Restless, snared by his fierce desire to free Jamie and his fierce need for this woman, he was caught between the two. How did he reconcile the dual nature of his wanting? He could free Lady Catherine. And Jamie would die. Or he could hold her and pray that the earl would relent and consent to exchange hostages. And Jamie might still die.
Or he could ease the hunger she stirred in him, and nothing would be reconciled but his driving need.…
It was not that he had not considered it, for he had. Countless times had he gazed at her and felt the hot surge of desire in his loins prompting him to take her to his bed and taste her sweetness to the full. But he had not allowed himself to do more than touch her casually, a flick of his fingers against her cheek, a caress of her uncovered hair, a lingering stroke on her back as he guided her beside him. He had not trusted himself to use restraint the next time he was so unwise as to hold her naked, shivering body in his arms.
But was the need to bridle his desire still relevant? There had been no word from Warfield or Devlin, nothing but silence from the men who held his young brother’s life in their thrall.…
Frustrated anger rose hot and high in him, and his hands clenched into fists at his side. Curse the impetuosity of a youth who had gone out after de Brus, and curse himself for making war seem grand and noble instead of teaching his young brother the reality of it, the stark horror of men dying and horses screaming, and all around there was the sound and smell and taste of death … but he had not told Jamie that. Nay, he had spoken of past exploits of his own and of Robert Bruce, of the Fraser men before them, fighting beside noblemen and kings; dying at times, but living on in tales of glory and valor. Yea, that much was true enough, but he had dwelled too long on the homage instead of the inhumanity one man did to another, and because of his failure, Jamie was now in a dark cell awaiting a cruel death. He should have told him the truth, told him how a man oft soiled himself in battle, and how when he died his bowels emptied—if he still had them. That might have dissuaded him from running after glory, from being so eager to follow the hotheaded de Brus into a skirmish with Warfield.
If he had only told him.…
“Sir Alex?” Catherine rose gracefully to her feet, and the fresh fragrance of lavender wafted over him. New soap, a gift to her from James Douglas before he had gone. How had Douglas known what would delight a woman when he had not? It had never occurred to him that scented soap would so please her, and it had not occurred to him how furious he would be that Douglas had thought of it first.
Nor had it pleased him that he had felt deficient in some way, and even a little guilty when he had seen the expression on her face at meeting his children. But by all that was holy, it was not a matter that had concerned him until them. Men lay with women, and women oft bore children from the encounters. It was a natural enough thing, and he saw to the well-being of them, so he saw no reason for her silent censure. But he felt it. And perhaps that was the difference in her now, the awareness of him as more than just her captor. He had presented her with new facets to his life, and she had observed them well.
Her fingers grazed his arm and he jerked, snapped from his reflection by her touch. A high flush colored her cheeks as she stared up at him.
“Are you well, sir?”
“Well enough.” He returned her stare more coolly than he felt. Just her touch burned, the memory of her beneath him returning to scour him with heat.
She recoiled slightly. “Very well, sir. Perhaps you will excuse me to return to my tower chamber. It grows late and I wouldst rest.”
“Would you.” A mirthless smile tugged at his mouth. He did not dismiss her and did not know why, but stood staling down at her until she began to back away.
Uncertainty flickered in the eyes upturned to his, and she lifted her chin in a gesture of flustered defiance. “Yea, Sir Alex, I would. Do you give me leave to depart?”
He caught her wrist and pulled her slowly to him, turning her arm so that her palm was up. His thumb scrubbed gently over the soft pink skin and heel of her hand, then he pressed a light kiss in the cup of her palm.
She drew in a sharp breath and her fingers curled inward to hold his hand with artless trust. He held her still, looking into her eyes. The world veered sharply, giving him a glimpse of paradise, of what could be and should be, but was denied him by the vagaries of fate and war and the bestiality of men. Yet he could not help himself, though the reasons and the time were all wrong, and he knew he courted damnation.
“Yea, milady, you may withdraw, but I shall escort you to the tower.”
“There is no need—”
“On the contrary,” He pressed her hand against his chest, holding it as he held her gaze. “There is a great need.”
12
Catherine stared up at him. Black lashes lowered over the smoky gleam in his gray eyes. He held her hand against the soft leather jerkin he wore. A shudder went through her. It was the intensity in his face that sent her heart thudding, the steely glitter in his eyes that made her pulse race.
She opened her mouth to offer a token protest against his arrogance, but it was too late. He was turning her with a hand under her elbow, guiding her to the open door and ushering her into the corridor. Lamps burned high on the walls here, safer than sputtering torches that sent showers of sparks down to singe clothing and skin.
A thousand thoughts passed through her mind as Alex escorted her up the narrow, winding staircase to the tower room she occupied, none of them comforting. In the month since word of her father’s refusal to barter for her had come, she had been cautious. Not by word, or glance, or accidental brush of her hand had she betrayed herself to Alex Fraser.
Yet when she was near him—playing chess, or dining in the hall, or once even dancing with him—it was difficult to restrain the inclination to lean closer to him, to look up at him through her lashes with the bold coquettishness of a burgher’s daughter.
And now, O Lord have mercy, he had her by the arm with far too tight a hold, his heat a solid presence at her side as he took her to the private chamber where he had not been since the day they had lain together on that small bed. Her face was afire, yet she shivered as if chilled to the bone when they arrived at the tower room.
Leaning past her, he pushed open the heavy wooden door. It swung inward with a slight creak of the hinges. Catherine stepped inside and moved to the table. She focused on one of the stacks of books there, running her fingertips over the edges of a leather-bound volume. A low fire burned on the hearth, and a branch of candles flickered in the center of the table.
“’Twas kind of you to escort me to my chamber, sir,” she said softly, unable to look at him but fully aware that he stood inside the room, seeming to fill it with height and brooding presence.
The door shut with a solid click. “I did not do it to be kind, demoiselle.”
Demoiselle… so formal, so French and aloof when he was looking at her with anything but indifference. She did not dare look at him, but knew the instant he moved. The intensity had sharpened in him, grown stronger the closer they drew to the tower, and she felt it now as a palpable thing, quivering in the chamber as if a large beast crouched against the wall.
To ease the tension, she lifted the volume of poetry and cradled it in her open palm. “Whatever your motives are, sir, I value your company.”
“Do you?”
His soft query vibrated with focused need, and she blindly flipped open the poetry volume with trembling fingers and held it up. “Wouldst thou like for me to read? ’Tis a roundelay….” A slight quiver blurred the last word, and she steadied herself deliberately as she began to read aloud the verse that she had perused so often in the last weeks: “‘Laughing grey eyes, whose light in me I bear, Deep in my heart’s remembrance and delight. Remembrance is so infinite delight Of your brightness, O soft eyes that I fear….’”
She faltered, acutely aware of the import behind the verse she read, of Alex’s gray eyes resting on her so intently, and
her own shaky composure. Why had she chosen this verse? It was too true, too close to the way she felt about him … yet the volume had opened to this page as if by intent.
“Go on, milady.” The husky timbre of his voice was so intimate, leaving her flustered.
“I … ’tis not necessary.” She closed the book with a snap and set it gingerly atop the stack. “The hour grows late and I am more weary than I realized. Perhaps another time we will read.”
A strange smile touched his mouth. “The hour is not late, milady. ’Tis still early. Vesper bells have not yet rung.”
“Days are so short now … it is dark so much earlier, that it always seems later”—he stepped closer and she took a deep breath before finishing in a faint whisper—“than it is.”
“Yea, lady. It is much later than it seems.” He grazed the slope of her cheek with the backs of his fingers, a light stroke that summoned a shiver from her. She could not look up at him, but felt his gaze resting on her down-turned face. Gently, he hooked a finger under her chin and lifted her head so that she had to look at him. His eyes were dark gray and veiled by black lashes. He bent, and his mouth brushed across her lips in a feathery caress.
Catherine felt light-headed. Her heart thudded painfully against her ribs. She wanted to push his hand away, wanted to retreat, but there was nowhere to go.
And then he was putting an arm behind her, pulling her against him with an inexorable strength that she could not have resisted had she the will left. There was something spellbinding in the way he held her, touched her, kissed her in such light, fluttering brushes of his mouth over hers. A slow, steady beat began in the pit of her stomach. His kiss deepened, his tongue slipping between her lips briefly, then withdrawing. He smelled of musk and leather. The palms of her hands moved to spread against his chest, against the supple leather jerkin he wore over his shirt. It felt cool under her palms, almost slick as her fingers curled into it in a convulsive motion.
Lifting his head, he stared down at her a long moment. His chest rose and fell evenly, but the beat of his heart was swift and hard against her palms. Somehow, the knowledge that he was affected gave her back a sense of power. It was heady, this profound awareness of her ability to command not only herself, but the very pulse of this powerful, enigmatic man.
Slowly, she slid her hands up the slick leather garment to skim her fingers through the hair brushing his shoulder. It was soft, thick, and straight save where a strand curled around her fingertips. His breathing grew harsh when she touched his cheek, tracing the thin line of the scar lightly, an exploring caress along the contoured plane of his face.
He caught her hand then and held it fiercely; a muscle flexed in his jaw. “Token of an English blade. Does it offend you?”
“Nay.” Rising to her toes, she pressed a light kiss on the edge of his mouth and the scar, then another on his jaw. “’Tis a badge of courage.” A rough growth of beard tickled her lips as she moved them along the square line to his chin. His breath was warm against her face, with a faint aroma of the spiced wine they had been drinking earlier.
“Courage.” His low laugh curled against her hair. “It was certainly not courage that earned me this mark, milady, but chaos. Unless you have ever seen a panicked rout, you would not know how desperate men can become.”
Freeing her arms, she slid them around his neck and clasped him lightly. She looked up at him with a faint smile. “I find it most difficult to envision you in a panic, sir.”
“If I had been in a panic, perhaps I would have been more cautious,” he muttered as his arms circled her, holding her against him. “But ’twas one of your stalwart English knights who gave me this after he had surrendered to me at Loudon Hill.”
“It gives you a wicked, dangerous air, sir—one that I find quite intriguing.”
“Being English, I imagine you do like seeing the enemy marked by an English blade.” His wry comment was accompanied by a sweeping caress with one hand, a slow, luxurious glide of his palm down her back to her hips. He held her against him, eyes half-lidded, a self-mocking smile curving his mouth. “I am reminded of that knight each time I see my scar. Perhaps, sweet catkin,” he murmured huskily as he cupped her buttocks in his palm, “I should leave you with a mark to remember me by as well….”
“And perhaps,” she replied softly, “you already have.”
“Have I?”
“Yea, though not where ’tis so easily noticed as the mark you bear.” Taking his other hand, she placed it on her left breast, holding it close against her so that he could feel the thudding beat of her heart. “Fraps ’tis here that you have left your mark, Sir Alex, where none have done before.”
It was true. Dizzily, she considered how she had changed in the past two months, how her view of this harsh Scotsman had altered from fear and contempt to respect and an emotion dangerously close to love. Was she not foolish to be so vulnerable? To allow this man—the enemy—to affect her so? Yea, no doubt. But if she was, it was the first time she had ever dared to be so.
Alex stared down at her without moving or speaking for several moments, his gaze locked on her face with an expression she could not read. Was he pleased? Angry? Or was it only one more vow of love from a casual tumble, such as the two village women who had borne his children? Had they, too, professed love for him? Or perhaps they had known their place in his life and accepted it, had known he would care for any children they may beget, and known, too, he would give them the honor due to the mothers of his offspring—but not his heart. Perhaps, for them, it was enough.
Lifting his hand from her hip, Alex wound his fingers into her loose hair and tugged gently, until her head was tilted back and she could look nowhere but into his eyes.
“Be careful, milady, that you do not confuse lust with love. Both are dangerous to the inexperienced.”
She drew in a shaky breath. “As I have little experience with either emotion, I shall have to trust in you to guide me.”
He looked stunned. Then he gave a soft, amazed laugh. “Is that not too like trusting the wolf in the sheep pen, milady?”
“Perhaps. But ’tis all I can do….”
As her words trailed into a whisper, he shook his head. “You have undone me, my lady. I am confounded.”
“Are you?” She dragged a fingertip across the smooth expanse of his lower lip. “Yet, you look like a man very certain, and very much in control.”
His laugh was ragged, and a little bitter. “Ah, if you just knew how I waver at this moment … my firm resolve may be for naught.”
Putting her palm over the hand he still held against her heart, she opened her mouth to say that she felt the same, but in a swift motion, he bent his head to cover her lips with his in a searing kiss that stole her breath and left her clinging to him weakly. As before, it consumed her.
All thought left her mind, leaving behind only formless impressions and an escalating cadence of blood through her veins. She felt light-headed. Dizzy. And more aware of her body than she had ever been before, of the thrumming pulse that blossomed between her thighs with insistent rhythm, of the touch of his hand against her breast, and the languid arch of her hips into his encroaching frame.
As the steamy depths of her haze alternated between excitement and lassitude, she felt a distant prick of conscience: this was wrong—wicked and carnal and all the things she had been told all her fife would earn her damnation and the fires of hell. And she knew, with that small portion of her brain that was still capable of functioning lucidly, that she should resist with all her might. Nothing good would come of this.
But then, hard on the heels of that realization was the scorching memory of before, and how he had made her feel with his hands and his mouth, and she wavered again. Did it really matter if she gave him all? It would be her own choice, not a choice made for her by men who did not care, men whose only concern was power and wealth. Did she have the courage to make that choice for herself and accept the inevitable consequences?
&n
bsp; In a strange way, it had been easier to have everything decided for her, for then she had little option but to do as she was bid … but this moment was hers alone, and she alone would bear the cost … it was too much. She was suddenly afraid, not of Alex Fraser, but of herself; of emotions too long denied and far too vulnerable to risk for transitory vengeance or to ease her loneliness. She should tell him that she was unwilling … she should look into his eyes and say that she could not do this.
But he was gazing down at her with molten silver eyes beneath winged brows, beautiful and scarred and oh so dangerous … terrifying and tempting beyond expectation.
She closed her eyes, and was suddenly weightless. There was a sweeping sensation, and then she felt the familiar cushion of heather mattress beneath her. It cradled her shoulders and hips in sweet scent and comfort, then dipped beneath his weight. He bent and kissed her again, tasting of spiced wine and heady excitement. His tongue licked at her lips, her chin, then laved her mouth in a slow, sensual exploration that left her shivering. She opened her mouth and he slipped inside it, heated wine, cinnamon, and cloves, all mingled with tumultuous desire.
A low moan vibrated in her throat. His hands were on the laces of her leather girdle, swift and sure with spare motion that divested her of the garment. Her breath came ragged and swift, almost painfully. There was a creaking groan of bed ropes as he shifted his weight to his knees and gathered her into him, his hands beneath her shoulders as he lifted her to press his mouth against the base of her throat. Then he moved to loosen the tidy coils of hair over her ears, freeing them so that the unbound plaits waved over her shoulders and down to the bedding.
In a soft, hoarse mutter, he said, “You are very beautiful, catkin.”
Shyly, afraid of what she might see reflected in his gaze, she opened her eyes to look at him. Smoke and fire, a seductive curve of his mouth, heated promise and sensual assurance gazed back at her. She felt hot and cold at the same time, with the steady, surging insistence between her legs mortifying and exciting. What should she do? What should she say? Oh, if only she knew what she really wanted from him, if what she felt was only lust, as he had said, or love, as she had thought. Perhaps it was both, because the time she spent with him these past weeks was pure torment, watching him, his potent masculinity reminding her of how he had touched her that day, felt against her, his weight and power devastating and arousing. Yet she had also known that beneath his careless mockery, he was a man she could respect.
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