he heaved a great sigh of relief when she remained seemingly oblivious to how very near hed come to disgracing himself.
See you, lass, I did not know youd been brought to this chamber, he said, hoping to explain his presence before he blundered into an even more impenetrable mire. I meant only to bed down herealonebut now . . . I heard your cries and would but comfort you.
She raised a brow, looked anything but convinced.
You sought to solace me by coming to within a handbreadth of my night-nakednessstorming in here to ogle my breasts?
Robbie bit back a curse, shoved a hand through his hair.
Nay, by wishing to
soothe . . . if you will let me, he offered, not about to admit that he had indeed been eyeing her breasts.
Admiring them.
In particular, her fine, tight-thrusting nipples.
He swallowed a groan. Then, hoping she hadnt noticed, he lifted her torn night rail from the bed and draped it round her shoulders. To his annoyance, a certain unacknowledged part of him jerked to attention when his fingers inadvertently brushed across a pebbled nipple as he smoothed the ruined camise over the very bosom he was supposed to be ignoring.
She jerked, too.
But only in surprise at the unexpected contact . . . nary a hint of affront clouded her expression. Indeed, although she seemed appreciative for the gesture, she made no move to draw the night shift more fully over herselfnor did she appear overly concerned that the triangle of red-gold curls topping her thighs still loomed in fullest view.
Truth tell, there was even more to be seen a-winking at him from betwixt her shapely legs, spread oh-so-slightly as they were, and just that wee delicious hint of her sweetest nectars clamped a white-hot vise around his man-parts . . . a fiery grip so tight and relentless, he could scarce breathe.
Blissfully unaware of his discomfort, she lifted her chin. See you, sir, I am no sheltered maid taught to feel shame in my unclothed flesh, she said, pride in her voice, her green eyes reflecting the fire glow.
But neither am I wont to suffer such fearsome dreams that I shred my night garments. She looked down, fingered a strip of the torn camise. So, aye, you have the right of it, to be sure. I am in need of comforting. This night, mayhap even from you.
Robbie looked at her, not trusting himself to speak, for although the carefully positioned pillow quite hid his
problem
, the matter at large still raged fully out of control.
A circumstance worsened by the way the firelight played over her, illuminating her skin with a soft glow of reds and golds, each wavering flicker of light enhancing her loveliness more than any silken raiments or jewels.
Whoeer she was and whereer she hailed from, she required no such fripperies and embellishments to turn a mans head.
Or bring the most stalwart knight to his knees.
She held his gaze, pulling in one deep, bosom-lifting breath after the other, a cascade of visible shivers rippling through her, delicate and sweet. But then her face clouded again and a shadow crossed her brow.
Oh, dear saints, so long as I live, I p-prefer him to be a devil, she blurted, the hitch in her voice sealing Robbies fate. He
is
a hellhoundthe truth of his callousness resounds on every lip up and down the glens.
Hush you . . . Robbie took a step forward, touched her shoulder. If you mean my father, you have no cause to fear him. He lifted a tendril of her hair and twined its silk around his fingers. Neer you worry. See you, he loves naught more than his family and his home and comfort. Beyond everything.
To be sure he must love it well, she said, indicating the bedchambers opulence with a sweep of her hand. Even without my full awareness, I know this keep to be the Black Stags own lair . . . and I know, too, that Kintail is a land of ancient strongholds and still older traditions, a place eer ruled by iron-fisted men with hearts of stone. Your father does not wish me here. He will put up stout resistance, will not take kindly to
Hearts of stone? Robbie stared at her, a thousand contradictions making his own heart seize in objection. I say you err, lass. All other faults considered, my father and men like him have more heart than is healthy for them.
He glanced at the deep-set window embrasure across the room, not hearing the whistle of the damp, bitter wind nor seeing the rain that blotted out the great hills looming so close they seemed to hug Loch Duichs shoreline.
In his heart,
with
his heart, he saw a day of bright sun and birdsong high on the braes, breathed in the darkly-sweet solace of wafting peat smoke, and felt a fresh heather wind riffling his hair. A day still new, its beauty vibrating the air, its wonder splendorous enough to bring a tear to even the most fierce Highland chieftain.
He remembered the wee pebble tucked into his own money pouch, a small stone hed snatched from the edge of Loch Duich the day hed left so many years beforeand eer carried with him because just closing his fingers over its smoothness took him back to this wild country of moors, mists, and hills that so possessed his soul.
And in all its moods and seasonswhether in spring when the broom and gorse are golden and the whole of the land lies bathed in soft sunlight, or deeply silent in winter, with great drifts of glittering snow covering each fold of the higher hills and icy-black squalls driving up the loch.
Aye, he loved the land well, as did all Gaels.
Twas a soul-deep passion with no beginning and no end . . . it was simply always there inside him, writ across his heart and engraved forever on each breatha vivid, palpable sense of belonging so profound just
thinking
of Kintail made his heart warm with a brilliance wide and radiant as a sunset.
And he doubted a Highlander was eer born who would not understand his passion.
Not even the green-eyed minx who seemed to enjoy frowning at the bedchambers more luxurious trappingsas if his familys wealth and power had fossilized their hearts and, saints forbid, might even taint her own.
He looked back at her, lit his fingers down the edge of her cheek. I will not argue with you about iron-fisted men who spend their days stalking about with swords at their belts, he said with a nonapologetic glance at his own brand, so casually discarded on the floor rushes near the door.
Strength and, in especial, the showing of it have eer been needed to keep a semblance of peace in a land where ancient clan loyalties often end in blood feuds, he went on, half expecting her to interrupt him with an indignant
harrumph.
But I will say that you do not speak the language of these hills if you can honestly claim such braw men are without hearts.
She blinked at that, belligerence flashing in her quickly narrowed eyes, the saucy tilt of her chin.
You insult me if you think I do not know Highland ways. I vow I was reared closer to the land than you. She flicked a richly-embroidered bed cushion with a slender but work-chapped finger. I but meant your father. He appears . . . different than most.
Aye, and that he is, Robbie agreed, trying not to notice how her curves beckoned . . . how very much of her he could see.
Saints, already the fool night shift hed draped round her shoulders had dipped low enough to fully expose one deliciously taut nipple. And if he craned his neck just a wee bit, he could see a goodly portion of the other ones tight-puckered rim!
Hear me, lass, he began, letting go of the curling tendril of her hair as if itd bit him. Sakes, just fingering its smooth silkiness made his fingers ache to pluck and toy with her
other curls
.
My father will not stir discord by shunning you, he rushed on, certain hed found a topic guaranteed to cool his ardor. Because of the very traditions you name, he would neer risk the stain such a breach of Highland courtesy would call down around his ears.
Nor will he look with charity on the breaking of betrothal vows.
But that particular facet of the Black Stags obsession with lairding it rightly he kept to himself.
If hed learned aught in his years of traversing the land, it was that each new day brimmed with endless possibilities.
Naught under the heavens that eer was or might yet come to be could not be turned over again, made good. Some worthy new use found for it. Even the matted and smoke-congealed thatch of the humblest cot-house roof, when replaced, proved fine nourishment for barren fields, a much-prized fodder to replenish and strengthen Highland crops.
There had to be at least one possibility that would allow him to solve his dilemma without bringing turbulence to his clan or Lady Euphemias.
Aye, sure as rain fell downward, hed find a way to turn his fortune . . . and if he had to single-handedly sail a galley to the distant isle of Doon and seek the supposedly infallible aid of Clan MacLeans famed wisewoman, the inimitable old Devorgilla.
Regardless of howeer hed have to conciliate the crones much-prized favor.
Feeling better already, he touched his beautys face, taking care not to disturb her fresh bandaging. A faint whiff of some pungent herb wafted up from the clean linen wrapping, testament his stepmother or Elspeth had applied a healing poultice to the gash.
Seemingly untroubled by the wound, his beauty glanced up at the dark-raftered ceiling, fire glow playing over the exposed skin of her neck. But when she looked back at him, her gaze was burdened.
Robbie frowned, struggled against the urge to sit down, draw her onto his lap, and cradle her in the soothing warmth of his arms.
Instead, he lit gentle fingers across her temple. Does the wound still pain you? he asked, doing his best to ignore the tantalizing proximity of her near-nakedness.
There is only a dull ache now . . . I scarce feel it. She touched careful fingers to the bandage. Tis other . . . concerns that trouble me.
Have I not convinced you, then? About my father?
