“Oh I wouldn’t change, if I were you. I would wear that tunic always, every day and forevermore.” He spoke through laughter, his gaze fixed on Cull’s chest. “Good lord, are those kittens?”
Cull looked downward, and with his gloved hand, pulled the tunic out where he could see it better. Though upside down, he could clearly make out the pattern of embroidery at the collar, formed of kittens’ faces. Some laughed. Some bared their teeth. Some stuck out their tongues.
His cheeks warmed. His eyes narrowed and he growled. It was one thing for Robert to have seen, but if his men had, he’d have been a laughing stock.
“Peasant,” he bit out.
“Who?” said Robert, mirth bright in his eyes.
“That Highland girl,” he replied darkly. “Effric put her to work with my mending, but I dressed in the dark and did not see.”
“I like her humor—and her daring.” Robert laughed outright, shaking his head in delight. “I think you should keep her.”
“I won’t be doing that,” Cull muttered, scowling. “That much is certain.”
“I hear she is lovely,” said Robert, his gaze growing sharper, more examining.
Aye, she was that. But he didn’t like Robert saying it. He didn’t like that anyone else had seen her or formed an opinion as to her beauty, though he could not precisely understand why.
“I had not noticed,” he said, keeping all expression from his face.
“You would say that,” Robert retorted. “Really, Cull, I do believe you would have been better suited for the priesthood than for fighting.” He laughed and held up his hands. “I jest. I jest! Please do not leave us to take the vows. Until later. And please, don’t kill the girl. I may wish for her to do some of my mending. Do you think she could do as well with puppies? I do prefer them to kittens.”
He turned, laughing, and strode the other way over the muddied, rutted ground.
Cull continued on to his quarters. He found Effric there, dozing beside the fire. The old man had grown even older of late, it seemed. Though he had thought to mildly chastise the old man for not better overseeing Derryth in her embroidery, he would not disturb his rest, not when the coming days would require all his strength to keep up with the moving army.
He paused, looking at the tent … allowing his annoyance to burn deeper, into something more like anger. To think that he’d been wearing those ridiculous kittens on his tunic all day, even as he did her a kindness in allowing her to reunite with her kinsmen. Why had he even undertaken to do that? Why was he concerning himself over the wishes of a peasant girl when he should be entirely focused on his men, and the strategy for the conflict that would occupy the days to come? One thing was sure. He wouldn’t make that mistake again.
With words of confrontation on his lips, he pushed open the flap of the tent, and stepped inside—
Only to be stopped in his tracks.
Derryth stood beside the brazier, her back to him, naked to her waist, in the midst of pulling a blue léine up her arms. The brief moment before she realized he had entered was long enough to burn the image into his mind forever.
Aye, by then, it was too late. He’d seen the smooth, pale skin of her back sweeping down to her pinched waist. Aye, and he’d seen the alluring profile of one full breast.
She let out a sound of distress, and crushed the garment against her bosom. Clearly afraid of him, and what he might do.
He did not begrudge her that. She did not know him, and he did not know what had occurred in her life before this moment to make her mistrust a man. Perhaps it was only that he was a stranger. Perhaps she thought he would expect some wicked favor in exchange for the generosity he had shown in arranging the meeting with her kin.
Her hair was braided still, and offered her no curtain, no shield. He released his hauberk to the floor, and moved forward, his gaze fixed on the delicate line of her spine—aye, wanting nothing more than to touch her there … to trace the path of it with his fingertips. Wanting nothing more than to push the garment away until it fell to the floor. But there was no pleasure in such things if the woman was not willing, and this one considered him her captor. Her enemy.
Coming to stand just behind her, he reached over her shoulders, ignoring her visible flinch. Taking care not to touch her naked skin, he drew the léine up her arms, covering her.
“There,” he murmured.
She expelled a quavering breath. One of relief?
But he felt no relief at all … for it seemed he did not need to touch her skin, or kiss her, to be seduced. Just being close to her … touching the garment that concealed her nakedness was enough to command a forceful reaction from his body. His hands throbbed, demanding more satisfaction than cloth. His sex stirred.
Cull closed his eyes for a moment, and exhaled evenly. He had never been a man ruled by temptations. Indeed, he took a certain kind of pleasure in resisting them, in proving the strength of his self-discipline. And now, it took all his strength to resist the lure of her body … her hair … her lips. Her lovely shoulders, and bare nape.
Carefully … purposefully, he tightened the lacings of the garment from the small of her back, upward, to the nape of her neck, drinking in every inch of her bare skin as it disappeared from his view.
“All done,” he said in a low voice, taking her by the shoulders, and turning her toward him. Dark lashes lowered, as she averted her gaze. “Do you see? I am no threat to you, peasant.”
Yet his voice was tight and overly husky, even to his own ears, and his hands did not want to break free of where they touched her. For the first time, the word “peasant” had sounded more like an endearment than a slight. An unintended mistake of inflection he must not make again.
Yet … the magnetism between them seemed so powerful, and hot. Was he the only one to feel it?
“Oh, but you are a threat to me,” she whispered so softly he could barely hear the words, her chin down, her gaze held low.
Everything inside him halted. His heartbeat. The flow of blood in his veins. Time stopped, and there was only him standing here with her. Her pink lips, and flushed cheeks. Her perfect skin.
She exhaled shallowly, her breath coming in small gasps. The léine, which he had thought would conceal her and make her less tempting, skimmed her narrow waist and cradled her temptingly rounded breasts, which rose and fell with her distress.
The words she’d spoken. What had they meant?
Suddenly, she lifted a hand, and with her pointed finger touched the front of his chest, near his throat. At that single touch, every muscle in his body drew tight.
“The kittens,” she said, backing away abruptly, her cheeks flushed, and her gaze shuttered, even more so than before … as if she regretted the words she’d spoken just moments before. Words he would not forget. She inhaled, as if for courage.
“You’re very talented,” he said quietly. “Such detail. Robert Stewart found them very amusing.”
She closed her eyes and clasped her hands, appearing mortified. “I … stitched them … last night when I was trying to think of ways to make you angry. And then this morning you were gone before I could remove the tunic from among your garments.” She opened them again. “I ask for your forgiveness.”
Her eyes pleaded—and he found that he did not like that. He did not want her to be afraid, though he was well aware of the contradiction there, for it was he who had intentionally made her fear him, to gain her obedience. That was before. This was now. He preferred things to be easier between them.
He nodded. “Is there anything else of which I should be aware?” He looked off, across the room. “A broken leg on the chair? Vinegar in my wine?”
“No,” she answered firmly. “Although those are very good ideas, and I shall have to remember them.”
Her lips took on the smallest smile, and her eyes shone.
The muscles of his lower belly tightened. She wasn’t just pretty, he realized then. She was beautiful, with her dark-lashed blue eyes and her
delicate nose and mouth. Her neck and shoulders … her limbs, were graceful, and finely formed as any noble lady’s. But it wasn’t just that. It was the way she moved, that drew his eye. The way she spoke—his ears craved the sound.
“Sit,” she said, turning from him. He watched her move toward the far side of his quarters where his garments were kept, her lovely swan’s neck exposed by her high crown of braids. She returned with a linen cloth.
“Cull, I said sit,” she ordered gently.
Her hands on his forearms, she urged him into the chair, and knelt at his feet.
He tensed, his gaze fixed on the shining crown of her head, not understanding what she intended. Never before had she spoken his name. He felt dazed by the moment. Bewildered.
“Your boots,” she said. “You forgot to take them off.”
Indeed he had. He’d seen her nakedness, and had forgotten all else except getting close to her. In the process he had tracked mud onto his precious carpet. In this moment, he did not care. He only wanted her hands to touch him again. For her lips to speak his name.
With the linen in hand, she grasped his boot by the shank and heel, and pulled it from his foot. Only Effric had ever served him in such a way, though he had at times wondered what it would be like to be tended to by a wife.
A sudden realization came to him. One that struck him through with darkness. The realization that she might belong to another.
Chapter 8
“You seem as if you have done this before,” he said, his manner cold again.
He felt suddenly very surly at the idea that her next words might forbid her to him forever. Was she married? Was her husband among the men he’d captured? Why had he not considered that possibility before?
Derryth paused, before taking hold of the second boot. God help him. She blushed each time he looked at her. It made him want to kiss her cheeks. Her lips. Her throat. And every bit of her skin, underneath her clothes.
“I have indeed,” she answered softly. “For my father.”
Now it was he who blushed, in relief. Thankfully, her head remained bowed, so she did not see.
“At first, I thought Deargh might be your father,” he said in a quiet voice.
“My father is dead,” she replied, setting the second boot beside its mate. “For two years now.”
“And your mother?”
A warning sounded in his head. He’d broken his own rules now, pressing to know more about her.
She stilled. “She died years before him, when I was very young. I have only a child’s memories of her.”
“You are alone, then?” he murmured.
Alone … like him.
“No,” she replied, unsmiling, her gaze on her lap. “I have never been alone. Not until now. Here in your tent.” The words gouged him softly. “There are many whom I love. I have three half-sisters. A stepmother, and many friends and kinsmen. They are my family.”
Aye, he’d known that somehow. That she was well loved, and protected. Deargh and the older woman, Fiona, cared for her deeply, that much was clear. Others would as well. And certainly, she would have suitors. Men who wished to be near her. Men who would want to claim her for their own. Even if she had no lands or riches to offer. What man in his right mind would not?
He wanted to ask more questions, such as why she traveled with the others. Her delicate hands with their slender fingers and oval nails, did not appear to be the hands of a farm laborer. Her speech was careful and refined. He could not help but wonder what her life had been like before now … and who waited for her at the end of this journey. He held silent, knowing he must not ask those questions. He had already dared too much. Allowed himself to feel too much.
Still, he could not deny there was something very pleasing … almost sexual about her kneeling at his feet, that kindled the flame already burning in his chest.
In the same moment, his conscience declared his assessment as wrong, because certainly in her mind, she had no other choice but to serve him. He knew if she was given any choice at all, she would not be here in his quarters with him.
She stood and carried his boots to the door, where she placed them on the mat just outside. She returned with clean leather slippers left there by Effric earlier, which had been forgotten the moment Cull entered the tent.
She moved to kneel again—her intentions, he realized, to place the shoes on his feet. But somehow that was too much. There was something wrong in allowing her to do something so personal for him. Aye, he’d ordered her to tend to his quarters, but he was not her master, and she was not his servant.
He leaned forward in the chair.
His sudden movement startled her, and she froze. A small breath came from between her parted lips.
“I will do that,” he said.
He took the shoes from her, his fingertips unintentionally grazing her hands. His gut seized in response to that barest touch.
She stepped back, balling both of her hands tight, against her sides. Bright spots of color warmed her cheeks … as if she too experienced the same effect.
She was the most fetching thing he’d ever seen. Each moment made him more and more attuned to her. Her every word, her every breath, demanded his notice.
“There is wine warming on the brazier,” she said, turning to move in that direction. He watched her movements, as she took up a simple goblet from his table, and poured from a long-handled carafe. Though clearly not at ease, she moved with grace. He could easily imagine her in a castle hall filled with tapestries and carved furniture. Her simple léine replaced by an elegant kirtle, her golden hair falling free down her back.
Carrying the goblet, she returned.
“No vinegar, I promise,” she said, with a flash of a smile, lowering the cup into his hand.
Having her here … caring for him … he liked it too much. It pleased him. It made him grumpy. Damn … he did not know what he felt.
“Sit, and rest,” she urged. “There is also warm water, and I will pour it into the basin for you to wash, when you are ready.”
Once more she turned, going to the basin. He couldn’t stand it one moment more. This pretense between them. Not touching her.
He stood from the chair and followed, his pulse pounding, coming to stand behind her. It was all it took—to be near her—for his body to come alive. Her shoulders straightened and she set the pitcher down, only half emptied. She’d heard him … she knew he was there.
Taking her by the arms, he turned her round to face him.
“Why are you doing this?” he said.
She blinked rapidly, and looked down at the carpet between them.
“I am … grateful to you for what you did for me today, in letting me see Deargh and Fiona. And because Deargh told me I must.”
Slowly … knowing he played with fire, he touched his fingertips to the underside of her chin, and lifted her face, directing her gaze to his.
Emotion gleamed in her eyes, but not fear. No, not fear. To his surprise, he saw a glint of anger there. Of challenge. She lifted her chin higher, but did not look away.
“You are angry at me,” he said, his heart beating faster, feeling as if he peeled away another layer of her, and somehow saw beneath to something that was even more beautiful … more complex and intriguing.
“Nay, Sir Cull,” she whispered, her breasts rising and falling with each breath she took, drawing his glance to the deep shadow between. “You are who you are. You do what you must do. I am angry at myself.”
His heart seemed to stop then.
“Tell me why,” he said, fixing his gaze on hers.
He felt her tremble then, and a sudden rush of tears gathered against her lashes.
“Derryth…” He held her gaze, feeling as if he were falling … and being tangled up in her.
“Because I do not hate you as I should,” she blurted.
Her words sparked a fire in his chest, and a powerful rush of need swept through him. He shifted nearer, his hands sliding to her bac
k. He wanted to gather her into his arms, and hold her tight against him. He wanted to lose himself in her.
Her hands flattened against his chest, as if she would push him away, but she did not. Instead she seized fistfuls of his tunic, her lips emitting a frustrated sound.
He stared down into her eyes, tempted. Intoxicated. Beguiled. And yet some part of him held back, warning there would be consequences if he gave in to this temptation.
One kiss, his desire demanded.
One kiss, to clear the tempting haze of her from his mind.
He bent his head slowly, his fingers spearing into the silken hair at the nape of her neck, below the braid.
Her breath caught in her throat, and her eyes flared wide. He held himself rigid, his mouth a fraction from touching hers … giving her the chance to break free, but again, she did not.
Nor did he.
He pressed his lips to hers … gently grazing his mouth against hers, testing her softness, her sweetness.
Something roared inside his head, a raging river of passion, tearing his discipline to shreds, and sweeping him away.
Vaguely, he knew that she moved toward him, her hands clinging to his shoulders, and that he seized her closer, so that her breasts crushed into his chest, but above all, there was the continued, dizzy headiness of the kiss, as he angled his face and pressed his mouth to hers in deepening fervor, inhaling her sweet, rapid breath into his lungs, and tasting the paradise of her mouth with his tongue.
Oh, but no.
How wrong he’d been to think it.
Hers was not a kiss to be done with, and forgotten.
“Pardon my untimely interruption,” said a man’s voice, amused, from behind him.
* * *
Hearing the voice, Derryth jerked away from Cull, her pulse instantly frantic. It was as if a spell had been broken. That which had been so wonderful just moments before now seemed overwhelmingly shameful. Cull moved quickly, shielding her with his body, his arm coming back to protect her further, his hand splayed against her hip.
She covered her mouth with her hand, as if that would erase the proof of her betrayal. For she had betrayed the Kincaids, had she not? Not only had she allowed Cull to kiss her, but she had kissed him back. Even now her lips burned, and her body seemed overtaken by fire.
The Warrior of Clan Kincaid Page 9