Knowing her time was limited, Page made her final dunk beneath the water’s surface. This time, she dove deep and propelled herself in the direction of the horses, praying to God that her direction was not wrong. She knew instinctively this would be her only opportunity.
She swam with her eyes open, despite the sting of the cold, and swam with all her might, hoping her path wasn’t visible from the water’s surface.
When she reached the bank, she surfaced slowly, praying for the cover of foliage, and nearly died with relief and joy when she found herself in the very heart of the leafy enclosure and heard the soft nickering and chewing of horses at their leisure.
Thank God! She’d made it!
Thus far.
She knew her time was short, and she still needed to steal a mount without their noticing—else she’d not get very far. She wasted little time worrying about the probability of being caught, for she had precious little time to spare. Any moment Angus would sound the alarm. Even as she slipped from the water, she kept expecting to hear his cranky old bellow.
She made her way quickly through the trees and bushes, not daring even to risk a glance in Angus’s direction.
She wasn’t particular about her mount, simply seized one and untethered it. Only when she was about to mount did she realize it was the one upon which poor Ranald was bound—not very well, at that, she realized almost at once. Rather than take the time to choose another horse, and then more time to untether it, and thus risk gaining notice, Page drew up her courage and mounted before poor Ranald, but the horse seemed not to appreciate the fact that she was dripping wet, and protested, snorting and prancing.
And then suddenly she heard the warning shout, and knew her time was ended. Panicking, she spurred the horse with the heel of her foot. It reared, and Page held on for dear life. To her dismay and horror, it danced backward, trying to unseat her. Nickering furiously, it retreated into the water. And then startled, it reared once again. Page clung to its withers as though to save her very soul. Poor Ranald slid off and dove into the water as the horse surged from the lake and broke into a furious run. She heard the shouts and curses behind her, more splashes as men dove in frantically after poor Ranald, but dared not turn to look, fearing they would still be too close at her heels. When at last she dared to peer back, it was to find a mob of shouting, cursing, naked Scotsmen chasing far behind her.
Even as she watched, a few turned and raced for their mounts, but it was too late.
Far too late.
Page breathed a sigh of relief and turned back toward freedom. She fully intended to flee them, even if she had to run morning till eventide.
She dared another glance backward, and couldn’t help herself; she burst into hysterical laughter at the hilarious sight they presented.
Naked and furious, they ran, chasing her still.
Chapter Nineteen
It was the last thing Iain expected to find upon his return.
His first thought as he reined in to watch the spectacle was, how the devil had she managed to undress some thirty Scotsmen?
God’s teeth, he’d wholly expected to find she’d half driven them mad, and was afeared to discover they’d murdered her before his return, but this... this, he’d certainly not anticipated—to find her riding away upon a stolen horse, and his men panting and bellowing like idiots while they chased her, their male anatomies swinging free to the breeze. Some ran clutching their groins with both hands, some with one, waving furiously with the other for her to return. A mere handful had evidently gone back after their mounts, for they came racing after her, riding naked as bairns from their mothers’ wombs.
“What are they doin’, da?” his son asked, sounding as bewildered as Iain felt.
“Damned if I know, son,” Iain answered after a moment. “God’s truth, I dunno!”
Christ, but he didn’t know whether to be angry or amused, so he sat there bemused instead, watching the scene unfold and wondering how one measly woman could cause so much bloody trouble.
He didn’t have the chance to ponder it long, for his son reminded him of the obvious. “I dunno either, but I think she’s gettin’ away, da.”
“I’ll be damned if she isna, son,” he agreed, and urged Kerr to come forward. He handed Malcom to him, directed them to return to camp and await him there, and then he spurred his mount after her.
“Bluidy obstinate wench,” he muttered to himself.
So why the hell didn’t he simply let her go?
He could easily sacrifice a mount for the sake of her safety, and appease any guilt he might feel over leaving her to fend for herself. If she had any sense of direction at all, she’d soon enough be ensconced within her father’s walls. Nor had he retrieved all the scraps she’d discarded. She’d come upon them soon enough, and they would serve to guide her...
If he let her go...
So why didn’t he?
Because he bloody well didn’t want to, that’s why! It wasn’t only because he feared for her safety at the hands of her father. He just didn’t want to.
Something within him snapped as he watched her race away—some twist of emotion that felt like fear.
She was slipping away, shadows creeping in. A heavy door clanging shut. Darkness.
He leaned purposefully over his steed, urging his mount faster, closing the distance between them, coming at her from the left flank, and drawing alongside her. Preoccupied as she was with the naked mob pursuing her, he took her by surprise. He didn’t think in that moment, merely acted, reaching out with an angry bellow to pluck her from her saddle. She shrieked in alarm, and for the instant was too startled to fight him. He drew her against him, holding her imprisoned.
“Let me go!” she demanded, regaining her wits at once. “Let me go! Let me go!” Realizing who had captured her, she squirmed against him furiously, soaking his tunic and breacan.
“Nay, lass,” he growled. “I told ye I wouldna! I willna!”
“You lunatic Scotsman!” she railed at him. “Do you not realize you might have killed me!”
He didn’t respond. In truth, he didn’t know what to say to that bit of logic, for he’d not thought about anything at all, save stopping her. Some dark fog had enveloped him, some undeniable sweep of emotion that left him trembling still. Empty in a way that was painful. The same way he’d felt after Mairi had flung herself from his window.
Only, that he understood.
This, he did not.
“You might have warned me!” she added furiously.
Aye, he might have, if he’d been brainless enough to do so. “So ye might lead me upon a merry chase? I dinna think so!”
He didn’t bother to return as yet, instead rode on, trying to determine what the hell had come over him. A backward glance told him that her mount had slowed enough for his men to overtake. At any rate, he sure as Christ wasn’t going to allow her to remain in her wet gown and catch her death, and neither did he intend to have her undress before his men.
She needed privacy.
He wanted to hold her.
“Why can you not let me go?” she asked him furiously.
Would that he had the answers to her questions.
Christ, but he didn’t know. It somehow went far beyond the simple fact that he wished to save her from her father. In truth, that had been the last thing on his mind as she’d been flying away from him. The one thought that had spurred him more swiftly than any other was that she was slipping away... this woman who somehow banished shadows with her sultry sidelong glances.
Like a lad with his coveted prize, Iain held her securely against him, letting the black fog lift, relishing the feel of her warm flesh beneath the cold, wet gown she wore. His hand splayed at her belly and he could scarce keep himself from noticing the tiny waistline, the delicate outline of her ribs. His fingers traced them higher, until he could feel the weight of her breasts rest upon his hand. His loins quickened.
“Let me go!” she pleaded.
“I canna, lass,” he answered her. “I canna.” And he shuddered at the desire that gripped him so fiercely of a sudden. Just so easily she aroused him to the point of madness. Without even trying. This woman who vexed him unto death. She plagued him by day, and tormented him by night. And God help him, it was such pleasurable torture.
“Aye, but you can!” she argued desperately. “You can!” she reasoned with him. “If only you wished to!” She began to sob as his fingers continued to explore, but she didn’t stop him.
If she asked... he would.
But she didn’t.
Instead, her breath caught on one last sob and she whimpered softly, arching backward, thrusting her head against his shoulder.
At her innocent response, Iain’s body convulsed with a hunger so keen, it cast all thoughts from his head, save for those of the woman within his arms. Sucking the sweet scent of her into his lungs, he dared to lift a hand, skimming her breast, going to her throat, caressing gently, reverently. Unable to resist, he bent to bury his face against the curve of her neck, once again inhaling the beguiling scent of her.
“There ye have it then, lass,” he whispered against the flesh of her throat, nibbling gently. “It seems I dinna wish to.”
He heard her intake of breath as his fingers gripped her shoulder, and her delicate shudder as his hand slid down her arm, and knew she was not unaffected.
The simple knowledge aroused him fully.
“I want you, lass,” he whispered against her ear, before he could stop himself, and meant it fiercely. “Want ye... so verra much...”
She stopped weeping suddenly and sat before him still as stone.
Page could scarce breathe suddenly, less weep.
Mere words. But words so powerful and compelling, they sent shock pummeling through her.
Her body convulsed. Her heart skipped its natural beat, and her thoughts scattered to the winds.
She closed her eyes and could feel every rise and fall of his chest at her back. His hand continued to explore, his caresses wresting delicious shivers from her body, and God save her soul, she wanted to let his fingers roam forever. Wanted to let him do anything he would with her.
Anything.
Aye, she was wanton... and wicked, but she didn’t care.
Her heart felt near to bursting with joy over his avowal.
He wanted her.
It didn’t matter that it was merely for the moment, she wanted him too—and thought she’d die if she couldn’t take a piece of him with her. A single bittersweet moment would suffice to bring a wistful tear to her eye when she was old and gray and had nothing left to sustain her but memories.
When his thumb caressed the underside of her breast, and then his hand dared to cup her so gently, she clasped trembling fingers over his and turned her face up to meet his gaze.
His eyes were like molten gold, glittering with promise, seducing her with the hunger so apparent behind them.
She willed him to know... willed him to see her own desire... willed him to hold her... kiss her.
His voice was hoarse when he spoke again. “Tell me now... if ye wish me to stop, lass.”
Page’s throat closed, the words wouldn’t come, but she managed to shake her head, hoping he would comprehend her silent plea.
He kissed her throat then, nibbled it gently, lapped it hungrily, and she knew he’d understood.
“Och, lass,” he whispered, his breath hot against her neck, “are ye sure?” His hand slid up to cup her breast, squeezing gently, as though to make clear his intentions.
For answer, Page followed his hand, willing him to continue, reveling in the way that his fingers cherished her body, wringing delightful quivers from her. She pressed his hand to her breast in blatant invitation, and watched the expression upon his face.
Like a man tormented, he closed his eyes and groaned deep in his throat, lifting his face to the blue sky as he kneaded the tender flesh cradled within his palm. Page watched the knob in his throat bob, mesmerized by the intensity of the expression upon his face, the taut lines of his jaw. Jesu, but it was as though he had lived all his life for this moment, and she... she had never in all her days known such joy in simply being.
And then his gaze lowered, and he bent his head once more. His lips covered her mouth, and Page thought she would die with the pleasure it brought her. Her body melted, convulsed in the most private of places. He might have done anything at all to her in that instant, and she’d have welcomed it joyfully.
He wanted her truly.
She could spy it upon his face.
Could feel it in the way he touched her.
And she wanted him.
His tongue traced the seam of her lips, and then slid within her mouth to taste her. Page moaned with pleasure. And when he groaned with his own satisfaction, Page thought her heart would shatter and her body would ignite to flame.
He tore his lips away abruptly, and it wasn’t until then, in that instant, Page realized the horse had stopped—or even that they were mounted still.
Somehow, when he kissed her, all the world ceased to exist. He made her feel as though there were only her. He filled her heart.
Made her soul unafraid to yearn.
When he dismounted before her, she knew what he intended, and when he lifted his arms out to her, Page slid into them without taking the time to consider the consequences, her heart hammering fiercely. God’s truth, but she didn’t want to consider anything at all. She wanted only to feel.
Carrying her far enough that she would be safe from being trampled, but no farther than he had to, Iain laid her down upon a bed of yellow crocuses, taking immense pleasure in the desire so evident in her gaze, in the haze of her eyes.
Some part of him cautioned him to stop, now before it was truly too late—that she couldn’t possibly understand what it was he was about to do to her. All the things he wanted to do to her. But God help him, he wanted this too much, was no longer rational.
For the longest instant, Iain merely stared into her eyes, not daring even to blink, fearful of closing his eyes and opening them only to find that her desire was no more than some cruel invention of his fevered imagination.
Could she possibly understand? Could she know what it was she was asking for with that love-me-now gaze?
She couldn’t possibly, he decided, though he couldn’t seem to muster himself to give a bloody damn. He fell to his knees beside her, and bent over her, entrapping her between his arms, and then he lowered his head to kiss her, anticipating the sweet, welcoming taste of her mouth upon his lips. “Sweet,” he murmured against her mouth. “So beautiful.”
“Nay,” she murmured with a sigh, closing her eyes.
“Aye, lass,” he asserted. “Ye are.” And he deepened the kiss.
With all her heart, Page welcomed the gentle invasion of her mouth, delighting in the way he seemed to savor her with every liquid stroke of his tongue .. . the way his mouth seemed to revere her own. Never in her life had she felt so cherished.
Never in her life had she loved someone more.
But this was not love, she reminded herself.
To expect love would bring her only heartache. Nay... this was something else entirely... and if she didn’t want for something more... something she could never have, then she’d not be crushed by sorrow when it never came.
Aye, this was something else, not love.
This was a possession of her body, sweet and wicked.
Nothing more.
That’s what she told herself. And she wanted it more desperately than she’d ever wanted anything in her life.
Iain was a man consumed.
It was his greatest desire to pleasure her.
Aye, but he wanted even more than that to make her stay. He withdrew and gazed down into her passion-flushed face. He wanted her to look at him just so always... to bask in his kisses like a blossom opening to the heat of the sun. But then he knew the way to bind her to him was not to make love to her. He’d
attempted that with Mairi, and while in the dark of the night she’d relented to his skillful persuasion, in the morning light she’d despised him for it, too.
And then she’d borne him a child, and he’d lost her forever.
He’d be damned if he’d travel that road again.
Before Mairi, there had been lasses aplenty. Since her, there had been nary a one.
Because he couldn’t forget.
This loving would be for her, he decided.
For sweet, lovely Page.
For himself he would claim only the pleasure of seeing the passion played out upon her face.
Nothing more.
That’s what he commanded himself.
When he reached out and lifted her arm, placing tiny, delicate kisses along the sensitive inner flesh, Page shuddered and squeezed her eyes closed, abandoning herself wholly to his will. Arriving at her hand, he kissed her palm, lapped it with his tongue, suckled her fingers, and nibbled the heel of her palm, until Page shuddered with rapture, and then he guided that hand above her head, moving to the other and doing the same. With one hand he held both her wrists, pinioning her arms above her head as he shifted over her, his body shielding her from the sun, bathing her in cool shadows.
But she was far from cool. She was hot. Burning hot, her skin afire.
Page sensed the heat of his gaze upon her, though she wasn’t bold enough to meet his knowing eyes. As he hovered above her, she was aware of everything in that moment. Every nuance. The subtle shifting of the breeze, the warmth of the sun against her skin where it touched her, the birds twittering somewhere high above. The sound of the grass as it succumbed beneath their bodies. The elusive scent of the crocus. And the musky male scent of the man hovering above her.
When he lowered his face to her neck, she shuddered, and dared to bare it fully, arching with complete abandon, moaning with delight as he suckled her flesh, lapped it with his tongue once more. Like a painter in love with his labors, he left no part of her untouched by his divining brush. He cherished her body, showered her with kisses until it seemed her very soul would rise out of her body and meld with his.
Five Unforgettable Knights (5 Medieval Romance Novels) Page 130