But it seemed like such a waste of effort suddenly.
"Ye've me word as a Scot."
He snorted, but when she smiled the room lit up like a basilica at Michaelmas. He could no longer speak. Indeed, a bit of pain hardly seemed to matter when she looked at him like that. Hardly.
"You must push up the blanket," she said.
He eyed hers breathlessly. "Really?"
"I mean your blanket."
"Oh." The disappointment was bitter, but he did as she requested, easing up the woolen an inch at a time. Even that pressure against the wound sent waves of pain shooting up his leg, but it was time to act like a man.
Or not. Maybe he could pass out again instead.
She had turned away. He watched her bend to take a kettle from the fire and wondered how and if she managed to keep the blanket in place as she did so. But soon she was back. She rummaged in a pouch for a few moments, then dumped a handful of herbs into the steaming pot. A fresh, rninty aroma filled the air.
Sir Boden took a deep breath, and against his will, felt himself relax. From a leather bag, she took a dab of dusty-looking powder, which she placed in a wooden bowl. Then, adding some of the liquid from the pot, she stirred it with a spoon.
Boden eyed it dubiously. It looked rather like someone had hurled into the bowl. "Is that the same stuff you put in the wine?''
"Aye."
He scowled. "What are your plans for that concoction?"
"I will smear it on the wound."
He stifled a shiver. "Do you hate me so?"
"It may sting a bit at first."
"Before it burns a hole through my thigh?"
Her eyes were laughing when she lifted them to him. "Are ye certain you're a knight?"
"Have I not tcdd you I am—"
He sucked air between his teeth as white-hot pain seared his leg. Agony sizzled through his senses. Darkness rushed in. Boden grasped the bed sheets and dropped his head back, grappling for lucidness. But in a few moments the torture had lessened to a dull throb, then eased even more.
He raised his head weakly and scowled down at his wound. "What did you do?"
"Tis Fiona's secret," she said and, slipping a shaky hand under his knee, bent it upward. "She said to use it wisely. If inhaled it may boggle the mind, but it will also ease one's aches. And if applied directly to a wound, tis little short of magic."
"You mean to say, you could have used it for my arm?"
"Fiona cautioned me to use it on only the most grievous of wounds."
"My arm was grievously wounded," he said.
"Do not forget, there was a reason I stabbed ye. Twould have made little sense to immediately try to heal ye."
He snorted.
"I must bandage ye now."
His leg felt somewhat numb, heavy, oddly content.
"You could have used it for my arm later."
"Does it still hurt?"
"Aye." He looked at her through dark-lidded lashes, and for a moment she was tempted almost beyond control to touch his face, to still her trembling against the warmth of his skin. But she could not risk that. Far too much was at stake, not least of all, Boden's own life. So she smeared the tiny remainder of ointment from the bowl with her fingers and smoothed it gently across the healing scar on his biceps.
Then, because she could not resist, she slipped her hand down the strength of his arm and back to the ointment.
He dropped his head back slightly. His throat was thick with muscle and very dark, but for the quickly healing wound he had sustained at her own hand.
"Do ye feel better?" Her voice sounded strange to her own ears—far away and husky.
"Aye." His was throaty and deep.
"Anywhere else that I can touch? I mean..." she corrected quickly. "Is there anything else that needs my ministrations?''
The scar at the side of his lips danced, and then his hand moved, slowly, to point at an old scar on his pectoral. Dipping her fingers into the bowl, she smeared them against the oily side, then drew them out to smooth them gently over the scar.
His eyes fell closed. A feeling, hot as hell, spurred down her throat to her belly, and when she spoke, her voice was just above a whisper.
"Anywhere else?"
His fingers moved again, ever so slowly to the next scar. His torso was crisscrossed with them.
And yet it seemed like heaven to touch each one, to smooth her fingers over the aged wounds, to skim her hands over the curve of his biceps, the cap of his shoulder, the bulge of his chest, and then lower.
The rippled muscle of his abdomen danced when she touched it. She felt the sharp intake of his breath in her very soul. The warmth of his skin seeped through her fingertips, intoxicating her, and suddenly her head felt light and her limbs heavy. It seemed she could hear the very beat of his heart, could feel the hot blood pumping through his veins.
"Sara." His voice was as deep as forever. She opened her eyes, and realized rather foggily that she was caressing his belly with a slow, steady rhythm that matched the pace of her heart.
"You are beautiful beyond words."
But suddenly she didn't know if the words had come from him or her. Her blanket had fallen away, that much she knew, for she could feel the cool air caress her shoulders. Perhaps she should be cold, but she was not. Still, she forced herself to pull the blanket up and wrap it casually about her torso, tucking it beneath her arms.
"I must tend yer leg," she said, and picking up a long strip of cloth, she wrapped it about his thigh. It was a big thigh, heavy with muscle, dark skinned, dark haired, long. She covered the wound and tied off the cloth but her hands didn't leave his leg.
The blanket lay bunched about his waist, and beneath that heavy woolen... She shivered. The tremble felt delicately delicious, like a forbidden drink.
And suddenly she realized his fingers had touched her face and were slipping with languid slowness down her throat. She shivered again, but remembered her duty. Taking his hand, she helped him rise to his feet. He did so slowly until he stood over her like a towering elm, silent, venerable.
It took all her control to turn away, to lift the herbed kettle from the floor. She drew a deep waft of the hot air into her lungs, then poured the water into the tub. Curls of sweet steam filled the air. She heard Boden inhale it.
The tub was more than half full. Tugging at his hand, she urged him to step inside. He moved closer, and then his hand lowered, and with the slightest movement, the blanket fell from him. The hard thrust of his manhood loomed into sight. She nearly reached out. Nearly touched it. But even now, in her strangely disembodied state, she did not. Instead, she urged him toward the tub. He stepped inside.
"Again you have me at a disadvantage," he murmured. "Watching me bathe and without even the darkness to cover me."
Her gaze skimmed down his hard-muscled body. "There is a God," she whispered, and raising on her tiptoes, kissed his lips.
He tried to pull her to him, but she pulled away, urging him into the water. It washed over him, and there seemed nothing she could do but watch him. Dear God, he was beautiful, even wounded and scarred, he was beautiful. Or did those imperfections only make him more appealing?
Somehow the questions were too heavy to ponder. It took a moment for her to realize he still held her hand. They stared in unison at the bond between them. Finally she tugged on her fingers and he relented. But she didn't move far, indeed, not out of reach, for it seemed impossible suddenly to keep from touching him.
Instead, she lifted a sponge from the water and draped it over his shoulder. Water ran in silver rivulets across his chest, down his back, over the healing scar on his arm. She watched it flow, mesmerized by its path, by the loving way it caressed his flesh. She dunked the sponge again, and draped it over the other shoulder. The water's course was much the same, and yet it fascinated her no less, and with every drop of water she watched, she felt the heat in her body building.
His face was slightly turned toward her. She could see his hard, chiseled p
rofile, the jut of his jaw, the hollow of his cheek. His brows were dark, low, his eyes hidden beneath closed lids.
Her hand fell automatically then lifted again to douse his hair. His head dropped back a fraction of an inch. She watched the tendons in his throat tighten, and in a moment she found that her hand had gone there, touching the cords that stood out in sharp relief against his dark throat. His skin felt like sun-warmed velvet, and when she touched his arm, it seemed that the strength of a stallion had been imbued in this sculpture of a man. She washed the sponge down his arm, leaving behind a fine sheen of oiled water until she reached his fingers. She washed each one, then slid her hand sideways onto his hip. Her hand curved out of sight.
His eyes opened slowly. There was light in them, a light so bright and fierce that for a moment she couldn't breath. She realized foggily that her blanket had left her completely.
"It seems my blanket has abandoned its post," she whispered.
"There is a God." He repeated her words then reached for her.
She told herself it was not too late to retreat, but the air was heavy with anticipation, and deep inside she ached with a desire that would no longer be ignored.
It didn't feel as if she stepped into the tub, instead, it seemed that the water rose to meet her, flooded the edges of life, sliding up her calves, her knees, her thighs as she slipped down beside him.
Warmth and peace wrapped them together. It seemed as natural as breathing that he kiss her face, her hair, the swift pulse in her throat.
Her fingers still held the sponge. She ran it up his arm, onto his shoulder, and higher. Warm water rinsed his midnight hair. He dropped his head back and with that movement, his chest pressed against hers. She closed her eyes at the impact. They shivered in unison, and when she looked at his face again, his hair was washed back, black as ebon, to show his every feature as if it were etched in granite.
Leaning back slightly, she lifted the sponge to press it against his chest. Rivulets streamed around his left nipple, leaving the dusky summit dry in their wake. And suddenly it seemed there was nothing she could do but kiss it.
She did so, then drew back to watch it pucker. Leaning forward again, she sucked it into her mouth. His hiss of breath sounded like agony. Her arms slid about his waist. Her breasts slipped wet and hot against his belly. It felt strangely perfect. But there were sights to see. She moved lower, kissing his ribs, his abdomen, feeling his muscles tense and relax beneath her hands and lips.
His cock was as hard as sin, long and smooth. She touched it gently, feeling strangely unembarrassed. It felt wild, as if it contained a life of its own, smooth as satin against her lips. It danced beneath her kiss. She trickled her fingers over the tip and moved on. His scrotum felt hot, his thighs tense as she slipped her hand between them.
Her wrist smoothed against his thighs, her arm against his testicles. He moaned at the touch, distracting her. Her head felt heavy when she lifted it. Still, there was naught she could do but slip up the endless length of his body to kiss his lips again.
His moan turned to a growl in her mouth. His arms encircled her, drawing her against him like hungry bands of steel.
His chest was hard and hot against her breasts. The muscles of his abdomen danced against her belly. Below that, she felt the hard evidence of his desire press between her thighs.
And now his hands were everywhere, cupping her buttocks, sweeping across her back, encompassing her waist. Need melded with desire, right with wrong. There were no feelings but those evoked by his hands. His voice felt hot, his hands spoke of magic, and between their bodies, Dragonhead: gleamed. Boden's lips brushed it aside as he kissed her throat, her chest, the aching tip of one breast.
The gasp must have been hers, but she knew not when it escaped. All the while his hands were working their sorcery, slipping over her hot skin, pulling her closer and closer, gripping her thighs and lifting them around his hips, drawing her irrevocably against him until it seemed like they were one—until they were one.
The world ground to a halt. Sara stopped, poised above him, her head thrust backward, her spine arched.
Twas the final chance to retreat, she knew, and yet it was but a fleeting thought before she slowly pressed him into her.
Heaven's gate closed around him. Boden sucked breath between his teeth. She gripped him hot and hard, soft as a velvet sheath, strong as a leather gauntlet, pulling him inside. He should retreat, he should retreat, but, oh God, he would not, not when she seemed as eager for this union as he, not when all his life seemed to be poised in this moment, waiting for the fulfillment of his worth. He pressed into her. Her head dropped back farther still. Her breasts, white as lily blossoms capped in pink, pressed closer to him. He pushed in harder and heard her gasp.
Had he hurt her? The thought made him freeze. It took a moment for her eyes to open. They were as blue as a dream, but smoky somehow, and in their depths he saw her worry.
"Sir...Boden." Her breathing had resumed, but it was harsh. "Do ye hate me so?" Her body rocked gently against his.
"Nay," he whispered. "Nay, I do not."
"Then please. Dunna. Stop."
Twas a soft plea, and disjointed, but Boden knew that she begged him to stop. Something ripped in his heart. So now was the true test. All those past trials that he thought had been difficult, all those battles, all the fear, they were as naught compared to the discipline required now. But he wasn't disciplined. He wasn't a gentleman. He was a cad, a fake, a rogue. And her eyes were so damned blue.
She was an angel, and for the angel, he would cease. With every bit of power in him, he forced himself to draw away.
"Please." There seemed to be panic in her voice now. It was husky, low, begging, as her thighs wrapped more tightly about him and her breasts dipped toward his chest. "Please dunna stop."
For a moment Boden couldn't believe his ears. But her heavenly rhythm against him had become more powerful.
She was right; there was a God! And He even watched over cads like himself.
Gratitude flowed through Boden, making his movements slow but sure. He pushed into her with careful patience now, watched her head fall back, heard her shallow breathing, felt her encompass him completely.
Water sloshed over his belly, between his legs, slapping against her buttocks, caressing his balls. Tension soared through him and the pace increased. He pushed in deeper still, faster, and she rode like the queen of the eve, her wild hair wet, her face shining, her thighs lean and strong.
They rocked together, reaching, panting, pleading for release, until finally in a raw explosion of feeling, Sara's hands clawed his chest. Her gasp filled the room and with that wild emotion, he exploded inside her.
He felt her go limp. Her head dropped forward, and her breasts, when they touched his chest, were as soft as thistledown.
He opened his eyes and breathed in heaven. The world was a masterpiece. The water was soft.
Her scent was delicious. Even the weight of her body against his own wounded one seemed perfect.
He found her lips with his own. Their kiss, too, was perfect, gentle, yielding. Where her body had been tense and driven, it was now relaxed and supple, like a fine piece of gold silk draped against him.
He kissed her shoulder, her arm, the bend of her elbow, her fingers. She didn't open her eyes, but shivered against his touch, making him need to explore further, to nibble on her pinky, lick the shallow cave of her palm.
"You are kind," he whispered, and slipping up beside her, kissed her lips.
She smiled sleepily. "I told ye that at our first meeting."
He kissed her ear. "Mayhap your stabbing me in the arm confused me. But I would gladly be stabbed again..." Bending, he smoothed his lips across her breast. "For this."
She shivered at his touch. ' 'Tell me, Sir Knight, do ye think I did this out of kindness?"
"Why else?"
Her hand felt wet and warm as it slipped over his chest to his abdomen.
"Because I
couldna resist," she whispered. "Because every moment I was with ye I thought of this."
"Then our dreams have truly meshed," he said.
She sighed. The sound caressed his ears. He pulled her nearer, draping her arm about him until she was pulled close. Then he laid her back in the water. Her hair floated on the surface, molten gold, soft as kitten fur. He tangled his fingers in it, glorying in the feel, in the smooth length of her body stretched beside him.
The sponge floated nearby. He reached for it like one in a dream and smoothed it across her shoulder, over her breast, down her abdomen. Again she shivered. Water sloshed over her. A bar of scented soap lay on the nearby commode. He picked it up and slipped his fingers into her hair again, massaging her scalp, running his hands through the silky strands, then wrapping the great length around her arm, spreading it over her breasts, and then, because he could not help himself, kissing the nipple that shone through the gossamer strands.
She reached for him, pulling him down, and now they lay side by side, embraced by the scented water and each other. Their lips met. Their limbs entwined. Hair swirled about them in gold and black, tangling, mating. And so they lay like water nymphs, wrapped in ecstasy, until Boden felt Sara's head droop against his arm.
He roused himself with difficulty and realized in a moment of panic that she had fallen asleep.
She felt light and soft as he lifted her from the water. No pain accompanied his journey to the bed. In fact, ecstasy would have well described every element of his life at that moment.
She moaned as he laid her on the mattress, and it was all he could do to abandon her long enough to retrieve a blanket and the board of food. He fed her with his own fingers, until finally sated, and weary, they fell asleep wrapped in a cocoon of warmth, pressed against each other.
Dreams of her filled his head, his heart, and in the middle of the night he reached for her again, pulling her against him, nuzzling her breast until she arched against him.
It seemed utterly right that he slip inside her, almost ordained that she wrap her legs about him, natural as the sky that she urged him farther in, rasping his name until she went limp and he exploded once more.
The Lady and the Knight (Highland Brides) Page 19