by Paula Quinn
But when he would untangle himself and stand, putting distance between them…her fingers tightened against his chest just briefly before she loosened her hold on him and lifted her hands to his face.
He stilled, afraid to move, afraid to breathe.
The soft tips of her fingers traced his jaw, then his cheeks. He held his breath, not daring to hope she might want to touch him the way he ached to touch her.
When her feather-light caress reached his temples, she curled her fingers through his hair, tugging slightly…
And pulled his face down on hers.
He exhaled in surrender. Those lips, the ones he’d mourned having never been kissed, were soft and supple under his. When she tightened her grip on his hair, he was afraid he’d gone too far…but then she moaned softly, and he was lost.
Parting his lips, he showed her how to do the same, then ran his tongue across hers. She gasped at the sensation. When her small tongue flicked over his lips, he caught it and showed her how to deepen the kiss.
Without having to speak, Pearl understood what he was asking for, what he was giving her. She opened completely under his touch, and Gregor felt himself soaring to heights he’d never expected.
And despite his dreams, despite his fantasies about the lass in his arms, he would’ve been content to go no further than the salty-sweet taste of her kiss. But she wasn’t satisfied. With another soft sound of need, she snaked her arms around his neck, obviously intent on pulling him even closer.
Her hand knocked against his wound, and he stiffened, sucking in air sharply.
She pulled back abruptly, her eyes clear despite the passion and pain he was sure clouded his.
“What is it? Are ye hurt?”
Using her position in his lap, and her arms around his neck, she pulled him down until she could see his bloodied shoulder.
“Oh, Hound! I’m so sorry!”
She tugged at the material of his shirt. That sensation, along with the knowledge she’d called him “Hound,” was as good as a bucket of icy water dumped over his head.
“This happened as we—” She swallowed. “As we were running? From those men? I saw ye jerk, but I didnae realize…”
For a moment, he was afraid she’d sink back into the same despair from earlier. But he’d forgotten this was Pearl. She lived to help people.
“Stay like this,” she commanded, pulling out the small knife from his boot. “I’ll have to cut yer sleeve, but ’twill be useful.”
She was muttering to herself again, and Gregor found it oddly comforting. Endearing, at least.
He stretched out beside the fire so she’d have room to work, and stayed still as she used his sleeve to clean the wound, moving between the fire and the stream countless times. The cold water numbed his shoulder, which was good, because then she began to poke and prod it.
“The bleeding has stopped, an’ it looks superficial. The arrow caught the skin on the outside of yer shoulder and sliced it open. Ye’ll have a notable scar, but I doubt that will bother ye.”
When he was still reeling from her teasing tone, she brushed his hair aside and traced the scar under his right ear. Years ago, the infection which had set into the deep abrasions left by the rope had ensured he’d always carry a reminder of his past sins. That, and a voice which never seemed to work quite right.
But he’d never had anyone tease him about it.
“The cleaning should be sufficient. I’ll take a torch to look for knitbone,” she said. “I’m sure I saw some earlier. I’ll make a poultice, then stitch the wound…”
The injury seemed to distract her from her earlier grief, in even a way his kiss hadn’t. She might not have been the clan’s best healer, but she had a wonderful manner, teasing and poking her patient until Gregor was almost ready to smile.
As she worked, he forced himself to relax, to just experience her touch. It was hard to enjoy it, especially after she pulled her threads from her pouch to stitch his skin, but it was…well, it was nice. He felt guilt for reveling in her light brushes, knowing someone like him shouldn’t be touching her at all.
But he’d kissed her. Compared to that, allowing himself to enjoy her healing touch shouldn’t have made him feel guilty. His father, the thief, used to have a saying. Leif as hanged for a sheep as a lamb.
The moment his lips had touched hers, Gregor had betrayed the trust Duncan Sinclair had showed in him. His father’s saying seemed to urge him to take pleasure where he could, and damn the consequences.
Of course, that was before Gregor had actually been hanged for stealing sheep.
Pearl chattered constantly while she worked, and it was nice to have that to focus on, rather than his guilt or the pain. When she was finished, she patted the skin of his arm.
“There. Ye’ll live.” She frowned as if remembering the men—their friends—who hadn’t. “’Tis late now,” she whispered. “We should rest. Then tomorrow…” He heard her take a deep breath. “Tomorrow we’ll head back home. I need to explain to Da.”
He sat up, the fire had burned low while she stitched him. She’d made her decision. Was it because of the attack? Or…because of his kiss? Had she realized it’d be foolish to spend her life locked behind abbey walls, when she could care for her husband’s clan?
Aye, her husband. He would return her to Sinclair land tomorrow so her father could marry her off to the man who’d nearly killed Gregor all those years before.
His stomach growled, but he didn’t feel up to eating. Besides, ’twould be better to save their provisions for the hard days of riding ahead. With no guards, their journey home would be brutal and swift.
“Here. Ye just prop yerself up here.”
Pearl shifted him closer to one of the large trees which ringed the clearing, and he leaned against the trunk, careful to keep his left shoulder away from the rough wood. To his surprise, she covered him in the extra plaid—the one he’d lent her as they left the Sinclair keep. Once she finished fussing over him, she surprised him again by curling up on his right side.
The way his arm wrapped around her, pulling her closer into the warm cocoon she’d created for him, was pure instinct.
They sat in silence for a while, her head resting against his chest. Then, “Can I ask ye something?”
He nodded.
“Yer name isnae Hound, is it? The name ye were born with?”
He hesitated a moment before he shook his head.
“Ye have another name, aye? I’d like to ken it.”
I’d like to ken yer name.
Something strange bloomed in Gregor’s chest. When was the last time anyone cared enough to know his name? Did the Sinclair even remember it? The older man had known it once, but he’d called Gregor his Hound for so long, it was easy to think the older man had forgotten it.
He’d been the Sinclair Hound for so long, Gregor didn’t think anyone remembered who he used to be.
“Gregor,” he whispered.
Her beautiful eyes widened at the sound of his voice, rusty and unused for so long.
“Gregor,” she repeated. Then again, “Gregor.”
The sound of his name on her lips…it was pure magic. It sounded like a babbling brook on a summer’s day, the cry of a hawk in a clear sky, a whetting stone along a smooth blade, and a roaring Yule fire, all at once. All the best things.
He was stunned by the simple caring from this woman. This woman who felt soft and perfect curled beside him, and tasted even better. This woman who wanted to ken his name.
This lady.
The reminder wasn’t nearly as sobering as it should’ve been, especially when her small hand began to slide up his chest and rested against his neck. Her fingers traced the white scar.
“Is this why ye donae speak?” she asked gently. “Yer throat was damaged?”
He dropped his chin in acknowledgement.
“Yet ye can speak.”
Aye. His voice was long unused and raspy as hell, but he could speak. “Aye,” he said, l
ouder than a whisper this time. The sound wasn’t pretty, and he winced slightly.
“And do ye think…” She inhaled slowly. “Do ye think ye might say my name? As a boon to me?”
It was a simple request, but just as shattering as her earlier request.
“Aye…Pearl.”
My jewel.
She exhaled, and sounded…pleased as she curled her fingers around the shirt at the base of his neck and slowly relaxed. He reminded himself that she’d had a horrible day, full of hardship and violence. She’d likely just needed a little comfort, and that’s why she’d asked for the boon.
Aye, my Pearl.
But as the fire burned low, Gregor kept his arm around her and his attention on the woods around them for danger, he had to admit the truth to himself. He was in trouble.
Chapter Six
The fire was naught but embers when Pearl opened her eyes the next morning. It had been blazing last night, but Gregor hadn’t tended to it. She’d been pressed against him the entire night, and he’d barely stirred. With her head still resting against his chest and his arm snug around her, she didn’t move because she didn’t want to wake him.
Gregor.
The Hound’s name was Gregor. He’d told her so. Knowing he had a voice and was willing to use it, made her feel…special. She’d never heard him speak to anyone else before. But he’d been willing to share his secret with her.
And that’s not all to make her feel special.
He’d kissed her. Granted, it had been over in a heartbeat, and had probably just been done to shut her up, but still… the shock had been enough to jolt her out of her sorrow. And when he’d pulled away, all she could think about was getting him to continue. Her actions had been a little shameless, pulling him down for another kiss like that, but it had been wonderful.
Having his lips on hers, tasting him, had been everything her sisters had whispered about. Pearl had never been that interested in her sisters’ discussions about men, and they loved to tease her about it. But since she’d been on this journey, since spending time with Gregor, she was certainly more curious.
Curious enough to hope another kiss might happen. Curious enough to force the matter?
She felt him take a deep breath just before he spoke.
“Ye’re awake?” he asked.
She smiled, knowing he wouldn’t be able to see it. “Aye,” she whispered.
Last night, when he’d spoken to her, his voice had ranged between a whisper and a sort of harsh rasp. A throat injury—as evidenced by the scar on his neck—would explain his whisper.
“Good.”
After speaking, he moved, untangling himself from her and forcing her to sit up. He began to stand, but sucked in a breath, reminding her of his injury.
“Oh, I’m sorry, Gregor!” She jumped to her feet and reached for his hand, intent on pulling him up. “Ye’ve been sitting here all night in the cold air, and I forgot about yer wound!”
He gave her a strange look as he allowed her to help him to his feet. It wasn’t an expression, exactly, just a glint in his deep blue eyes which told her he wasn’t quite sure what to make of her.
She smiled to show him she regretted naught of what had passed between them. She allowed all of her excitement and interest into that smile, and from the way his nostrils flared and his eyes widened, he saw everything she wanted him to see.
They prepared for their day of travel in silence. Pearl should’ve been in pain after yesterday’s frantic flight, the previous days in the saddle, and a night sitting upright on the cold ground. But instead, she felt invigorated. Warm. Sleeping curled in Gregor’s arms had been the most comfortable night she’d spent so far on this cursed trip.
She cocked her head to one side and propped her hand on her hip as she watched him saddle the horse. Last night was…yes, last night was the most exciting night of her life. Yule was always nice, certainly, and Agata’s first wedding celebration had been quite eventful.
Even tending to his wound had seemed right. She’d always been most comfortable when she could help others, and pressing her palms against his bare skin—even if it had been to stitch it—had been far more thrilling than anything else she could remember.
Of course, he wouldn’t have been wounded had it not been for her.
In fact, William and the others wouldn’t be dead, had it not been for her.
This whole debacle of an adventure wouldn’t have happened, had it not been for her.
The sad thoughts made her wrap her arms around her middle. Last night she’d realized what a horrible mistake she’d made, and she needed to go home. Becoming a nun—spending the rest of her life away from her family, land, and people, wasn’t the answer. But now that she’d tasted Gregor’s lips, been held in his arms…she wasn’t sure if she was willing to marry Laird Sutherland.
She needed to talk to Da. Last time she’d gone to him, she’d been so sure she knew what was right. It had taken the deaths of three good men to show her how wrong she’d been. But her father was wrong, too.
Surely there was a solution they could work together to find?
In the back of her mind, away from the part currently occupied with mourning her father’s men, worrying for the future, feeling guilty about this whole debacle, and admiring the way Gregor’s plaid swished above his knees as he tied the bag to the saddle once more, was a little voice whispering, Gregor’s kiss, Gregor’s kiss, Gregor’s kiss, over and over again.
If Da wanted her to marry Laird Sutherland, what would she say? The kiss she’d shared with Gregor had been life-altering, aye, but mayhap all kisses were like that? She needed to think on it a little more.
Pearl had been so completely lost in her musings, she’d missed Gregor’s approach. It wasn’t until she was staring at his wide chest in front of her that she shook her head.
“Good morning,” she said a bit too cheerfully, hoping to disguise her wool-gathering.
He frowned. It was as earth-shattering as the slight smile he’d given her days ago! But Pearl had to wonder if she only noticed today because she was so intent on his lips…and was still thinking about his kiss.
“’Tis a beautiful day, aye?” she asked desperately.
Instead of answering, he reached for her arm, then took her hand.
Pearl caught her breath at the feeling of his palm against hers. For some reason, this sensation—standing alone in a glen, holding hands—seemed just as intimate as the kiss they’d shared.
“’Tis nae yer fault,” he said. His raspy voice was a little louder.
“What?”
He shook his head.
She didn’t want to make him repeat himself. “What do ye mean?”
“The attack. Would’ve happened to whoever passed. Not yer fault.”
“But we would nae have been on that road if I hadnae made a foolish choice.” She took a breath, willing the tears away. “Our friends would nae be dead if…”
He waited just a moment, then squeezed her hand. “They might not be dead.”
It was surely a lie, but her heart felt better for it. She smiled sadly at him. “Thank ye, Gregor.”
When he blinked, that strange look was back in his eyes. Like he wasn’t sure what to make of her. He stared a moment longer, then inclined his head. She recognized it as his nod of acceptance, not agreement. As if he was ending the conversation. But she didn’t want it to end.
She tightened her hold on his hand, stopping him when he made to turn away. “Gregor,” she said a little desperately. “Thank ye. For making me feel better. For caring about my comfort. For honoring my father enough to make me feel safe.”
He turned back, and suddenly she was struck by how large he really was. His shoulders were impossibly wide, the bandage of his sleeve bright against the bronze of his skin, and his booted feet were braced for something…always prepared to fight?
“Nay,” he croaked in that odd voice of his. “I didnae do it for him, lady.”
Lady.
<
br /> Was he telling her he cared? Telling her he’d done all those things, had such concern for her comfort, not because of the intense loyalty he’d felt toward her father, but because of her?
And what was loyalty but a kind of fierce love and devotion, really?
Her tongue flicked over her lower lip, but she hesitated only a moment. She needed to know.
“I donae want ye to call me ‘lady’, Gregor. I asked ye last night…”
The muscles in his jaw flexed, as if he was fighting some internal battle. His eyes met hers, and she had to stifle a gasp at the intensity in them. She couldn’t name the emotion she saw swirling in their depths, but it was enough to make heat pool in her belly.
Seeming to come to a decision, he dropped his chin just briefly, an agreement.
“Pearl.”
It wasn’t until he dropped her hand and moved toward the horse, scooping up the folded plaid and placing it behind the saddle so she’d have a more comfortable seat, that Pearl was able to draw a breath. She stared at him, watching the way the muscles of his legs flexed, the way the sun caught the gold in his hair, the way he favored his wounded arm, and then she thought about what her sisters had said.
Had it really only been a sennight since that spring morning she’d spent sitting on the hill, watching the warriors train? Only a sennight since she’d admired the Hound’s body and wondered who he was? Since Saffy and Citrine had giggled about the way a man could cause a woman’s body to ache with desire?
Agata had said the sound of a man’s voice saying her name could cause vibrations and pressure and pleasure in that secret spot between her thighs.
Gregor swung up into the saddle, his plaid flaring out over his thighs as he settled himself. When he turned to her and held out his hand invitingly, his expression assuring her he’d care for her and keep her safe, Pearl had to accept the truth.
She now knew exactly what Agata had meant.
Chapter Seven
Riding with her against his back was the most wonderful kind of torture. Yesterday, she’d ridden sitting in his lap, but he’d been too distracted—too focused on their safety—to appreciate her perfect arse rubbing against him. Besides, she’d been terrified, and he’d been bleeding from an arrow wound; it hadn’t been the time or place to appreciate anything.