by Nicole Locke
The night hid the colour of his eyes, but incredulity was visible in their depths and heard in his voice. She suddenly felt as if she didn’t have the right answer to his question, but it was his manner that gave her the first clue.
He acted angry with her, but she was beginning to think maybe it wasn’t because he had almost been killed or his identity revealed.
‘What other reason could there be?’ she asked.
His lips parted and she felt his warm breath. His gaze travelled to where his fingers had traced her jawline. She felt the pull to bend her neck, to expose more of her skin to the moonlight and to him.
He didn’t touch her, he didn’t move any closer, but she felt him reaching for her.
‘Do you not know your worth?’
She was finding it hard to think with him so close. ‘I doona understand.’
‘Your strength, your will, your ability to laugh in the face of all your grief, Gaira, those qualities are rare, like suddenly finding gold beneath your feet.’
She snorted. ‘Aye, I think that’s what my brother thought of me, beneath his feet.’
He moved back almost imperceptibly, but she felt it. ‘No, you do not understand.’ He rubbed the back of his neck. ‘Or maybe I am explaining it wrong.’
He turned slightly away from her. She did not think he would say any more, but she didn’t know what to say to him. She again heard the lapping of the water, the scurry of the nocturnal animals hiding in the low brush. The breeze had settled, becoming no more than a soft zephyr across her skin. She tried to find some words to say, but Robert was so tense, his thoughts almost tangible, she could not.
When he turned his head to face her, she was stunned by the pain she saw there. His eyes were trying to conceal it, but it was there in the drawn cheekbones, the way the white scars along his face were more pronounced.
‘I have to know,’ he said. ‘I cannot stand here, cannot return to England, without knowing.’
She waited.
‘He had you for two days, Gaira—do you grieve for him?’
Grieve for Busby? No. In order to grieve for him, she’d have to care for... She stopped her thoughts. It all made sense. He had killed Busby. His identity had been almost revealed. But his anger and his pain were not in those facts. He thought she belonged to another.
‘Nae, Robert of Dent, I do not grieve for him.’
He did not look relieved. She’d have to tell him more.
‘He put me on a separate horse and I rode behind him. He did not talk to me—he barely looked at me and he did not touch me.’
He did not relax his rigid pose, but she sensed something had eased in him.
‘But because he was a proud man,’ she continued, ‘a man desperate for the wealth of my clan, I knew he would come after me.’
He turned fully to her. ‘That’s why you were demanding me to be quick.’
‘Aye. By the time you arrived, Busby would have had some days to come after me. But I thought he’d go to my brothers and wait there. I dinna know he even knew about my sister to travel south.’
‘Maybe he did both.’
Thinking he was joking, she laughed. ‘You doona know him as I did. He was hardly industrious.’
‘He could have sent a messenger to your brothers and that’s how he found out about your sister. Then he was free to go south to your sister’s.’
‘If he sent a messenger north, it would have given my brothers enough time to travel at the same time Busby travelled.’ She began to chew on her bottom lip. ‘If Busby found us, my brothers could find us, too.’
‘Doonhill was burned to the ground,’ he pointed out. ‘They’d have no idea where you are.’
‘They couldn’t have reached there by now. We would have seen them on the road or in town.’
He didn’t say anything to her, his eyes shifting away.
‘I should never have let you see me kill him,’ he said.
She was wondering when he would broach that subject. If she knew anything about him at all, it was his need to protect her.
‘I was already there and it wasn’t as if he gave you a choice,’ she said.
‘I could have chosen not to kill him,’ he argued.
She touched the frayed slice in his tunic where Busby’s sword had reached. ‘Nae, Robert, the moment your back was turned, he would have killed you. He gave you nae choice.’
‘Choice? There are always choices, Gaira.’
He turned away from her.
She looked at his back and the rigidness of his shoulders. He had felt so warm near her, now he looked removed from any heat. Not cold, just...alone.
He had looked that way before Busby attacked. When he was packing to leave her and the children; he was there and yet alone already. She had argued with him regarding his so-called duty. But it was not duty driving this man.
‘Do you want to know what I think drives you?’ Wanting to know what he was thinking, she walked around to face him.
‘Do you want to know what I think made you go to a destroyed village? What made you help a woman and four children bury their dead and protect them until they obtained supplies for their survival?’
He barely glanced at her. ‘No,’ he answered.
‘’Tis not duty as you so put it, Robert of Dent,’ she said simply. ‘’Tis grief.’
Chapter Nineteen
He looked as if she had taken his claymore and thrust it tip-to-hilt straight through his stomach. Just as pale; just as surprised.
‘You are wrong.’ His voice was hoarse.
‘Ach, nae,’ she said. ‘Do you forget I grieve as well? Do you think me so naive I would not recognise it?’
‘You do not know me.’ His eyes returned to hers. ‘I am an English soldier. I have fought for King Edward my entire life. Grief is hardly a motivating factor.’
His face was unreadable, his mask in place. It did not matter. She had seen his expression before he tried to pretend otherwise.
‘You are right. I doona know all your past and maybe you do not grieve for the men you have killed. But there is something or someone you do grieve for. Maybe ’tis your family?’
‘My childhood is hardly unusual enough to cause any sadness.’
He tried to make his tone mocking. She did not believe him. ‘Tell me about it,’ she pressed him.
‘There is no reason for you to know. If it wasn’t for the fact that I—’ He stopped.
‘You what?’ she asked. She was getting irritated at his constant nae-saying. ‘Why doona you want to tell me? My entire humiliating history has been laid bare to you. You know my brothers abandoned me to the worst possible man they could find. You know my sister died a horrible death. Why do you not want to tell me one thing about your life, you surly reebald!’
His lips pursed. ‘You aren’t afraid, are you?’
The humour and cynicism underlying his question made her suspicious. ‘Of what?’
‘Of me,’ he said.
‘Why should I be?’ she asked.
‘I thought you understood, back in town, back when I murdered your husband, that you knew my identity. I am Black Robert.’
The name meant little to her. ‘I see you wear black, but I haven’t noticed your eyes glowing yellow or having any such conversations with the devil.’
‘No,’ he said impatiently. ‘That is myth, but my killing, my ability with the claymore, is true. I have murdered hundreds of your fellow Scotsmen at my sovereign’s request.’
She knew he was being graphic to shock her. It didn’t. She had had some time to sort her thoughts. ‘Even if that is true, I have seen another side of you. Maybe I do not know all you have done in the past, but I have seen a man willing to risk his life to help a stranded woman and children survive.�
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‘That is—’
‘I have seen a man, not a myth,’ she interrupted.
She took a step closer to him. She was tired of him putting up defences. ‘A man who was angry because he thought I belonged to another.’ She placed her hand upon his sleeve. Beneath her fingers, his muscles contracted. ‘I do not belong to another.’
He did not move, but his gaze remained riveted on her hand on his arm. He did not move, but he wanted to.
‘You’re afraid of me,’ she said, realisation dawning.
‘No,’ he whispered.
She remembered that first morning when she woke. He had been making breakfast for the children, but when his eyes reached hers, all time had stopped. She had watched him ever since, fascinated by the way he moved, the way he cared for his horse, his sword, the way he was awkward but gentle with the children.
She remembered the way his lips felt against hers. The heat, the desire, the need. Both his...and hers. She wanted to be closer to him then. She wanted that again now.
‘Then prove it,’ she said.
He moved and brought his foot between her own; he leaned until his leg separated hers. He was so close his hips almost touched hers. The rise and fall of his chest brushed against her breasts, making them sensitive. The night’s humid air was suddenly too thick to breathe and her lips parted to take in more air.
He hissed. With an imprecation under his breath, he pivoted and took several rapid steps away.
With the removal of his body, she was cold, stripped. Restless. Her breathing would not return to normal.
He straightened, but he did not turn to face her. ‘Damn you, Gaira. You pick at my soul until I hardly know myself anymore.’
He was so far away from her, not in distance, but in spirit, that she didn’t know if she could reach him. ‘I doona know what you mean. I doona know anything anymore. You’re nae making it easy.’
He looked over his shoulder. Her eyes probably betrayed every grudging feeling she had for him.
‘There’s no reason to make it easy,’ he said. ‘I have fulfilled any bargain you and I had. Regardless of what happened today, I will leave tomorrow.’
Oh. He was a stubborn man. Why she cared for him at all was beyond her. ‘Fine! Leave tomorrow. Keep running. You wear this image of Black Robert as if it’s a cloak to hide behind.’
He gave a small mirthless laugh. ‘I do not hide behind my image. I am that image. I have slaughtered men with my hands. Why can you not see that and leave me alone?’
‘Because I have seen nothing of that man in you. I cannot deny you have killed. But I have seen you are good, kind—’
He turned, his movement wide, erratic in his anger. ‘What do I have to say to make you go away? Why can’t you believe I am leaving and want nothing more to do with you!’
His statement was so vicious she was taken aback. And it was that pause that made her see him clearly. He was throwing up defences again. Cruelly. Angrily.
Desperately.
She could see it now in every muscle highlighted by the moonlight. His body tense, shivering with barely contained emotion. He was a great river, waiting only for the boulder in its flow to crumble. She felt like that boulder with his words crashing against her. But he wasn’t going to make her crumble. The river was going to have to bend.
Her anger quickly evaporated and when she gave him a slight smile, she revelled in the wariness entering his eyes. He wanted her. She knew it. She’d just have to break his control.
She grabbed the end of her plait, her fingers deftly releasing her hair, while her eyes never released him.
‘What are you doing?’ he asked.
‘Unbinding my hair,’ she said.
He leaned back as if she had suddenly caught on fire. She saw anger, frustration and something else flash across his face before he gave a low sound that was part growl, part moan.
‘You don’t know what you’re doing,’ he said hoarsely. ‘What you’re feeling.’
She felt as if she’d run up a steep hill, but hadn’t reached the top; her body was held suspended by something she couldn’t name. It waited, wanted and hurt all at the same time. Oh, she might not know how to name it, but whatever she was feeling, she’d been feeling it strongly from the moment he’d made breakfast that first morning.
And she had a feeling Robert knew what to do about it, too.
She released her hair and started to run her fingers through the thick waves. She felt his eyes devouring her. She saw him shudder.
She felt her own body respond to the heated current flowing between them. ‘Ach now. I know I’m feeling my breasts rise and tighten and my belly filling with heat. My lips aching be—’
With hands that wielded steel swords, he seized her arms and shoved her against a broad oak. She felt the coarse, splintered surface of the bark before he slammed his body against hers. Matching hip to hip, he knocked the breath from her, but then she had no breath as his lips, hard, crushing, covered hers and his calloused fingers dug into her arms, pinning them to the tree behind her.
She felt the sharp pull of her muscles, the hard uneven surface of the tree, the force of his body pressed into hers.
But she also felt his desire.
She moved to free her arms, only knowing she wanted to be closer. Wanting—
He suddenly stiffened, released her arms and she fell against the tree. His breath was a hot sear against her mouth.
‘I cannot do this,’ he said harshly. ‘You have to free me, Gaira—push me away. Run.’
She saw the change in his eyes: the heat and need dimming with something akin to devastation and anger. Her heart ripped a little. He was denying himself, but she would not let him. Because in denying himself, he was denying her. Denying them.
‘Aye, you can do this, Robert,’ she said. ‘You can and you will.’
‘You are untried, Gaira. It has been too long and I want you too much. I will not be what you need me to be.’
‘You are what I need,’ she said. She worked on instinct and rose on her toes, quick, and flicked her tongue over his lips.
He jerked and bowed his head. The curls of his hair fell loosely forward and she shaped her fingers around them.
‘You don’t understand everything. I have not told—’
She didn’t want to listen to excuses any longer.
‘You.’ She wrapped both hands around his neck, bringing her body closer to his.
His breath came in discordant rhythm. His cheeks were hollowed out and flushed. She felt sweat bead against his neck.
‘Then damn me—’ he leaned into her ‘—for this.’
His lips softened, his body no longer felt tense, but warm, firm and so very masculine.
Wrapping his arms around her, he pulled her up and into him. She didn’t know a body could melt, but hers did, right against him, curve for plane, soft for hard.
She felt his hands slowly trail from the base of her shoulders down the length of her spine to the crest of her bottom and below. There, he pulled her tighter towards him.
The coarse wool of her shawl confined her and she stretched to release its grip. He set her down. She leaned against him, shivering in anticipation while he untied the knot. She watched his fingers, saw the rapid rise and fall of his chest. She felt his eyes on her, but she did not look up as he pulled the fabric, unwrapping her slowly and letting her shawl fall around her ankles.
He quickly freed her of her tunic and leggings until she stood only in her released chemise, the thin white fabric covering her, but providing him no barrier to what was underneath. The night breeze curled around her. Her sight was blocked by the expanse of his chest, the cadence of his breath harsh, fast, matching her own.
At her hips, he fisted her chemise into his hands and stopped. She f
elt the strength of his hands gripping the fabric, felt him pausing, felt as if it were her he held in his tight grip. Suspended.
His entire body shook with restraint; imprisoned by something she did not understand.
‘Robert?’
He shuddered. ‘No!’
He loosened his grip. He had not moved otherwise, but she felt the coldness of his withdrawal all the same.
‘Why?’ she said, proud her voice did not sound as broken as she felt. Rejected. Again.
He raised his head. Regret might as well have been written on every line and plane of his face. It was certainly in his eyes. It was not the look she wanted to see.
‘I have hurt you,’ he said.
‘Aye!’ she said, exasperated. ‘But only because you’ve barely given me a breath before that wasteful reluctance is between us again.’ She waved her hand in front of her body. ‘And I feel...empty.’
He groaned and his fingers flexed against her hip. But he did not remove her chemise. Instead, he set her on her shawl and lay beside her. She could feel the weight of him, the want of him. She closed her eyes. If possible, she felt even more. His breath, the very smell of him, permeated her senses. Lying next to him, she felt poised on some precarious cliff that they would soon fall off together. She didn’t know what was waiting for them below and she didn’t care.
‘Here, let me... Maybe I can...’ He pushed her chemise up, revealing her legs. He kept his hands buried in the material. The fabric had never felt so soft or rough before. He stilled and she opened her eyes.
She felt his gaze on every freckle, every earned scar. When he looked up, his expression was of a quartered man, his limbs being pulled in different directions.
‘I can make you less empty,’ he said, ‘but I fear to touch you. Do you know how many times I have dreamed of your legs around me? Just the sight of them laid bare is enough to make me forget every hell-bound part of me.’
His words warmed her again. She wanted to stretch before his admiring gaze. She had never felt desired, wanted, as Robert wanted her. ‘Then forget,’ she said.
His expression became shuttered. ‘I will not forget. It is all I am now. Damned. I ache for you, Gaira.’