The Warrior Bride

by Lois Greiman

  “The same?” he asked. The question was little less than a threat. Beneath his plaid, she could see the hard outline of his desire.

  She snatched her hand away and grabbed the tub with frantic fingers.

  “What do you want, MacGowan?” she rasped. Absolute silence filled the room. For an eternity not a word was spoken. “You,” he finally said.

  She tried to formulate a thought, but nothing came. “‘Tis you I want,” he repeated.

  She tried to force a laugh, but she could not. “You jest.”

  His eyes were as sober as death and failed to shift the slightest degree. “Do I look like I jest, lass?”

  “I am not a lass. I am a warrior, scarred in battle and-” she began, but in that moment he touched his fingers to her lips, shushing her. Indeed, causing her to hold her breath.

  He stared at her mouth for a moment, then lifted his attention back to her eyes as his fingers skimmed over the cleft of her lips and lower. Soft as a breeze, he trailed over her jaw and down the length of her neck.

  Against her will, she shivered beneath his touch. Her eyes fell closed. Her hands ached against the metal as her head fell back. His fingers slipped into the hollow in her throat and against his flesh, she could feel the hard tattoo of her heart.

  “Surely you know the truth.” His words were no more than a whisper. “You are temptation itself.”

  “Nay,” she moaned and tensed to rise, but already his hand held her shoulder.

  “You cannot escape it, lass. You are beautiful and you are desirable no matter how long you hide from the fact.”

  She stared at him, her heart pumping wildly. “I am not beautiful.”

  “Aye, lass, you are, but why would you wish it otherwise?”

  Moments stretched into silence, then, “Beauty is weak,” she whispered.

  He tilted his head and eased his hand slowly down the length of her sword arm. His fingers remained on her biceps for a moment, then continued on until he reached her wrist. Once there, he lifted it upward so that her palm lay open before him.

  “Weak?” he whispered and kissed the hollow of her palm.

  She sucked air through her teeth. “I think not.”

  Her hand tingled. Her breath came hard. “What was your given name, lass?”

  “I have many names.” Her voice was raspy, unnatural. “Aye.” He trailed his fingertips along the tendons in her wrist, over the blue ridged veins and upward. “Hunter. Giles. Warrior. Good names. And well used, all. But what of the name your mother gave you?” His fingers bumped over the crease where her arm bent. She jumped like a startled hare beneath the rampant sensations.

  “Mother gave me nothing.”

  His gaze felt sharp on her face, and though she knew she had said too much she could not seem to correct herself, to think, to focus on anything but the feeling of his fingers against her skin.

  “Nothing?” he asked and, cradling her elbow in his palm, brushed his thumb across the bend.

  She tried not to shiver. “She gave me life, but little else,” she corrected and swallowed the spark of pleasure that radiated from his touch.

  His gaze was as warm as sunshine upon her face. “I am sorry.”

  “Do not pity me!” she said, and yanked at her arm, but he held it firm.

  “You? Nay, lass. ‘Tis not you I pity, but your mother.”

  “What?”

  “Do you think for a moment she could have wanted to give you up?”

  She said nothing, but stared into his eyes. They were as deep as forever.

  “I am not a sensitive man, lass. Nor do I have the gift of understanding. Me own greatest talent is in swordsmanship, but this much I know; there is not a mother of sound mind who could have given you up without relinquishing part of her very own soul.”

  “She kept me sister.” The words were a whisper and for that weak tone as much as the words themselves, she hated herself.

  “Poor thing,” he said and kissed her wrist where the pulse thrummed like mad.

  “I told you not to pity me.” She jerked it out of his grip. Water splashed violently over the side of the tub, wetting his bared chest, but he did not retreat. Instead, he watched her from a proximity so close it seemed she could feel the heat radiating from his body.

  “Look at yourself, lass,” he said, and drew his gaze down her body and up. “None could pity you.”

  She scowled. Her eyes stung, and her throat felt tight.

  “And you will not pity her,” she ordered.

  “I will,” he argued. “For not only did she give you up, she was forced to choose between you and another. How was she to know she would relinquish the best of the pair?”

  She watched him in terror, barely able to breathe.

  “You do not know me sister!” she whispered.

  “Nay,” he said, “but I know you.”

  She forced herself to relax a mite. He did not know her secrets. All was safe, but the tightness in her throat did not lessen. “She’s as bonny as the springtime,” she informed him.

  The smallest of smiles lifted his lips. “I meself like the winter,” he said and stroked her wrist.

  “Delicate as a flower.”

  “I’ve a weakness for strength.”

  Anger whipped through her. “Don’t pretend you disdain her.”

  His brow lowered. “As you said, I do not know her.”

  His eyes were suddenly hawkish. “Do I?”

  “Nay.” She dropped her gaze to the water and felt panic rise like an unfamiliar wave. “Of course not. I only meant that… you would worship her if you but met her.”

  The frown did not lessen. “What is her name?” “It matters not.”

  “Then tell me.”

  “It would do no good.” “Neither would it do any harm.” “I have no need of her.”

  “You- ” He paused. “She does not know of you?”

  “Might you think we exchange Yuletide gifts, MacGowan? Might you think we embroider bed sheets as we sit by the fire and speak of scented soaps and drink-” “Mayhap she longs to.”

  The air left her lungs. “What?”

  “Mayhap she is as lonely as you.”

  “I am not lonely,” she whispered.

  He didn’t argue, but only watched her for an instant.

  “Maybe she is tired to death of embroidery and longs to ride free as you do.”

  “I doubt that,” she said and her throat felt tight again.

  “Her embroidery is perfect.”

  He laughed and she started as he reached for her hand again. “As is your swordplay. Or nearly so.” He smoothed her knuckles with his thumb. “So she is a noblewoman.”

  “Aye,” she said, watching his hand upon hers. His skin was dark and when he moved, the muscles tightened like magic up the length of his mesmerizing arm.

  “A family I know?”

  She caught her breath suddenly. Only a fool spilled secrets at the simple touch of a man’s hand. “She is not of noble birth.”

  “Oh?” His brows rose slightly.

  “Nay. I but meant that she thinks herself quite noble.”

  “Ahh,” he said. If he believed a word of it, that naivet? did not show in the strong lines of his face.

  Indeed, he looked somber and sage and as powerful as a broadsword.

  “You’ve met her then,” he said and caressed her wrist with velvety softness.

  Feelings skittered up her arm like summer lightning. “Aye. Nay. I…”

  “Which is it, lass?”

  “I am not a lass!”

  His gaze skimmed her body again, but in a moment it returned to her face.

  “And you feel not the least bit of desire.”

  “Nay, I do not.”

  The corners of his mouth tilted a bit. Anger rose in her at the very sight.

  “Is that so hard to believe, MacGowan?” He said nothing.

  “‘Tis, isn’t it! And why so? Just because you are strong and bonny and…” She stopped the wor
ds belatedly, feeling sick, expecting him to laugh, to howl at the evidence of her weakness.

  But he did not. Indeed, even that devilish hint of a grin had been wiped clean from his face. He watched her with eyes slightly narrowed, his hands perfectly still on her arm.

  She cleared her throat and kept herself from shifting her gaze away.

  “You think me bonny?”

  She could no longer hold his gaze, but let it drift to the side. The candle flickered atop her walnut writing desk, chasing shadows across the room. “I did not mean that.”

  It took a moment for him to speak, but finally he did.

  “What is it that you meant?”

  “Some…” She scowled at the quill left atop her ancient desk. “Some maids might find you appealing.”

  “Me nose has been broken,” he said. “Twice.”

  She nodded, but refused to look at him, for every inch of him spoke of strength and valor and all the things for which she cared.

  “Me face is scarred.”

  There was a unnatural crease in the center of his chin and his left cheek was marred. She knew without looking at him. Still, something tightened far down below, making her want to squirm deeper into the water. Aye, he was a warrior clear to the bone, and yet, when he touched her…

  “I am neither charming nor witty, despite me heritage. Not like me brothers.”

  “Your brothers!” she scoffed.

  His scowl deepened and she wished to hell that she could sink beneath the water and not arise until he was long gone.

  “What of me brothers?” he asked.

  “Nothing.” She refused to meet his gaze. “There is naught amiss with them, I am certain. Indeed… I do not know them well.”

  “You sounded…” His own tone was perplexed. “Disdainful.”

  “Nay.”

  The silence stretched around them. She fidgeted. “Maids swoon at the merest glance from Gilmour. Indeed-”

  “Gilmour,” she scoffed again, then winced, mortified at her foolishness.

  His scowl had deepened. “‘Tis said scores of maids fell to his charms before he met his Isobel.”

  She kept her mouth firmly closed and refused to lift her gaze from her own wrist. It seemed so ridiculously pale against his darkened skin. For a warrior she was uncommonly fair. And as weak as a Protestant. But who would not be weak where he was-

  “You do not find him appealing?” he asked.

  “He matches his steed’s color to his own.” She knew she made little sense.

  “What?”

  She cleared her throat. “He is too fair and too vain for me own taste, but as I have said afore, MacGowan, I’ve little interest in men, so I am not the one to ask.”

  “I beg to differ,” he said, his voice low and his caress soft against her wrist again. “You are the only one.”

  There was something in his tone or his touch, or perhaps it was the very air around her that made her shiver. She closed her eyes and hid the weakness as best she could.

  Silent seconds ticked away. “You seem to know a good deal about me brother for one who has no interest in men.”

  She said nothing.

  “And what of Ramsay? You must admire him; his steed is as ugly as sin,” he said, and rubbed a slow circle into the palm of her hand.

  She tried to think beyond the feelings his fingers caused. “He punishes himself,” she said.

  “What?”

  The surprise in his tone brought her fully aware. “As I have said afore, I’ve no interest in…”

  Again he trilled his thumb across her wrist. She shivered from her shoulders to her knees. Coherent thought burned to ash.

  “Methinks you protest too much,” he whispered.

  “I do not lie!” she said and yanked her arm from his grasp. “So do not think I long for you.”

  All the air had been sucked out of the room. One moment it was there and the next it was gone. Voila. Like magic.

  “Lass- ”

  “Nay!” Her voice sounded shrill, just short of panic.

  “Do not speak.”

  His gaze burned into hers. She held it as best she could, but for a warrior she felt pathetically naked body and soul.

  “Very well. I will let it be.” His own voice was low, and he sat for a moment, entirely unmoving as he watched her. “Tilt your head back. I will wash your hair.”

  “I don’t need your help.”

  He dipped his hand into the tub. She jumped and he raised his brows as he looked at her.

  “The water is cooling,” he said. “I will hurry you along.”

  “I am not a weakling maid what needs the help of some brawny-” She stopped before she spilled another compliment, stared at him for an elongated moment, then, in a wild attempt at self-preservation, slipped lower and dunked her head.

  For a moment she felt more exposed than ever as her breasts rose into the cooler air. She straightened quickly. Water streamed from her hair.

  MacGowan shifted his gaze to her eyes. A muscle danced in his jaw and suddenly her own face felt hot.

  For a moment the entire world froze and for the same amount of time, she fought to remain where she was, safely out of his reach.

  She thought for an instant that he would touch her, but he kept his hands away, rose to his feet, and walked behind her. In a moment she felt his hands in her hair, felt the soap rub against her scalp.

  She closed her eyes to the world, to her own foolishness, to the feelings that raced through her like intoxicating wine.

  He dipped his hand into the water, raised it and lathered her hair again. Then his fingers were against her scalp, easing away the tension. They skimmed her brow, caressed her ear, traced a path of suds down her throat and onto her shoulder. She held her breath. For a moment he paused. She could feel the shift in his attention, and then, like magic, his hand smoothed with velvet softness across her breast.

  Hunter gritted her teeth. Sensations sparked like fireworks in her loins. She dared not look down, but she felt her nipple bend and rise in the soapy trail his hand made down her body.

  He shifted around her. Their eyes met, then he pressed on her shoulder, and she slipped deeper into the water.

  Soft as seal skin, her hair whipped against her back and neck, but in a moment she was up.

  He reached for the soap again and dipped it slowly into the water.

  There was naught but torture after that. Slow, nerve shattering torture. He lathered her arms and shoulders. Then, with painstaking thoroughness, he washed her breasts and moved lower. Not a hollow nor a swell nor a dip was neglected until finally his hand skimmed lower still, slipping beneath the water along her belly.

  She held her breath as magic raced over her hip and onto her thigh. Every fiber tingled as he caressed her calf, but finally he lifted her foot from the water.

  Her foot! When her entire body ached to be-She stopped the thought, managing not to pant like a hound as she watched his progress. His hands were moving upward, lathering her leg as they went. Her calf muscles felt limp beneath his ministrations. His hands encircled her knee, sliding toward her bottom, smoothing, caressing, washing, until they reached the mound of hair nestled between her legs. He cupped her there. Fire burned, threatening to engulf her, but he was moving again, shifting so that his fingers slipped between her thighs. She closed her eyes and pushed against his hand, aching with need.

  “Lass,” he whispered, and it was that whisper that brought her awake.

  She jerked to her feet. Water splashed over his chest.

  The candle’s flame hissed and sputtered as she stumbled from the tub.

  “I’m clean!” She all but shouted the words-like a newly washed Christian staggering from the Jordan.

  He rose slowly to his feet, muscles flexing everywhere.

  She swallowed hard. “Clean,” she repeated. “Lass-”

  “Nay!” Her voice warbled as she hugged her arms against her chest. “I am not a lass.”

  His gaze lo
wered. Hers followed suit. Above her tightly pressed wrist, her nipples bulged toward the ceiling, bright red and ridiculously enlarged.

  Retrieving a towel from the tub’s edge, Lachlan advanced, and though she meant to retreat, she could not. Indeed, when he stepped up to her, it was all she could do to keep from climbing him like a well-broke steed. Instead, she merely tilted back her head and hoped her heart would not stop dead in her chest.

  He wrapped the towel slowly about her body, letting his hand brush her breasts. Her knees went limp. She placed her palm against his chest. Perhaps she meant to push him away. But the feel of his flesh beneath her fingertips was horrendously magnetic, drawing her gaze, her attention, her entire focus. She slipped her hand lower, letting it ripple over the intense strength of his abdomen and rest just above his plaid.

  Tension was cranked as tight as a windlass. Air was impossible to find. A muscle jumped in his cheek.

  “Tell me what you want.” The words were gritted, almost as if he were in pain.

  She sucked breath in through her teeth and met his eyes. They burned like hot coals in the firelight. “I want…” A thousand images soared through her mind. Every one of them showed him naked.

  His belly felt as taut as a war drum beneath her hand.

  His hands were still where they held the towel together between her breasts and every corded muscle in his arm was stretched hard and strong.

  But she was strong too. And she could not afford to be weak, not now. She closed her eyes to the heat of her desire.

  “I want you to leave,” she whispered.

  The world stood still. She dare not breathe, but he spoke finally, his voice low in the shifting darkness.

  “Swear to me that is what you want.”

  “I swear it.”

  For a moment she thought he would refuse and for a moment hope soared, but finally he pulled his hands away.

  The high muscles in his chest jumped as though he was enduring some horrendous torture, but he stepped back, his eyes still blazing, and then, like a well-trained soldier, he snatched up his belongings and left the room.

  Chapter 13