His brow furrowed in confusion.
"The bath," she said. "'Tis for ye."
The furrow deepened.
"My lord," she added with a curtsy and a nervous smile.
His voice cracked on the reply. "I don't need a hot bath. I'll bathe in the pond come morn. And I'm not your lord."
Her smile faltered. She hadn't expected reticence on his part. "But… I want… to." Lord, why couldn't she speak properly?
He was silent a long while. Finally, he glanced down with an enigmatic smile, as if she'd made a jest only he understood. "I know."
Maybe she hadn't made herself clear. She clutched the edge of the tub. "I… want this."
He let out a sigh, then lifted a brow. "And are ye accustomed to getting' everythin' ye want?"
'Twas a curious question. She answered him as honestly as she could. "Aye, most o' the time."
Laughter crept into his gaze. She knew not what he found so amusing. When you were the daughter of a drunkard, you learned to take care of your wants and needs yourself.
"Well, wee kitten, I fear I must refuse ye this time." He turned to leave.
His words took her aback. For a moment she only stared at him in disbelief. How could he turn down such a generous offer? One that promised him pleasure? She frowned. Maybe, as her foster father often complained when Florie dealt with buyers, her approach was too direct.
What should she say, then, to entice him to stay? 'Twas on the tip of her tongue to make some vacuous remark about the weather when she remembered her foster father's last words to her as she left for the Selkirk fair. For God's sake, Florie, he'd drawled, if all else fails, use your womanly guile. Surely ye were born with some small measure of it.
Womanly guile. Aye. Like the noblewomen she'd heard in the marketplace, purring to their lords to purchase jewels for them. Or the sisters who'd simpered and giggled and blushed to gain Rane's attentions. Or the pair of lasses who'd brought the tub. Womanly guile.
She blew out a calming breath and clasped her hands before her, trying to smooth her jagged nerves, though 'twas akin to pouring honey over thistles. "Wait."
Miraculously, her soft syllable made him comply. Maybe she did possess womanly guile, after all.
"Forgive me if I've offended ye," she murmured. "I only meant to repay your kindness."
He half turned and eyed her suspiciously from under his brows. "Repay my…to balance the accounts, ye mean?"
"Aye. Nae." She swallowed. Maybe 'twas true. Partly. But there was more to it than that. She wanted to relive what she'd felt yesterday, to be close to him, to touch him. Her lids dipped as she glanced at his mouth, remembering the taste of his kiss.
His face darkened. "I'll be outside, guardin' the door," he said gruffly, lifting the latch.
"Wait," she pleaded. Maybe she wasn't being alluring enough. She slipped forward, insinuating herself into the space between Rane and the door, looking up at him with what she hoped were tempting eyes. "Guardin' the door?" she breathed, letting her gaze trail down his throat, where his pulse throbbed. "Against whom? A blind priest?" She lifted intrepid fingertips to toy with the lacing of his jerkin. "Nae. Stay with me. 'Tis cold outside."
His nostrils flared again, and his mouth turned solemn. "What game do ye play at, lass?"
"Game?" she whispered, puzzled. After all, she'd seen this tactic work effectively on many a lord in the marketplace. "'Tis no game."
He closed his fingers about her wrist. "I'm well acquainted with the wiles o' women, Florie."
Rane clenched his jaw. The damned lass was trying to seduce him. And succeeding. She was well aware of what she invited. She'd kissed him. She'd tasted his passion. She knew well what beast she called forth. And what 'twould lead to. The wicked wanton wanted him.
And, Odin help him, he wanted her worse.
The subtle smoldering in her gaze sent lust rippling through his blood. Sporting with the lass—kissing her, caressing her—was one thing, but this was no harmless play. At the moment, he had no trouble imagining taking her here, now, ravishing her before the altar on the stone floor of the church, like his heathen ancestors before him.
But he'd also realized the truth the moment he'd walked in and set eyes on her, standing like an angel in that diaphanous wisp of a gown beside the gleaming array of candles, her eyes shining with hope. He liked Florie too well to break her heart, which he'd inevitably do. Better he should refuse her now than hurt her later. Besides, he had his own suspicions regarding the maid.
"Ye're a virgin," he murmured, "aren't ye?"
She blushed, lowering her gaze, and lied through her teeth. "Nae."
"Florie?"
She didn't answer.
He gave her a rueful smile and pointedly removed her arm from his chest. "Enjoy your bath."
Florie crossed her arms in challenge, and the enticing temptress vanished like mist, replaced by the familiar stubborn sprite. "If ye won't avail yourself o' the bath, then neither shall I."
He shrugged. "So be it."
Her jaw dropped.
He turned away.
"Wait!" she cried.
Curse his foolish heart, he did.
"Ye'd waste a perfectly good bath?" she asked in disbelief.
"Nae. Ye'd waste a perfectly good bath. I never asked for one."
She had no answer for that. After a moment, he stepped toward the door again.
"Wait!"
He stopped again.
"Ye drive a hard bargain," she groused, then continued with a sigh. "Very well. I concede. Ye've won." Rane didn't believe her surrender for a moment. Sure enough, she followed with, "But I pray ye don't leave yet, for I fear I may need assistance gettin' into the tub."
The only thing that kept him from laughing aloud at her transparent ploy was the vision her words inspired—Florie at her bath, slipping off her garments, baring her creamy flesh, her supple breasts, the dark tangle of curls below…
He bit down against a painful wave of longing. Nae, he had no intention of remaining in the sanctuary, within sight of her alluring curves, within hearing of her every sensual splash and sigh of contentment. His own lucid musings were torment enough. With any luck, on the steps of the church, the brisk eve would chill his heated blood, and by the time she was finished and her bath cooled, so would his ardor.
So she needed help getting into the tub, did the wee tease? Oh, aye, he'd help her.
Without a word, he whirled about and stepped forward. Ignoring the breathless expectation in her eyes and the desire parting her lips, he reached forward as if to embrace her. But instead, he clasped her about the waist, lifting her bodily, and deposited her, chemise and all, into the warm water.
Florie's mouth fell open in outrage. The breath escaped her on a huff of indignation, and her eyes flashed with disbelief. For an instant, his mouth twitched with amusement as he shook the water from his forearms.
But he should have left while he had the chance. For as soon as the water soaked through her thin chemise, making her appear as if she wore nothing at all, his mouth went dry, his humor faded, and his better judgment fled, along with his good intentions.
Chapter 16
When Florie recovered, sputtering from the shock of being dunked in the tub like a flea-ridden cat, she saw that Rane had unwittingly achieved for himself what she could not. His eyes, hooded with desire, had darkened like a stormy sea, and his nostrils fluttered as if he detected the tantalizing scent of prey.
'Twas not quite what she'd intended. She'd meant to slowly rekindle the fire they'd banked yesterday, to slip the chemise from her shoulder, to win him gradually with a tenuous touch, a kiss here, a caress there. Instead, 'twas as if he'd just set a torch to bone-dry tinder.
Faith, she might as well be naked for the modesty her drenched garment afforded. And when he regarded her with that burning gaze, his lust almost a tangible thing, she had to fight off the potent instinct to cover herself.
But she wasn't afraid. Not truly. She remembered
how gentle Rane was, how adept, how patient. Nae, 'twasn't fear. Indeed, noting the way he clenched his fists as his chest rose and fell with a deep breath, she felt most empowered.
She could see him mentally weighing his choice to remain or walk out the door, the same kind of indecision she'd seen countless times on patrons' faces in the goldsmith shop. In the shop she'd do her best to display the gems in a favorable light. Maybe 'twas no different here.
Though she trembled at her own boldness, her eyes locked with his, and she reached up to slide the chemise from her shoulder. She slowly revealed the swell of her bosom above the water as the fabric rasped sensuously along her arm, low on her throat, and over one breast, catching on the taut peak. She sighed, imagining that Rane's hands did the deed.
Modestly covering her breast with one hand, she used the other to slip her chemise from the opposite shoulder. With her arms crossed over her bosom and her face burning with a delirious blend of shame and lust, she still found the courage to peel back the linen to bare her breasts fully to his view, relishing the contrast of the warm water and the cool air as the tiny waves lapped at her nipples.
Rane's mouth was tense now, his eyes dark and fierce. His fists were white with strain, and every breath he drew made his nostrils quiver. Still he came no nearer. But neither did he depart.
Her pulse palpable in her throat, she eased the chemise down farther, past her waist and the hollow of her belly, over the bones of her hips, rising slightly to free her buttocks from the swirling white cloth. The water splashed softly against the wood as she drew the chemise slowly up and over her bent knees, then slipped out her feet. With a surge of water, she lifted the saturated gown out, dropping it onto the flagstones. And then there was nothing to block his view.
But though he scowled into the water as if to boil it with his stare, still he didn't move from his spot. She could see the blatant manifestation of his lust, straining at his braies like a huge warhorse eager for battle, yet he held back his desires with a firm rein…just like a patron stubbornly unmoved by her shop full of tempting wares.
When in Stirling a patron was so intractable, Florie would make a great show of polishing the jewels till they shone like irresistible fire.
With trembling fingers, she groped atop the linens for the soap, almost knocking it to the floor. Capturing it in her palm, she wet the fragrant cake in the bath. Then, with luxuriant sloth, she began to run it over her skin. The cake glided along her throat, over her collarbone, around her shoulder, and down the length of one arm, making a slippery trail over her flesh.
Peering obliquely up at Rane, she saw her movements were having some effect. His jaw was no longer tight. Indeed, his mouth had parted slightly as he watched the path of the soap beneath lust-heavy lids.
Encouraged by his attentiveness, Florie repeated the sensual pattern over the other half of her body. Then, dipping the cake into the water again, she placed it high against her bosom and, unable to keep her eyes open for this most brazen of gestures, slipped the soap further downward. Her face hot, she proceeded to make lazy spirals around her breasts, rubbing the cake gently over her awakening nipples. Then she slid the soap down to her navel, and she flushed even hotter, remembering the way Rane had touched her. Sweet Lord, she longed to feel him there again, in her most secret of places.
But as Florie labored to breathe under the weight of her longing, the soap chanced to slip from her hand. Before she could catch it, it coursed with unerring aim betwixt her legs.
Her eyes flew open.
Rane's hands were no longer clenched. His fingers were splayed now like a warrior's in readiness, awaiting only the command to fight. His chest heaved with great breaths of air, and his eyes focused with such intensity upon her body that she feared he might sear her with his gaze.
Her first instinct was to go after the soap. But something in Rane's eyes, some silent command, immobilized her. She could do nothing but watch as he loosened the laces of his jerkin, pulling it off and casting it aside. His steady gaze riveted her as he methodically rolled back the sleeves of his shirt, baring his muscular forearms, for what purpose Florie shivered to imagine.
The sly smile to which she'd grown accustomed was missing now. Rane's expression was one of reluctant duty, almost as if he prepared to mete out stern punishment for her wanton act.
Only when he started forward did she begin to comprehend the consequences of her boldness. Rane was a hunter, and Florie had become his prey. He was as pumped full of male energy as a charging boar. There was no turning back. What she'd begun, he would finish. Here and now.
Yet as Rane towered over her, his shadowed eyes raking down her body, taking in every inch of her, still she felt no fear, only desire. And when he dropped to one knee beside the tub, trailing his fingertips across the surface of the water, she bit her lip to silence her own whimpers of anticipation.
Without a word, he placed a finger at the spot in her throat where her pulse throbbed, sliding it down along her breastbone. Moving slowly downward, he stretched out his massive hand so that it encompassed her whole bosom, his thumb and last finger grazing her nipples. Florie moaned, tipping her head back until it rested upon the rim of the barrel, closing her eyes to relish the yearning.
When he reached her waist, beneath the water, his hand reversed, his fingertips now leading the way over the plane of her stomach and lower, dipping briefly inward at her navel, toying with the beginning of the fine black hair that shielded her nether parts from his view.
"Open your eyes," he bade her softly.
She resisted his command. Though it had been easy to expose her body to him, to lay her soul bare was another matter.
His free hand touched her jaw. "Look at me, Florie."
'Twas almost impossible, so heavy with wanting were her lids. But she managed to pry them slowly open.
"'Tis a thing to be shared," he whispered.
She gulped as his hand delved deep into the water betwixt her legs, searching. When it came up, 'twas slick with soap. He drew the cake up her abdomen, sudsing circles about her breasts in the same languid manner as before, staring into her responsive eyes like a hunter studying his cornered quarry.
Her nipples tingled now, slick with soap, roused by rubbing, stiffened with cold. And a searing flash like lightning seemed to bolt through her body, connecting those two prickling points to the sharp ache betwixt her thighs.
But she could see Rane meant to soothe her pain. The soap glided down over her nest of curls, and she clutched at the edges of the tub, arching up with a moan to meet his hand.
"Shh," he said, placing his finger across her lips. He ran the soap along the insides of her thighs, and though she tried to remain still, 'twas almost impossible when her body knew so clearly what it wanted.
Finally he slid the soap betwixt her nether lips, touching upon the core of her need, and she squirmed and cried out with the ecstasy of it. For a moment he held his hand there, letting her adjust to the white heat. His other arm came about to cradle the back of her head, and she buried her face against his shoulder.
Then he moved the soap. Slowly at first, circling and gliding and laving her delicate places with tender care until she felt as if she floated in some sensual dream.
But very soon she began to crave more, panting her wordless desire against the linen of Rane's shirt. He let the soap slip away then, replacing it with his fingers. His strokes grew firm, the pace quickened, and she couldn't help answering the beckoning of his fingers with the arch of her hips. A deep longing built inside her, less insistent, but more profound, a need to draw closer to Rane.
Clutching the fabric of his shirt in one desperate hand, Florie gasped as a huge wave of sensation built within her like an ocean wave gathering mass to break upon the shore. His arm pulled her close as his fingers played expertly upon her, summoning her release, demanding her surrender, drawing forth her most secret passions.
Suddenly something within her stilled. Like molten metal poured on
to snow, she stiffened, one hand caught in Rane's shirt. Her back arched, and her forehead creased with blissful torment, while the desires within her yet roiled with increasing violence, bubbling up to the surface toward escape.
Her release came on an explosion of sound—a deep groan wrung from her chest, a great surge of water as she thrashed, out of control. Rane's growl of impassioned empathy as he held her safe was her only anchor in the storm of her emotions.
Rane shuddered as Florie sobbed out in surrender, as if he'd soared alongside her on her erotic flight, as if his soul had mingled with hers, and together they'd taken the journey. Indeed, he'd enjoyed her release almost as if 'twere his own. Almost.
There was still the matter of his bulging staff, angry with need, thick as a lance with unrequited lust.
Florie collapsed against his chest, and he pressed his trembling lips softly to the top of her head. Never had he felt so torn, caught between satiation and hunger, between blissful relief and burning need. He'd fed well on her passion, and yet he craved more. Like an arrow cocked at the ready with no prey in sight, he waited tensely.
After a long, torturous moment, Florie made up his mind. She turned gracefully to her side and, curving one dripping arm up over his shoulder, pulled herself into a more intimate embrace. Her breasts, warm and wet from the bath, seemed to steam through his shirt, and his nipples hardened against her. Her mouth closed upon his neck with grateful kisses, and he shivered as she moved higher, her breath singeing his ear.
"Lie with me," she whispered, so softly that he thought he'd imagined her voicing his own wish.
He waited with bated breath, unable to believe what he'd heard.
"Lie with me, Rane."
He closed his eyes as the dulcet sound curled into his ear, whirling his thoughts like an accomplished caress.
MacFarland's Lass Page 20