The Warrior Bride

by Lois Greiman

  “Perhaps I was in a rush because I did not wish to miss anything then,” he said.

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “Anything?”

  He caught her with his gaze. His eyes were dark, full of challenge and promise and a million other things she could not identify and dared not consider. “I am certain you are impatient. Indeed, patience is not me own greatest virtue, and it has been a long while for you.”

  She felt a bit breathless. Perhaps it was fatigue. “A long while since what?”

  “Since you’ve bathed,” he explained.

  “Oh.” She licked her lips and remembered to breathe.

  “Aye.”

  “Well then…” A muscle jumped in his lean jaw. “I’d best fetch the water.”

  She swallowed. “You must be hungry,” she said, and indicated the board that held the impromptu meal, but he only stared at her, his eyes boring into hers.

  “Aye,” he said. “I am indeed.”

  Heat smote her like the blast of a smithy’s furnace. “Enjoy the ale,” he said, and turned away.

  It seemed but a moment before he returned with his arms full of wood. He said nothing as he set the faggots into the fireplace and nurtured a small flame. When it was doing well, he left again only to return but a few moments later. Each fist was wrapped about the rope of a wooden bucket. Both buckets steamed.

  He emptied the first into the copper tub that occupied the corner of the room, then did the same with the second.

  “I shall return shortly.” She heard his words clearly, but whether they were a threat or a promise, she could not tell.

  She wrung her hands until he stepped through the door once again. A few additional trips and the tub was all but full.

  “There you be,” he said, and indicated the bath with an open palm. His eyes seemed to smolder in the firelight. “Will me laird need help disrobing?” There was challenge in his voice. Challenge and anger and some other dark emotion that she dare not question too closely.

  Her legs felt shaky and her mouth dry, but she raised her chin in response. “Why not?”

  Chapter 11

  Lachlan stood rooted to the floor. Nay, he was not one to turn away from a challenge, but neither was he one to rush in headlong where he could not win, and he was entirely uncertain he could be the victor in this, for he didn’t even know the rules.

  “You say you wish for me to disrobe you?” he asked.

  There was a pause long enough to sing a half dozen Hail Marys before she finally spoke. “Aye,” she said. “Unless it would be too difficult for you?”

  “Difficult?” The muscles in his hands ached. He eased them open. “Nay. Why would it be? After all, you say I have no interest in women.”

  She shrugged, but her expression was taut. “Perhaps that is why then.”

  He shook his head in confusion. “Mayhap you are repulsed.” “Repulsed!” he gritted, then calmed himself. The irony was not lost on him, but he did not feel like laughing. “You worry that I am repulsed.”

  “Nay.” For the life of him, he could not read her thoughts. Her hand was gripped into a fist. He stared at it, and she opened it beneath his gaze. “I am not worried.”

  It seemed suddenly that he was painfully close to the truth, just a breath away. “Because you believe I am not attracted to women or because you believe I am not attracted to you?”

  An unknown expression flitted across her face, but she shrugged finally. “It matters naught, for I’ve heard that great fighters are not oft great lovers.”

  “I am flattered,” he said.

  She raised her brows with a bored expression, and he leaned one shoulder against the wall and watched her at his leisure. It was a luxury he had rarely been afforded, for far too often she was armored and caped and defensive. But now, with her hair undone and her figure clad in leather, she was beautiful beyond words, even in warrior’s garb. Or especially in warrior’s garb. ‘Twas a confusing thought. “I am flattered that you think me a great fighter,” he explained.

  Her lips curled upward slightly at the corners, and he could not help but wonder what would happen if kissed her just there at the edge of heaven.

  “And not insulted that I think you a poor lover?” she asked.

  “I’ve no need to worry on that account.” He was too busy watching her lips to realize immediately that his response sounded roguishly self-assured.

  She studied him with careful scrutiny. “So…” He stared back, arousal making him hard and impatient.

  “You are confident of your skills in that arena, are you, champion?”

  Lachlan crossed his arms against his chest and reminded himself that only a fool would show weakness to a woman of Hunter’s ilk. “I’ve had no complaints,” he said.

  “If I cared I would be quite excited.”

  He shrugged. “I suspect your disinterest will only make me task the easier.”

  She drew a sharp breath and he smiled.

  “I but meant the task of disrobing you,” he said and, shifting his weight from the wall, approached her slowly. She watched him with ever widening eyes until he was mere inches from her. Had she ceased to breathe? Had he? “You are ready?” he asked.

  For a moment, he thought she would back away but she did not, so he set his hand to the buckle of her scabbard with steely determination.

  Their eyes met for an instant, but he pulled his away and cleared his throat. “You’ve a fine sword.”

  “As do you.”

  He skimmed his gaze to hers again, but if her words meant anything more than the obvious it did not show in her eyes. Slipping the blade from her hips, he set it aside and breathed carefully.

  “Did your uncle give it to you?”

  “Aye,” she said.

  He nodded and drew off her jerkin. It was padded heavily at the shoulders but had no closures and was simple enough to remove once the points were loosened. She stood finally in naught but a linen tunic and her calfskin hose. He reached slowly for the leather thong that closed the shirt at her throat, and to his surprise she did not stop him. Tugging gently, he pulled the lace loose. The garment opened a sparse few inches. He clenched his jaw and relaxed with a hard-won effort.

  “Your back does not bother you unduly?”

  “Me back?” She drew a careful breath. “It is well enough.”

  “Good.” He nodded, unclenched his fists and reached resolutely for the hem of her shirt. “‘Tis good.”

  It came away without anyone passing out, though he felt a bit lightheaded as he tossed it to the bed. Her arms were bare now as were her shoulders. But her wound was bandaged and above that her bindings stood guard between her and the world in general or him in particular. His teeth were beginning to sweat.

  “If this is bothering you-” she began. Her tone was cool, but he interrupted.

  “Nay! Nay,” he said, and reached for the cloth that hid her breasts. At the last moment though, he changed his course, for if the truth were known, he was entirely uncertain he could touch her there again and maintain any semblance of control.

  Thus, he dipped his fingers lower and untied the bandage that bound her most recent wound. He was close to her breasts, so very close that it was difficult to concentrate on the task at hand, but finally the knot worked loose and he was unwrapping her. He did so slowly, with a great deal of focus given to that specific part of her body, never letting his eyes stray from his mission, even when he set the bandages aside.

  “If this makes you… uncomfortable I can finish the task meself,” she said. Her expression was still set, but perhaps there was an edge of breathlessness to her tone.

  “Nay.” Focus. “Nay.” He shifted in an attempt to ease the pressure down below. “Not uncomfortable at all.”

  For a moment he wondered if she failed to breathe, but finally she spoke again. “Your belt,” she said, changing the subject without warning. “It bears the MacGowan wildcat.”

  “Aye,” he agreed and, reaching out, tugged at the clot
h that bound her breasts. It sighed loose. He forced his hand to move, to circle, to unwind, to remain steady, and in a matter of moments her entire torso was bare. Nestled against her buttermilk skin was a delicate shell hung on a narrow chain. It was crafted of finest silver and shone in the firelight, but it could not retain his attention, for her breasts were as beautiful as he remembered. They were full and pale and capped with nipples the color of sweet wine, but along one delectable, outside curve, a jagged scar was revealed.

  He tightened his jaw and carefully kept himself from reaching out to smooth his fingers along its course. “You were wounded,” he said.

  “Aye.” Her tone was tense, and when he looked into her eyes he saw that her face had gone hard, as if she were steeling herself against some unseen force.

  “It does not hurt you?”

  “Nay.”

  “How did you sustain it?”

  “A dispute with the Munro.”

  “A dispute?”

  “He did not think I had a right to his favored stallion.” He eased his fists open again. “Damn him.” He tried to keep his tone absolutely neutral, but perhaps he was less successful than he’d hoped, for her steely expression gave way to curiosity.

  “You dislike him?”

  “Dislike him!” The words rasped out, low and gritty, but he drew a deep breath and calmed himself. “He wounded you.”

  “I stole his steed.”

  “Good.”

  “Tell me, champion, do you resent the truce between the Munros and your people?”

  “He wounded you,” he reminded her.

  ”And I wounded him.”

  His jaw hurt. “Aye, but it matters not if you mar him, while you…” He paused, searching for words.

  “I do not care that you think me ruined, MacGowan. Indeed-”

  “Ruined!” He choked the word, but could find naught else to say that would not reveal the pain her presence caused him.

  And thus they stared at each other in wordless immobility.

  “The water cools,” she said finally. “Let’s see this done.”

  His erection waved its wild approval. Lachlan resolutely kept his gaze on her face, for although her breasts had been alluring before, the scar seemed to add a strange new depth to his feelings. It was all he could do to refrain from touching her.

  “Get on the bed,” he ordered.

  “What?” Was there panic in her face?

  He would have laughed if he’d still possessed the capabilities. “Sit,” he said. “On the bed. I’ll remove your boots.”

  She pursed her lips, then cleared her throat and did as commanded. “Of course.”

  His hands were remarkably steady as he set them to her first boot. It came away easily in his hands, as did the next. He swallowed and reached for the top of her hose. Beneath his fingers, her waist felt as tight and supple as an oak sapling. He concentrated on the task at hand; pushing the leather downward and remembering to breathe. Beneath the hose, she wore naught but a loincloth tied with a wide linen lace. He avoided it carefully and tugged her hose down and away, praying while he did so until her thighs and knees were utterly bare. Squatting soundlessly, he reached for the garter that held her stocking in place. It loosened easily and he rolled the woolen garment over the firm slope of her calf and lower. Her skin was smooth and pearly, her muscles long and taut.

  His breathing was steady now and his sight clear. Undressing this woman was not unlike a battle. He only had to remain focused lest he make a terrible mistake and lose his head. Lifting her foot onto his knee, he trailed his fingers light as sunrise over the sharp bone of her ankle. The stocking fell before his fingers, smoothed away to reveal the fine curve of her foot by slow, careful increments. The instep was high, the tendons tight and as his hand skimmed lower, finally revealing her toes, he saw that they were small and perfect. He ran a finger down the lot of them. It was like striking the cords of a harp, for he felt her shiver as the instrument might.

  The stocking fell away, but his hands remained, cradling her foot upon his knee. He glanced up. “Are you well?”

  “Well?” she repeated, but around the word he could hear her quick, shallow breathing.

  “Aye. All is well?”

  “Of course. Why would it not be?”

  Without glancing down, he skimmed his finger across the tidy row of toes. She shivered again and he scowled in fascination. “I do not know.” he said. Their gazes melded. He seemed strangely calm now, as if he held his own life in the palm of his hand and did not worry for the outcome.

  “Lass,” he said, but in that instant she yanked her foot.

  In his surprise, he almost lost his grip, but he did not, for at Evermyst it was oft said that what he put his hand to did not easily go astray. “Whatever is amiss?”

  “‘Tis naught amiss,” she said, “but that you refuse to release me foot.”

  “Ahh, well, I am your faithful servant after all.”

  Reaching up slightly, he curled his palm around her calf. The skin felt warm and lovely beneath his hand. He kneaded it gently. “‘Tis me duty to see to your care.”

  “You have done enough.” She licked her lips and tugged at her foot again.

  He tightened his grip even as he continued his kneading. “You seem a bit tense.”

  “And why would I not be? A great beast of a MacGowan has got me foot.”

  “A great beast of a servant,” he corrected patiently.

  “But you’ve no need to worry. After all, we are both men here, aye? There can be no indiscretions.”

  “No indiscretions. So I was correct; you have no bias about sins against nature.”

  “Sins against nature?” he repeated, and kneaded her calf again. It was firm and long and smooth, nothing like his own bunched muscles.

  She drew breath sharply through her nose. “You know just what I mean,” she said.

  “Aye,” he agreed, and stroked her leg again with slow deliberation. “That I have more interest in men than women.”

  She nodded, but the movement was jerky. “And that is fine by me.”

  He trailed his finger along the crease behind her knee.

  Her entire leg jerked like the kick of a recalcitrant mule. Interesting.

  “After all,” she said. The words were raspy and quick.

  “You are a warrior of sorts.”

  He almost smiled. It was not unlike the calm he oft felt before battle. “Of sorts,” he agreed.

  “No offense meant, of course.”

  He ran the beds of his nails along the back of her thigh. The long muscle jumped.

  “Of course,” he agreed. His own tone was amicable. “After all, you are certainly built-”

  He skimmed his fingers down her leg from her knee.

  She rasped a sharp breath and he raised his gaze to hers. She was breathing through her mouth. The sight was not unbecoming, but seemed to escalate the beat of his heart.

  “I am certainly built?” he began, reminding her where she’d left off.

  She stared at him for several long seconds, then licked her lips. He watched the swipe of her tongue and felt the effects curl like smoky talons deep in his gut.

  “Like a warrior,” she finished. Her voice was as deep as night, shivering pleasantly through his system.

  He circled her thigh with his palm and massaged firmly. “Is that a compliment, lass?”

  “What?” She was watching his hand.

  “Did you compliment me?” he asked, but it mattered little what she said, only that she remained as she was, supple and warm, and all but naked beneath his fingertips.

  She swallowed. “I did not mean to. ‘Tis just that you are…” His sleeves were rolled away from his wrists, exposing the working muscles of his sun-darkened forearms. “You are beautifully built-for a womanly man.”

  He paused in his massage, then raised his brows and laughed out loud.

  “Something amuses you?”

  He resumed his movements. “Apparently so
. And ‘tis strange,” he admitted. “For if another said the same I may well feel the need to sharpen me blade on his skull.”

  “Are you challenging me, MacGowan?” He smiled a little. “Not to a duel.”

  Their gazes met. Her eyes seemed unusually dark and her cheeks were flushed.

  He slid his hand along her leg, squeezing gently over her knee and down the satiny length of her calf.

  She watched his progress with enormous eyes. “This isn’t bothering you, is it?” he asked. “Bothering-”

  “Aye,” he said and, easing her foot from his lap, reached for the other leg.

  She jerked it from his grasp. “Nay!”

  He glanced up, absorbed by his task. “What’s that?” She cleared her throat. “I am feeling quite guilty… for the things I said of you.”

  He stared up at her.

  “After all, you are not me servant… exactly.”

  “Perhaps not exactly,” he agreed and, capturing her second foot, set it upon his thigh.

  She watched his movements and swallowed. “‘Tis not your job to disrobe…” She failed to find any additional words for a moment. “‘Tis not your job to see to me own comfort.”

  Her legs ran on forever, her waist scooped in with dramatic flare and her breasts… Half hidden by the wayward sweep of her flaxen locks, they appeared like fair glimpses of heaven. He felt his desire throb and he tamped down that familiar impatience.

  “As it turns out, I do not mind so terribly,” he said. She licked her lips. He watched the movement with absolute absorption. “Just because…” She paused, breathed a few times, and continued. “Just because I conduct meself as a warrior does not mean I am… that sort.”

  He released her second garter at a leisurely pace, enjoying every brush of his fingertips against her flesh. ”That sort?” he asked and, slipping his hands around her calf, eased the stocking downward.

  She drew a careful breath between her teeth. “The sort we spoke of before. The sort that… dallies with their own type.”

  He studied her face in a long moment of silence. “And despite all hard evidence to the contrary you still believe I do.” He eased her stocking over the arch of her foot, letting his fingertips skim along the scooped sole and over her toes as he slipped the garment from her.