The Rock

by Monica McCarty

  Izzie gave her a look that promised retribution, and Randolph looked as if his wine had just turned to vinegar.

  Elizabeth smiled back sweetly at them both and tried not to laugh. Clearly they’d gotten off on the wrong foot, but she was going to make them like each other whether they wanted it or not.

  At last, Elizabeth was able to make her escape. She just hoped she wasn’t too late.

  16

  HAVE CARE,” MACKAY had warned him as they stood in the entry of the refectory. “Your thoughts are not difficult to read, and I don’t think Bruce would be too pleased if you put a dirk in his nephew’s gut.”

  Thom looked away from the dais and schooled the anger from his features, furious that his thoughts had been so transparent. He sure as hell wasn’t going to impress the Guard if he didn’t learn to control himself. Hiding his reaction wasn’t usually a problem. At least it hadn’t been until he’d run into Elizabeth Douglas again. Fortunately, MacKay was the only one who had noticed.

  But by the king’s invitation or not, Thom’s joining the others for the midday meal at Holyrood had been a mistake. He’d known that the moment he’d stepped through the door and saw the couple on the dais. For the first time, that is what they’d looked like: a couple. Bloody hell, Randolph seemed to be thinking about kissing her right there in the middle of the damned meal.

  Thom had to get away. MacKay had offered to come with him, but he’d declined—wanting to be alone. He’d thought about returning to camp, but the moment he stepped outside on the cool but sunny day and glanced up, he’d changed his mind.

  A few hundred yards beyond the gate of the abbey stood the massive formation that dominated the landscape and seemed to watch over the burgh like a stony sentinel. Actually, the shape was more reminiscent of the drawings of the massive Egyptian sphinx carvings that had been brought back from the Holy lands after the Crusades. The locals called the hill Arthur’s Seat; it was purportedly once a place that King Arthur went to watch over the city. From the top there were supposed to be panoramic views for miles.

  Thom had been anxious to climb it since they’d arrived, but with the nightly scouting climbs of Castle Rock (so far yielding no feasible path up) and his daily duties with the Phantoms (which mostly consisted of him being tossed around and having the shite beaten out of him while “training”), he hadn’t had time.

  It wasn’t a difficult hill to climb. It could be walked fairly easily from the east up a grassy slope. But Thom needed the release of pent-up energy, so he took the more difficult route up the rocky crags from the south.

  He’d left most of his armor and weapons with the stable lad, but the climb was more strenuous than he’d expected, and despite the coolness of the day, his leather cotun was tied around his waist as he pulled himself up the last stretch of rock.

  He stood atop the hill ready to enjoy the fruits of his labor by taking in the magnificent views all around him. Instead, he got one of the biggest shocks of his life.

  Sitting about twenty feet away on a small rise was a mirage. A mirage that looked a hell of a lot like Elizabeth—or at least a flushed-cheeked, glowing with perspiration, wrinkled and dirty-hem gown wearing, shimmering blond hair loosed from its plaits and tearing across her face with the wind version of Elizabeth.

  She was beautiful. More beautiful than he’d ever seen her before. She didn’t look like a princess at all. Mussed and warm from the walk up the hill, she brimmed with energy and life.

  God, how he wanted her.

  Why was she torturing him? His already strained and well-worked muscles tensed with a flood of anger. “What are you doing here?” he demanded.

  “I . . .” The question seemed to trouble her—as if she didn’t know the answer. “You didn’t say goodbye.” She sounded pleased to have come up with something.

  “When?”

  “The night we arrived.”

  “You were busy.”

  She bit her lip. “Thom, I . . . I had to see you.”

  “Why?”

  She looked down, embarrassed. “You looked upset.”

  Elizabeth had always been able to read him better than anyone, but in this case he hadn’t exactly been hiding his feelings. He’d looked like he wanted to kill someone; like a man who was being dragged through the four corners of hell. His fists clenched at his sides. “So you followed me?”

  “Not exactly. You’d already left the abbey by the time I was able to get away.” His mouth hardened, recalling what—or who—she’d been getting away from. “When I stepped into the courtyard and saw the hill”—she shrugged—“it wasn’t hard to figure out where you might go. I took a chance. But it took me longer to walk up here than I anticipated, and I feared I’d missed you.”

  He looked around, already knowing what he’d see: nothing. “So you walked all the way up here alone? Christ, El, what in Hades were you thinking? You could have tripped or fallen.”

  She stood, shook out her dusty skirts, and walked toward him. “You sound like Jamie. It’s not as if I haven’t climbed a hill before—you know that as well as anyone—and I was careful.”

  He made a sharp sound of disbelief, and she glared at him.

  “You forget,” he said. “I’ve seen what happens when you are ‘careful.’ ”

  She sniffed haughtily and looked past him down the cliff. “Was it a difficult climb?”

  Taking her by the shoulders, he forcibly moved her back a few feet from the edge. Christ, was she trying to kill him? “No.”

  Shaking off his hold, she put her hands on her waist. “I wasn’t going to fall.”

  He crossed his arms before him. “Let’s just say I was making sure of it.” Elizabeth and edges of cliffs didn’t mix. She rolled her eyes, and he put a hand on one of her bent elbows. “Come, I’ll walk you back down.”

  She spun on him. “I’m not ready to go back.”

  His grip tightened along with his mouth. “Yes, you are. You shouldn’t even be here. If anyone learns you followed me . . .” He swore, realizing what would happen if MacLeod found out. “What would your betrothed think?”

  “He’s not my betrothed, and I doubt he’d care overmuch. Sir Thomas doesn’t strike me as the jealous sort.”

  Then he was a fool. Because if he had any inkling what Thom was thinking about right now, he’d have cause to be very jealous indeed.

  “Maybe not,” Thom agreed. “But Randolph doesn’t strike me as a man who would like the rumors and innuendo that would follow from the woman he’s chosen for his bride being discovered alone with another man.”

  Her chin took that stubborn tilt that he knew so well. “We aren’t doing anything wrong. We’re friends.”

  That was all it took. He snapped, hauling her up against him. “That is shite, and you know it. There is a hell of a lot more between us than friendship. Do you need me to remind you of exactly how much more?”

  Her eyes widened. “No.”

  “Say it,” he practically growled. “I want to hear you say it.”

  She stared up at him wide-eyed. “There is more between us than friendship.”

  He let her go, realizing how close he was to losing control. How close he was to crushing her in his embrace and making her his the easy way. It took a moment for the fierce beating of his heart to slow and the lust that had curled its way through his limbs start to ebb.

  She’d said it. He had his admission. Now what?

  He dragged his fingers back through his hair. “Why are you really here, Elizabeth?”

  She studied his face, her gaze deep and probing as it met his. “You still care for me.”

  Thom felt like he was being raked over the coals all over again. Like he’d been flogged until the skin had been stripped away from his bones. Months—years—of suffering and he was right back where he started.

  “I love you. I’ve probably never stopped loving you. I will probably always love you. Is that what you need to hear? Does that make it better? Do you have the answers you need no
w?”

  She looked stricken. “No . . . I . . . I don’t know.” Tears glistened in the corners of her eyes. “Why are you trying to confuse me and make this so difficult?”

  Seeing the torment and struggle taking place inside her, Thom felt some of his anger and frustration dissipate. This wasn’t easy on her either. Admitting she had feelings for him would force her to contemplate things that would be scary for her. But marrying a man she didn’t love only to realize she loved another would be far worse.

  In his heart he knew she loved him. He just had to make her see it. He had to make her realize that whatever difficulties they faced, whatever scorn, censure, and condemnation, wouldn’t matter if they loved each other.

  Is that what he thought? He realized he did. Seeing her with Randolph had made him realize that he couldn’t stand down. He was going to fight for her—for them. No matter what the risks.

  Thom wasn’t Randolph, but if all went well with the Phantoms and Bruce made him a knight she would be able to hold her head up high. He might never be “worthy” of her in society’s eyes, but he would be able to provide for her and give her the security she craved. She just needed to give him a chance.

  A wave of tenderness rose inside him. He took her chin between his fingers and gently tilted her face to his. “If you are confused, it is only because you are not listening.”

  “To what?”

  Thom had made his decision. He wasn’t going to step back again. He was going to fight and reach for the damned stars. He was going to show her that he was the right—the only—man for her.

  “To this.” He lowered his mouth and kissed her.

  Elizabeth didn’t want to hear what he was trying to tell her, but the moment his lips touched hers she felt it. The aching tenderness. The heartfelt emotion. The sweet, invisible pull that reached inside, grabbed hold, and wouldn’t let go.

  This wasn’t a kiss of possession, a kiss of unfettered passion, or a kiss of mindless abandon. It was not about anger, or loss of control, or lust. It was controlled, gentle, and intended to show her exactly how he felt about her.

  With each soft caress of his lips, with each slow stroke of his tongue, she felt the wave of emotion growing inside her surge higher and higher. It wrapped around her chest, coiling tighter and tighter until it almost hurt.

  It did hurt. It was sharp, poignant, and so beautiful and sweet she couldn’t bear it. It made her feel things she didn’t want to feel—face feelings she wanted to escape. Feelings that overwhelmed her.

  He overwhelmed her. The softness of his lips, the faint taste of clove on his breath, the warmth of his body radiating through the linen of his tunic. He smelled of sun and heat, which, mixed with the heather of his soap, was an intoxicating combination to her senses, lulling her deeper and deeper into his tender embrace. He cradled her against him as if she was the most precious thing in the world to him. As if this were meant to be.

  You are not listening . . .

  She didn’t want to listen. She didn’t want to feel. She didn’t want tenderness and emotion. She wanted him to do what he’d done before. To bring her more pleasure, not more confusion.

  She gripped his shoulders, her fingers digging into the thick bulge of muscle to bring him closer.

  She fought tenderness with passion, parrying the slow stroke of his tongue with deep thrusts and carnal twists. She heard him groan and felt his arms tighten around her in response to her sensual entreaty.

  She thought she’d won.

  She moaned at the increased contact, feeling the tips of her breasts harden as they were crushed against the steely warmth of his chest. She loved the way he felt against her. Loved the feeling of all that strength wrapped around her.

  This was exactly what she wanted.

  She pressed even tighter, letting her hips rock against his. The feel of his manhood riding high against her stomach, so hard and thick . . .

  She wanted him to move against her. Wanted the pressure—the friction—the frantic energy pulsing through her. She didn’t want time to think.

  But he wouldn’t give it to her. He seemed impervious to her attempts to spark the lust that simmered between them ready to burst into flames at the first flare. He blocked the carnal thrusts and twists of her tongue with long, loving strokes.

  He took control and didn’t give it back.

  She almost cried out in frustration as he met her wicked onslaught not with the speed and frenzy she craved but with deft control and gentle caresses. His hands did not cup her bottom to lift her against him, they smoothed over her hips and waist as if he were sculpting a fine piece of porcelain.

  The ache in her chest returned. The tenderness mixed with passion combined to make an even more powerful drug. One that beckoned and tempted. But she fought against it, using the only weapon at her disposal.

  Slowly, she started to slide her hand down his stomach.

  Thom knew what she was trying to do. She was scared and determined to deny the tender feelings he roused in her with passion.

  But he was equally determined to win this sensual battle that had sprung up between them; to prove that it wasn’t just lust but something far deeper that bound them. He wouldn’t let her win. Couldn’t let her win.

  But when her hand began to inch down his stomach he started to sweat. He had to grit his teeth against the pleasure that he knew was a few sweet strokes of her hand away. Just the thought of her touching him, of having those dainty, white fingers wrapped around his thick, throbbing cock . . .

  Oh God. The pounding at the base of his spine, and the tight throbbing of an already too-hard erection, intensified.

  He concentrated on kissing her. Concentrated on the gentle strokes of his tongue delving lovingly into her mouth. Concentrated on the soft brushes of his lips against hers, on the velvety softness of the delicate cheek under his hand.

  He tried not to think about the hard tips of the generous breasts digging into his chest or the hips innocently pressing against him, or the hand . . .

  The hand that was now at his waist, damn it.

  He stopped breathing, sensing her hesitation. She was innocent. A maid. Not a wanton. She wouldn’t be bold enough to touch him. Christ, at least he hoped she wouldn’t. But knowing Elizabeth . . .

  He muffled a curse even as temptation beckoned. It would be so easy to put his hand over hers, slide it over him, and show her what to do. Show her how to wrap her fingers around him, grip him tight, and milk him until the pleasure exploded. Release—relief—was only a few pumps away.

  But he couldn’t, damn it. The feel of her hand on him . . . he didn’t know if he would be able to stay in control.

  He was about to find out. She was bold enough all right—God, help him. He couldn’t stifle the groan that tore from deep inside his lungs when her hand tentatively skimmed over the swollen head. Instinctively—because what else could he do?—he thrust into her hand, and she molded her fingers and palm around him.

  He stilled. He might have stopped breathing for a moment while he thanked every god he’d ever heard of and tried to find the strength to stop the powerful urges surging through his body. It felt so damned good, so damned right, a few thrusts of his hips, and the pleasure would be pulsing through him.

  But the relief—no matter how great—would only be temporary. And it wouldn’t bring her any closer to recognizing and accepting her feelings for him—with everything that might mean.

  A moment now or a lifetime? It wasn’t hard to decide.

  So he let her hand stay there. Ignored it (as if that were possible) while he concentrated on kissing her, showing her with his mouth and tongue how much he loved her. Even when she mewled in frustration, when her hand accidentally tugged him in a motion that if it wasn’t a stroke was a damned fine imitation of one, he didn’t give in.

  But the instant he was certain he’d made his point, he pulled back. He knew it was only a matter of time—probably not much—before the fact that she was warm and willing again
st him would wreak havoc with even the most steely of control.

  He didn’t say anything, but just stared into her eyes, holding her close and watching the frustration and turmoil play across her faerie princess features. The big blue eyes framed by curly, long lashes, the tiny, slightly upturned nose, the high pink cheeks, and soft red mouth.

  “Why are you doing this?” she begged in a half-plea, half-cry of desperation.

  He knew why she was fighting him so hard. She was scared. Scared of what admitting her love for him might mean. Scared of what she would have to give up. And she was resisting her feelings for him with everything she had. “You don’t need to be scared, El.”

  She pulled back as if he’d uttered a horrible slur. “I’m not!”

  “Then why are you trying to deny what is between us?”

  “Are you sure it isn’t you who are doing that?”

  Realizing what she meant, he released her and stepped back. “There is more to what is between us than lust, Elizabeth. Lie to me if you want, but don’t lie to yourself.”

  One kiss might not have proved it to her, but he wasn’t going to give up. He would make her see it whether she wanted to or not. Elizabeth Douglas loved him. She had for a long time, and soon they would both know it.

  17

  I’D WAGER IT has been some time since the nuns and the residents of St. Mary’s have been treated to such a beautiful recital,” Elizabeth said as she left the almshouse with her cousin and Randolph. “I can’t say I’ve ever enjoyed the Lenten hymns as much. But I didn’t know who to listen to; it seemed that as soon as Izzie took a breath, you filled it right in, my lord.” She tried not to smile, pretending that she didn’t know what they’d been doing. But after Izzie forced him to sing upon mentioning how good he was to their audience, it had been obvious that they were waging some sort of battle. “Perhaps you might consider singing a chanson together sometime for a feast?”

  Izzie’s eyes narrowed, aware that her cousin was needling her. “What an extraordinary idea, Elizabeth.” She smiled sweetly at Randolph. “But I would never think to compete with such prodigious talent as the earl’s.”