The Sinclair Hound

by Lee, Caroline

  Nay.

  This lass—this lady—was a Sinclair Jewel. He had no right to touch her like this, taste her like this. She’d asked for it, and had enjoyed it, but he was nothing compared to her.

  He pulled away, silently cursing himself. He made sure she could stand on her own, then stepped back, putting space between them while he fought to regain control of his urges.

  She was breathing hard when she met his gaze, her eyes wide and full of…wonder? He cursed himself again, knowing he’d never be able to forget the way she could make him feel.

  “Thank ye,” she whispered.

  Nay, she shouldn’t be thanking him. She should be cursing him for taking such liberties. But she didn’t seem to realize that, if her slow smile was any indication.

  He needed…space. Time. Cold water.

  Whirling, he reached for his belt and stepped toward the water. “Turn around, lass,” he rasped.

  “Why?”

  Because I’m about to do what I vowed I wouldn’t.

  Without the belt, his plaid loosened and fell. With his back still to her, he gathered it and tossed it toward the rocks where her gown was laid out. From the way she sucked in a startled breath, she hadn’t turned around. Gregor just knew she was back there staring at his naked arse.

  That knowledge might’ve made him harder, but he plunged into the freezing water before he could find out.

  Chapter Eight

  He’d told her not to look, but of course she did. And she kept staring, even when he was chest-deep in the water, washing himself with handfuls of sand. Having just done the same thing, she knew how cold the water was, and what a relief it was to wash away the filth from their travels.

  A small grin on her lips, she began to gather kindling, already looking forward to the grilled fish. But she kept glancing back at Gregor, until he finally caught her looking and sent a fierce glower her way. She straightened from where she was arranging the fire, put both hands on her hips, and smiled at him, daring him to do aught about it.

  He didn’t. Instead, his eyes turned thoughtful, then calculating—she could tell even from this distance. His chin dipped in acknowledgement, as if in challenge, and he began to move toward the shore.

  As he waded closer, the water revealed more and more of him. First his chest, glistening with little beads of water, then his smooth stomach. How old was he? Not too much older than Agata, surely—his stomach was still flat and hard—but his silence had always made him seem older. She could see each line of his muscles, even where they gave way to a V-shape which seemed to point directly at his—

  Pearl’s eyes went wide when the water dropped low enough to reveal…him.

  She had four older sisters with whom she’d shared a room for years; many evenings were spent discussing men and their bodies. But nothing in her sisters’ descriptions could’ve prepared her for this. The manly part they’d all giggled about lay against a thatch of hair darker than the auburn on his head, and seemed longer than her hand. Even as she watched, the thing seemed to stir, to grow. By the time he reached knee-deep water, his member stood almost straight up.

  Pearl’s gaze slammed up once more, meeting his gaze with a squeak of embarrassment. There was a faint amusement in his eyes, and she briefly considered teasing him right back…but when she glanced back down at that fascinating thing jutting toward her, she lost her courage and darted sideways to where his kilt lay balled. She scooped it up and threw it at him, and as she turned away, she heard a strange rasping noise.

  It wasn’t until she’d forced herself to take a few deep breaths that she realized it was his laughter.

  That knowledge—the knowledge that he could laugh, and over something so simple—kept her smiling throughout the simple meal preparation. That, and the memory of her reaction to his naked body. He’d been so magnificent, and she wouldn’t have minded watching him longer. She was curious; how did he feel? Before he’d plunged into the cold water, she’d been plastered against him, and had felt most of him well enough…including that intriguing bulge.

  And the kiss they’d shared had been more exciting than aught else she could remember. The way he touched her—who knew that something as simple as a hand on her breast could cause her knees to go weak like that? Her sisters’ whispers made sense now.

  His kiss—his touch—had made a liquid heat pool between her legs. Pressure, low in her belly, and an ache which made her want to press up against him. She’d needed more, more of him, more from him.

  The fact she’d been wearing only his shirt had made the sensation that much more intense. Despite the scrubbing she’d given it, the material still carried his scent, and brushed against her skin in the most tantalizing of ways. No wonder she’d acted as deliciously wanton as her sisters had joked about.

  Then, to see him in all his glory and know he’d been just as affected as she’d been…it made Pearl’s heart beat faster and her breath catch.

  This man could make her feel that way, and she did the same to him.

  And when he handed her one of the skewered fish to cook, their fingers brushed, and she felt a heat climb her arm which had naught to do with the cheerful fire they both crouched before. In fact, it was just as special as the kiss they’d shared, only this was…different. That had been hot and heavy, while this felt more relaxed. This was the two of them going about their tasks, confident in each other, and that made it even better.

  Aye, bonding over raw fish is verra romantic.

  The thought made her smile.

  “What?”

  She glanced up to see him staring at her. Had it only been a few days ago he’d spoken to her for the first time? Only a few days ago she’d learned his name? Up until then, he’d seen nothing wrong with going through life without speaking at all, and now he was the one drawing her into conversation.

  Her smile grew.

  “I was just thinking, I’m glad we stopped here. ’Twill delay our return home, but this is…nice.”

  His eyes narrowed a bit, and she could just imagine him repeating nice in his head.

  She hurried to explain. “Donae misunderstand me. I ken this whole adventure was foolish, and I’ll pray every night for the bravery of William, Fergus, and Mungo in allowing us to escape, but…” She shrugged. “I cannae regret the journey. ’Tis taught me much.”

  She kept her attention on the trout before her, not sure if she wanted to see his reaction to her confession. Would he understand?

  “Yer fish is charring.”

  That was all he said, and Pearl hurried to turn the skewer, her mouth already watering at the scents wafting from the meat. Did he understand?

  She risked glancing at him. He was staring at his fish, his long, capable fingers rotating the skewer in a sort of unconscious way. But the look in his eyes…he was troubled by something. Instinctively, she wanted to fix things, to make him feel better. But she wondered how much of that was caused by her confession, and how much by their general situation?

  The fish was nice and hot as she took a bite, but honestly, Pearl tasted very little of it. Instead, she was considering many things, her reaction to his touch, his reaction to their kiss, and what he was concerned about. She knew enough about men to know he might’ve kissed her—might’ve done much more, in fact, without caring for her.

  But with each passing hour, she was sure she cared for him. He was honorable and thoughtful, and worried about her comfort. He might be treating her like he’d treat any other woman, but the way he made her feel… she wondered if he kissed every woman he cared about.

  He did care, didn’t he?

  The idyllic afternoon she’d hoped for never materialized. By the time they were done eating—mostly in silence—her shift was dry. Her dress was still damp though, but much better than yesterday. Sitting beside the fire with him, she’d realized there were benefits to being fully covered. Her left arm was freezing—she might even sew his sleeve back on for him—and crouching in front of the fire wasn’t smart if o
ne was wearing only a long shirt.

  “I believe the excitement has worn off,” she confessed, scooping up her gown. “I’ll give yer shirt back.”

  One auburn brow twitched. “Ye wore it better than I ever did, lady.”

  Lady. It made her sad to hear the title on his lips. She jerked her head in an awkward nod. “I’ll just go over there and…”

  She gestured weakly toward the stand of trees, wondering if she could demand he turn around to grant her privacy. She hadn’t granted him any while he was bathing, and now her cheeks heated at the memory. Not because she saw something she didn’t want to see—quite the opposite—but because she might’ve made him uncomfortable, and that was unconscionable.

  But he did turn, already reaching for his belt as if to use the time to reposition his plaid, and she hurried away. After the ease and comfort of the last few days, of being able to communicate without reserve, this awkwardness was…well, awkward.

  She hurried to dress and then returned to find him kicking the coals apart. He was obviously ready to leave, so Pearl held out his shirt in a sort of apology. He watched her for a long moment before taking the shirt and pulling it on.

  And she, despite her shame at making him feel uncomfortable earlier, watched. Her eyes lingered on the pull of his muscles, his smooth skin. She told herself she was just admiring how quickly his shoulder had healed, and making sure he was regaining his full range of movement.

  But it was a lie.

  This man, Gregor, had completely captured her attention. Being with him, she didn’t even think of what lay ahead. His slight smile chased away all thoughts of her upcoming conversation with her father. His simple competence made her feel comfortable and at home working beside him. And his touch…his touch made her forget her own name.

  When he finished dressing, his eyes were serious. He looked as if he wanted to say something, then hesitated, stepping back. Placing his open palm on his chest, he bowed his head.

  “My lady,” he rasped, “I apologize.”

  Apologize? “For what?”

  “The…liberties I took.”

  “What?”

  When he lifted his chin, his hand still at his chest, she saw hesitation in those dark eyes.

  “I shouldnae have touched ye. Kissed ye. Ye have my sincere apology.”

  It was one of the longest speeches she’d ever heard him give, and it was to tell her he regretted kissing her? It was a blow to her spirit, but she needed to be sure.

  “Gregor…” She stepped toward him, and although he looked as he if wanted to flee, he didn’t. “Gregor, are ye saying ye regret what we shared?”

  The brief jerk of his head seemed involuntary, as if he’d stopped himself from saying nay. But instead, he whispered, “Ye are my laird’s daughter.”

  “Aye, and I ken what I wanted.”

  This time she stepped close enough to touch him. “Gregor, I’ve been moping about, trying to find a way to apologize to ye for making ye uncomfortable. I donae regret yer kisses.”

  He stared down at her a moment. “An’ my touches?”

  Daring an impish smile, she said, “Definitely not.” She reached up and placed one hand over his on his chest. “Do ye regret either?” she asked softly.

  The Sinclair Hound was known for his lack of expression, but she knew it was because no one watched his eyes the way she did. In one blink, he seemed to surrender; his hesitation and tortured look turned to relief and…shame?

  He moved his hand suddenly so he captured hers, and her palm was pressed against his chest. She could feel his heart pounding powerfully behind the skin she’d just been admiring. Somehow, it was more intimate.

  “Nay,” he whispered in that tortured rasp of his.

  “Good.” She spread her fingers under his, to try to capture more of his warmth, his heartbeat. “Good.”

  When he closed his eyes, his “God help me” barely audible, Pearl echoed it silently.

  God, help me to find our way through this mess.

  She realized then and there, she wanted Gregor. She didn’t want to join a nunnery, didn’t want to marry a laird. She wanted to stay on Sinclair land…as the Sinclair Hound’s wife.

  The thought was intriguing enough to keep her occupied through the afternoon. She’d never dreamed of marriage the way some of her sisters seemed to. She’d always been content helping her people the best she could, and being there for her family. But if she had imagined marriage, she would’ve pictured a husband she could work beside. Someone she respected, someone who believed in the good of the clan. A selfless man, humble, and good. A man who made her pulse pound and her lips ache for him.

  But would Gregor agree? Did he feel the same way? How does one…just propose something like that? It would be humiliating if he didn’t agree, but she was confident enough in her ability to understand him to know he cared for her.

  Didn’t he?

  Sitting behind him, her hands tucked into his belt, and her cheek resting against his back, Pearl decided there was only one choice. She’d have to ask the man to see what he really thought about all this, and if he’d possibly consider a future with her.

  Although she’d have to convince him of her feelings first.

  Chapter Nine

  She’d apologized. To him.

  The laird’s daughter had been concerned for his feelings? No, Pearl had. And while he knew she was also the Sinclair’s daughter, there was a difference. In the last weeks, she’d become just…Pearl.

  The kindest, most joyful, most seductive woman he’d ever met.

  As they rode away from the loch, with her pressed against his back, Gregor suspected he was changed forever. Even if he returned her to her father as planned, he’d never be able to continue to live on Sinclair land, never be able to continue guarding Duncan each day, if Pearl was there, too.

  It would be suffocating. And he was a man who knew about suffocating pain.

  Over ten years later, he still remembered the pain and terror of dangling above the ground, his feet blindly scrabbling for purchase as he clawed at the rope around his neck, the burning in his lungs building until everything went black.

  And this—imagining having to spend the rest of his life living near her, knowing she wasn’t his—was worse.

  This journey was quieter than the last few days. Pearl was a talker, but this afternoon she was preoccupied. When she did speak, to point out the eagle far overhead or the sparkle of the sun on a distant loch, it was almost as if she was trying to distract herself. The same way she’d distracted herself on their way south, by chattering, but this time it didn’t seem to work.

  And as much as he liked listening to her voice and the wonder in how she saw the world, Gregor was just as happy to sit in silence as the horse picked its way along. After all, he had plenty to think about, too.

  She’d apologized, as if his feelings were important to her. And then she’d told him she’d enjoyed his touches, as if he hadn’t known. No, it was the fact she’d taken blame for those touches which surprised him. If her father ever found out, he would blame Gregor for taking advantage of her. Yet, she thought she’d taken advantage of him?

  Gregor shook his head in confusion and forced himself to focus on their surroundings and be mindful of an attack.

  They finally reached a main road, and trotted along for an hour or so. When they came to Helmsdale, he knew they were only a half-day’s hard ride from home. But remembering what she’d said that morning by the loch, and how she wouldn’t mind waiting until tomorrow to reach home, he searched for an inn.

  Truthfully, he was thankful for one more day with her.

  When they reached the stables, and an eager lad ran over to take the mare, Gregor helped Pearl dismount. It felt right to linger with his hands on her hips, although he knew it shouldn’t.

  The inn was the building next door. Because they’d avoided most towns on the way southward and then again on their journey back home, he still had all the money in his saddleba
g—now slung over his shoulder. His intention was to demand the nicest chamber for the youngest of the Sinclair Jewels.

  But Pearl had other plans.

  As they stepped out of the stable, she reached for his hand. The touch was unexpected, and caused Gregor to tense, but she walked on as if there was nothing unusual about it. Nothing unusual about a lady touching her father’s guard.

  He swallowed and admitted it was a glorious feeling. Not just her touch, but knowing that everyone who saw them as they entered the inn thought he had some kind of claim on this beautiful woman.

  She smiled sweetly at the man standing behind the bar. “Good eve, sir. Might we rent one of yer fine rooms for the evening?”

  The rotund man eyed Gregor suspiciously, eyes lingering on the Sinclair plaid, and grunted. “He’s no’ kidnapping ye, is he?”

  Before Gregor could show the man exactly what he thought of that suspicion, Pearl’s laugh—joyful and warm, just like her—burst out. “Kidnapping? Nay!” She laughed again, then flashed a smile at Gregor. “As if he’d have to kidnap me, to get what he wanted!”

  The man relaxed slightly, and nodded at her obvious happiness. “Yer husband, then?”

  Pearl didn’t quite answer, but the non-committal hum she made and the twinkle in her eyes seemed to be enough when she leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially, “He doesnae like to speak, but doesnae mind when I chatter like a crossbill.”

  At that, the innkeeper actually grinned. “Well, lass, someone full o’ light like ye, we men donae mind listening to.”

  She smiled prettily and managed to bow her head in thanks, all without letting go of Gregor’s hand. Meanwhile, he’d turned slightly to keep the rest of the inn patrons in his sights, but with his head tilted just enough to hide his scar. He didn’t want anyone here to recognize them. They were still far enough from Sinclair lands they might not be known, but if someone began questioning why Duncan Sinclair’s daughter was claiming to be married to the likes of him, he was prepared to use his sword to defend her.