Wherever this Rose had been keeping herself, she’d been flirting with his warriors. Had she been doing more than that? Some women only cared about what was between a man’s legs and they couldn’t get enough of it. He’d not met one of those, likely because he avoided England and the English with a dedicated fervor. Was his betrothed somewhere in his castle keeping all the good Scots from their dinner whilst she scratched her English itch?
At the last thought the chains around Ram’s temper broke. He stood and roared. “To dinner, folks. I shall fetch the guest of honor. Does anyone have a notion of where I might find Lady Rose Lattimore?”
The chorus of men who shouted a reply did nothing to soothe Ram’s ire. Their answer did nothing to quell his curiosity. What in the hell was English doing in the old keeping room? The place was in the servant’s wing, around the corner from the housekeeper’s quarters and her supply room. He’d thought English would hold court in one of the parlors.
Ram stalked out of the dining hall and whirled to confront the two men following in his footsteps. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“We’re keeping you company,” David replied.
“We’re keeping you calm,” Hugh replied.
“You’re keeping your nosy arses informed,” Ram accused.
“That too,” David and Hugh replied together.
Ram just growled and headed towards the servant’s wing and the keeping room.
***
Rose was bending over to examine a warrior’s shoulder bruise when the door to the room slammed open with such force that it hit the wall. Practicing her beloved healing art always took her full attention–occupying her mind, her soul and her sympathies.
Without looking up, she said, “Unless ‘tis urgent, please wait your turn. I’ll be with your shortly.”
“When it’s my turn will you bend over and shake your tits at me too? Or is that a privilege reserved for men who aren’t your betrothed?” Ram asked.
“What?” Rose squealed, unwittingly clapping a hand on her patient’s bruised shoulder for support as she straightened and turned.
The warrior on the table winced and she turned back to him, seizing the chunk of ice Ned had just fetched and bending back to her patient with coos of apology. She didn’t see where the warrior’s eyes returned, but Ram couldn’t miss it.
“Malcolm!” Ram said, not raising his voice so much as coating it in sharp steel.
The warrior snapped to attention, tearing his eyes from the fetching sight and fixing them on the possibly fatal one. “Aye, Laird Sutherland.”
“Since ye’re one of my senior warriors, you wouldn’t be lounging around and whining like an Englishman over a wee bruise, now, would ye?” Ram asked.
Flinching at the barb, Malcolm opened his mouth to respond, but Rose spoke first. “I resent that slur to my countrymen–and yours, sir. And as to my patient, the bruise you inflicted upon him is quite deep and quite painful.”
Black fire sparked in Ram’s eyes as he took a step to the side and spoke to the men now shuffling uneasily in the hallway. “Is anyone here afflicted with a broken bone? Has anyone lost enough blood to fill a tankard?”
Silence and the retreat of the bravest and smartest filled the air.
The fact that six or seven men remained in the hallway with by God looks of near challenge in their eyes suited Ram not a’tall.
“Conall!” Ram bellowed, the sound strong enough to fetch his first–who was never far away.
“Aye, laird,” Conall said.
“Round up the women in the hall and send out word to our clan and the clans Sinclair and Ross that these ladies will be taking on all comers tomorrow, suitably garbed, of course,” Ram said.
“Aye, laird,” Conall said, a near grin settling on his hard face.
“Fetch servants’ gowns from the seamstress and have a few of our best men strip the Sutherland plaid from these lady lads and dress ‘em up nice and proper,” Ram said.
The men in the hall were pale, but not a one was afflicted with enough stupid to speak or to refuse to go where Conall pointed.
Ram stepped back into the keeping room, where only Rose still spoke–if her muttered ranting counted.
“Malcolm?” Ram asked, putting the challenge to the man in the question.
“Aye, laird,” Malcolm said, bounding to his feet and stepping around the woman he knew better than to touch.
“Find Conall and join the other women,” Ram barked.
“Aye, Laird,” Malcolm replied.
David and Hugh murmured, “Ouch.”
‘Twas enough to remind the laird of their presence, so he turned on the friends who’d been quietly ogling the pretty blonde garbed in a gown as green as her eyes, with flecks of gold to match. “Out,” Ram said.
David and Hugh looked at each other, shrugged, and headed for the door without a word. Just before they reached it they stepped up to the pretty lady. Each took one of her hands, bowed, and planted a much too long and much too loving kiss on her knuckles.
“Son of a bitch,” Ram swore.
Rose jumped and David and Hugh squeezed the hands they still held and both winked at her. “It’ll be fine. If he misbehaves too badly, come find us.”
“Because you’ve a death wish?” Ram asked, so softly that his friends exited, but Ned still stood his ground. “You too,” Ram ordered.
Ned shook his head no. “I’m thinking I must stay, at least until your temper and your, ahm, spirits aren’t quite so, ahm, full.”
“Don’t go,” Rose pleaded.
***
Ram flushed at Ned’s gently worded and entirely accurate observation, but he didn’t back down. He allowed himself but a tiny interval to regret having worn the closely fitted pants in an effort to make his guest more comfortable in a strange environment. His kilt made more allowances, but he wore what he wore. She’d hoisted his flag and he’d fly it proudly, albeit–if it got much prouder it would escape his pants to greet her personally.
He was pretty sure that would send his proud English running for the door.
“Out,” Ram repeated to Ned, not taking his eyes from the luscious blonde wench nibbling her lower lip.
“Stay,” Rose said, this time a command rather than a plea.
Ram didn’t speak again because he knew he didn’t have to. His eyes lowered to the breasts heaving with the nerves she tried so hard not to show. He heard Ned clear his throat but ignored it and rimmed his lips with the tongue eager to rim the nipples that hardened at his lascivious gesture.
Ned shuffled his feet and dallied but a breath longer. He didn’t dare more but still couldn’t halt a regretful sigh as he obeyed his laird’s order and left the room. He thought he had an out but as Ned’s steps reached the entry, without looking around Ram said, “And shut the door behind you.”
Rose gasped, covering her lips with her hand, unknowingly thrusting out her breasts out farther.
Ram delayed not an instant after the door shut. He crossed the room too fast for her eyes to follow and wrapped her in his strong arms before she had time to command herself to move. It was as utterly necessary as it was wrong.
The laird knew that his duty to his clan might outweigh his duty to his family honor. If it did, he’d honor his betrothal to the lass he loved like a sister and discard his betrothal to this woman. He shouldn’t touch either until he’d decided. Just now, though, he craved Rose’s touch the way a parched man craved water.
Craved? Too mild a word. Required. It wasn’t too strong, but it scared the man who was frightened by very little. Neither kept him from tilting her chin. Even her fear didn’t stop him–nothing could have–though her trembling did slow him down.
“Is a kiss so frightful, lass?” Ram asked.
“Do you even know my name?” Rose asked, hating that her voice quivered as much as her body.
“Rose,” Ram said, turning her face to the side so he could bury his nose in her golden hair. He inhaled and exhaled on a groa
n. Dear, sweet Scotland–now he knew her scent. Roses and cinnamon and musk. Musk? Thank God for musk.
“Why?” Rose asked.
“Did I say that aloud?” Ram asked. “I mean, what did I say?”
As though his discomfort made her more comfortable, here in the embrace they had no business sharing, the hands flattened against his chest in a useless attempt to push him back slid up to his neck. “You said ‘thank God for musk.”
On the way to settling his mouth against the creamy shell of her ear, he got distracted by the enticing lobe of flesh at the bottom. He nuzzled it back and forth before his teeth arrived to nibble. The motion fanned the musk so that he nibbled it along with her lobe. They groaned at the same time.
Dangerous.
“Why?” She asked.
Damn. He’d forgotten why he was heading for her ear to speak against it. He hadn’t meant to feast on the fleshy appendage so similar to a forbidden fleshy nub. Resolutely, he removed his teeth from the tempting tidbit and settled them against her ear.
He could do this. He could say what he meant to say, teasing her with her reaction to a man she considered a bully who preyed upon his people. Never mind that he’d done exactly that. Women didn’t react to him by accusing. They reacted by enticing. He was making her react to him they way she didn’t want to react. That’s what this was about.
“Musk is the smell of arousal,” Ram said, damning himself for using the word.
“Arousal?” Rose asked. Her fingers sifted through his thick brown hair at the nape of his neck. “Sexual arousal?”
Now he damned her for using the worst word. The sound of it coming through her lips made his blood pound harder, his dick thicken, and his breath come in gasps. It would be very, very stupid to repeat it. Ram told himself that while he heard himself do just that. “Yes, sexual arousal. You want me, English.”
“Lack of ego isn’t one of your challenges, is it?” Rose asked.
That response made him smile against her ear. He expected dithering, giggling or denial. Instead, she challenged him. What kind of laird would he be if he didn’t pick up her gauntlet?
“Are you saying that you don’t want me?” Ram asked.
“I, ahm, I…,” Rose sputtered before she rallied. “Of course I don’t want you. I don’t want any man who enforces his will with his fists.”
‘Twas an opening he shouldn’t take and couldn’t refuse. “I’m very good with my hands,” Ram said. “I think you’ll agree.”
“No, don’t, I -,” Rose managed before her protest turned into a purr when Ram slid the palms of both his hands over her breasts. He didn’t grab or twist or pull like Jack. She’d rather Ram did that because what he was doing was driving her nerve endings as barmy as what he wasn’t doing.
And Ram knew exactly what the passive pressure was doing to her but mo chreach–he hoped she didn’t figure out what it was doing to him. The sharp tips of her nipples stabbed his palms with the throbbing need his fearchas shared. Ram moved his palms slightly away, knowing she’d follow. She did, bending forward to reach. He moved his palms a little farther and she bent forward again. It was enough. Just enough. It was also too much.
He stood over her and she was tilted forward just enough to allow his greedy eyes a full view of her beul-maothain. His world shrank, narrowing to encompass only her luscious breasts, twin mounds of cream he wanted to lap like a cat. He could just see the aureoles and the sides of her dark cherry nipples. He saw too much already, yet all he wanted to do was rip off the green silk hiding the tips of her nipples. Then he’d suckle her until she came and he’d thrust inside, keeping her at her peak until he joined her there, in that special place. He didn’t know where it was or what it was, but he knew they could discover it together.
Except they couldn’t. Certainly, not now. Possibly, not ever.
He closed his eyes, stepped back and took a deep breath. “This is what my men saw. It explains why you had a gaggle of hard-working warriors willing to miss dinner. One hunger outweighed another.”
She stepped back a couple of paces. “I had a gaggle of well-beaten men who needed relief from their pain more than they needed food.”
“I agree,” Ram said, ignoring his common sense and stepping forward until he stood nearly nose to nose with her again. “My men needed relief from pain more than they needed food.”
“You agree?” Rose asked, before she shook her head. “No you don’t. You’d not look like a storm about to break if you agreed.”
“Lies are for Englishmen, Lady Rose,” Ram said, his emphasis on her title a slur only a Scot could carry off so well. “I agree about the pain, but I disagree about the cause.”
“The cause was your fists, your sword and your temper,” Rose said. “Or so I understand from the men.”
“They’d hardly tell you the real cause, would they?” Ram asked. “’Twas you that sparked my temper and ‘twas you that fired my men’s lust. Rumors of your beauty from those who’d seen you would’ve had the first and nosiest of my men stopping by with tales of woe and pain ‘twould shame them to have repeated.”
“Shame them?” Rose squealed, plopping her hands on her hips. “Their injuries should shame you, Laird Sutherland.”
“Injuries?” Ram chuckled like the devil on a good day. “A few months back in a wee skirmish with a rival clan Malcolm took a blade to his left arm, his right shoulder and a bullet to his left leg. He finished the fight and upon our return to the castle he defied my order to see the healer. Said he’d nae miss the good Scots whiskey we brought out for the celebration over a wee nick or two.”
He tilted her chin up to make his point right into her glittering green eyes. “He even danced the Highland Reel with a trio of the fellows, danced it on the leg w’the bullet still embedded. Malcolm danced it until the bullet worked its way out and fell on the floor.”
She snorted and tried to jerk her chin out of his grasp but his fingers tightened to hold her in place. “The blacksmith fitted it into the center of a horseshoe. It sits on the mantle in the dining hall.”
Rose might be as impressed and horrified by the tale as she was by the man, but she hadn’t survived since her father’s death by backing down. “While that’s an amazing tale,” she said, “it doesn’t explain your temper or the honest discomfort suffered by my patients.”
“Your arrival explains my temper,” Ram said. He might’ve–should’ve-stopped and explained the full situation at the point, but he got distracted by the second part of the answer. “And you want to know what explains my temper?”
Her eyes narrowed with temper of her own showing in the glittering green that banished every golden fleck. She nodded.
Without speaking, he walked forward, knowing she’d do what she did, which is to retreat until the small table at the rear of the room dug into her back. Then he put his hands on her shoulders and turned her around. He hadn’t intended to scoot forward until his back was plastered against her front, but somehow she called to things he couldn’t control.
For some moments he stood still behind her, burying his nose in her golden hair to breathe in the damnable roses and cinnamon and–yes–musk. The growing weight of his arousal reminded him of his point, so he leaned down, taking her down with him. He watched her in the mirror they stood before, and when they’d bent far enough, he croaked out a command. “In the looking glass you’ll see the cause of my warrior’s honest discomfort.”
She murmured, “Oh, my stars.”
Their eyes met in the mirror so her blush reflected back to him. Ram hadn’t thought that the curvy blonde could grow more beautiful, more tempting, but he’d been very wrong. Still holding her eyes, Ram brushed his lips across her neck, understanding what might motivate vampires. How he’d love to take a bite of the quivering rosy flesh and nibble his way down.
His fingers traced the neckline as his eyes ate the sight of the flowing mounds, straining at the bodice. “Ye dinna know, did ye?”
She shook her head
no, sending escaped tendrils on a golden dance around her rosy neck. Ram groaned and–strictly in the interest of enforcing the lesson, of course–he thrust his erection against the bended curve of her ass.
She gasped and he said, “This is what ye were doing to my men.” He thrust again, taking his time, as he said, “This is what ye’re doing to me.”
The contact made her moan and it set his tortured nerve endings to screaming. He had to have part of her now, right now. He opened his mouth and bent back to her neck. As he nibbled, she quivered more, he thrust again andA knock at the door sounded as it opened, providing nothing in the way of warning, as the entering varmints surely intended. Ram cursed against the flesh in his mouth as he and Rose looked at the men standing just inside the entry, grinning like idiot incarnate. She put her hands on the table, trying to push herself upright but since he bent over her, all her panicked pushing achieved nothing except further torment of the tortured flesh between Ram’s legs.
“Laird Sutherland,” she huffed, “Allow me to rise.”
“Was that a request? A plea, even?” Ram asked.
“On the contrary, ‘twas a command,” Rose said.
Grinning like a pirate, Ram said, “Too bad, sweets. I’d hae considered a request and might’ve been swayed by a plea. But the last thing I’ll do is take an English order.”
She growled and renewed her pushing and shoving. This time she added a little wiggle of her hips that drove everything out of his head, leaving him incapable of doing anything except reacting. He returned her wiggle with one of his own, lowered his mouth back to the side of her neck and raised his hands to cup her plump breasts.
Something that sounded like choking sheep moderated into coughing.
Damnation. He’d forgotten. The bloody varmints.
Ram raised his head, meeting two sets of twinkling eyes and broad grins. Rose had her eyes closed, likely wishing them all to perdition, herself somewhere else or both. Ram’s eyes weren’t closed. They were focused on the blue and grey eyes of his friends, fixed on what Ram still held in both his hands. He growled and moved his hands up to cover her chest.
Romancing the Rose Page 3