One Night with Her Brooding Bodyguard

by Cara Colter

  She needed more. She needed to explore every inch of him with her hands and her lips and her tongue. She needed him to explore every inch of her with his hands and his lips and his tongue.

  He put his finger to her lips.

  “Do you not think I don’t know what you need?” he whispered.

  Doona.

  And then he proved it. He proved he knew exactly what she needed. He had known all along.

  * * *

  Something tickled her nose, and Sophie brushed it away. She never wanted to wake up. She wanted to stay in this world of dreamlike sensation. So safe. So content. So fulfilled.

  The tickle again. And then again.

  She opened her eyes. Lancaster was standing above her, dressed only in his jeans, tickling her nose with a feather. She drank him in, felt the hunger blossom within her, shut her eyes against it.

  He tickled her again.

  She opened her eyes. She wanted to look at him. She scanned his face and saw such incredible tenderness there she had to bite her lip to keep the tears that sparked behind her eyes from falling.

  “I’ve brought you breakfast,” he said. “We have the whole day ahead of us. Let’s not waste a second of it.”

  Carefully balancing the tray, he came into the bed beside her, settling the tray on his thighs. The tray contained steaming coffee, a tin of biscuits and a circle of wildflowers woven with grasses.

  Keeping the blanket tucked around her, Sophie struggled to sitting. He handed her a mug of coffee, and then, as she sipped it, he took the circle of flowers and placed it on her head. He regarded her crown with a faint smile, as if bemused at himself.

  It was true, some barrier had come down in him, and having it down was beyond her wildest dreams.

  “Where did you find flowers at this time of year?” she asked, opening the tin and selecting a biscuit. She took a bite and gave it to him. “Especially after that storm?”

  “It’s a secret. One I’ll share with you after we’ve had breakfast.” He took the biscuit she had handed him, and put his lips exactly where her lips had been. It felt as intimate as anything that had happened between them last night.

  After they had polished off the coffee and the tin, she hoped he would just stay in bed, but he leaped up with great energy, took the tray and tossed her clothes at her.

  “Come on, lass, the day awaits us.” He went out the door.

  Moments later, she joined him outside. He had packed a basket full of things, and he took it in the crook of one arm, and extended his hand to her.

  She took it, and when their hands joined, just like sharing that biscuit, it felt as momentous as anything that had happened last night. It felt as if they were deeply and joyously connected.

  The dew was still on the leaves as they walked through the forest. Lancaster whistled. And then he sang, his rich voice as natural in the forest as the songs of birds.

  He sang in a different language, and yet there was no mistaking, by the tune, that it was a love song, a ballad of the heart, a melody of the soul.

  For her.

  “Tell me what it means,” she begged him.

  “You know what it means,” he said, and then he threw back his head, laughed and sang more.

  The forest path ended in the most beautiful glade she had ever seen. Waterfalls splashed in at the far end of it, and the distinctive scent of hot springs was in the air.

  With a whoop of pure joy, Lancaster stripped off to his boxers and ran on nimble feet, scrambling up wet rocks to the top of that falls.

  He stood above it and then turned his back to her. He spread his arms, and then lifted himself on his toes. He sprang up and up and up, arched his back and did a full turn, before slicing cleanly into the water.

  He surfaced with a shout of laughter, shaking the droplets from his hair. This was Lancaster fully alive.

  This was Lancaster in love with life.

  And maybe, just maybe, a little bit in love with her.

  Showing off for her. Scrambling to the top of that falls again and again, diving, flipping, twisting, plying his amazing strength to the art form of making his body do what he wanted it to do. Sophie went and stood at the edge of the pool he was diving into. She bent and trailed her hand in it. The water was so cold it took her breath away.

  Finally, Lancaster’s skin pebbled with goose bumps, he left the coldness of the pool. He grabbed some items from the basket and then held out his hand to her. He led her to the hot pool that was nearly hidden under an outcrop in the rocks the waterfall cascaded down.

  The same yellow flowers that were in the headdress he had crowned her with bloomed in glorious abundance around the turquoise waters.

  He undid the belt that held her blouse together, and skimmed her slacks off her. He took the ring of flowers from her hair. He led her into the warm water and told her to duck under it.

  When she came up, he was lathering soap between his hands. She thought it was for himself and the thought of sharing this pool with him while he bathed nearly made her swoon. But instead of using that abundance of lather on himself, he motioned her to come closer. He began at her head, working the soap deep into her hair, running the tendrils through his soapy hands, scooping water and rinsing. And he worked his way all the way down.

  And then, he handed her the soap and turned his back to her.

  And so she began on the broadness of his back, working the soap into his hot-springs-warmed skin until it was slick and glorious beneath her fingertips. He stood stock-still while she got to know every inch of him.

  And when she was finished, he took her in his arms, and gave her the part of him she had not explored with soap.

  His mouth.

  He let go into this thing that was unfolding between them, and he let go into it with everything he had, every beat of his heart, every breath that he took. Every look. Every touch.

  She let go, surrendering as completely as she had ever surrendered to anything.

  The day evaporated as they loved each other. And chased each other. And pushed each other into the cold water, and played along the slippery banks and took long soaks in the hot springs.

  The day evaporated as they fed each other small treats of biscuits and tinned oranges and salted almonds from the basket he had packed.

  The day evaporated as they sipped cold, pure spring water from the one mug he had brought, and then, dispensing with that, just from each other’s cupped hands.

  The day evaporated as he wove flowers into her hair, and she massaged the column of his neck, the broadness of his back, the powerful muscles of his shoulders.

  The day evaporated as they shared their deepest secrets, their fears and their hopes and their dreams. The day evaporated as their laughter filled the glade and their newly discovered love filled them.

  And then the day was, without warning, taken from them.

  Sophie saw the second Lancaster heard something. He tilted his head slightly, listening, his eyes narrowed. He had been sitting in the pool beside her, and now, without explanation, he pulled himself from it.

  It was a full minute before she heard what he was hearing.

  Above the sounds of the water cascading down rocks, above the sounds of birds singing, above the sounds of their laughter and their breath, was a sound that was foreign and seemed like the most violent of intrusions.

  She could hear the steady whoop of helicopter blades slicing at the air. At first the sound was faint, but then it grew closer and closer. And as that sound closed in on them, Sophie watched Lancaster change completely. From playful to warrior in the blink of an eye.

  “Let’s go,” he said tersely, holding out his hand to her. She took it and he pulled her from the lovely comfort of the hot water.

  The change in his mood was as abrupt as her being yanked from the hot water into the cold air. It was so comp
lete it left her feeling stunned. He quickly toweled off, tossed the towel at her and tugged clothes over his still-wet skin.

  He was radiating impatience as he waited for her to do the same. He stepped up to her, and plucked the flowers from her hair. He took the crown he had made her this morning and tossed it in the water below the falls where it floated in an endless, forlorn circle.

  He led the way to the trail that led back to the cabin, and went down it fast, two steps ahead of her the whole way, making her struggle to keep up.

  Gone was the laughing man who had sung ballads, and dived and played in the water, and put flowers in her hair.

  It seemed he was as eager to leave this day behind him as she was to hold on to it forever.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  REALITY REARED ITS ugly head as soon as Lancaster heard the helicopters. Those were his men, and they were coming for him.

  And for Sophie.

  His first thought was that he had to protect her. If his men saw the flowers in her hair, saw any kind of coziness between Lancaster and her, they would jump to those conclusions that men were famous for jumping to.

  It was not questions of Lancaster’s conduct as a professional that worried him. He did not want what had happened between him and Sophie left open to rough conjecture.

  He felt he would probably kill the first man who slid him—or her—a sly look of knowing. Kill the man who clapped him on the back in wordless, brotherly congratulation over his conquest.

  This is what he got for letting things slip out of his control. This is what he got for surrendering to the chemistry that had sizzled between them almost from the day they had met.

  Spontaneous combustion was not what Sophie deserved.

  A tryst in a rustic cabin in the hills was not what she deserved.

  How could he have done this to her? She deserved talk of what the future held for them before those things that had unfolded between them had unfolded, while they had both been clearheaded. How could they make any clearheaded decisions now? Everything would be clouded, from this day forward, by this day, when they had played like carefree children, but enjoyed the very adult passion that burned white hot between them.

  He had gone along with her. Fallen under her enchantment. Live for the moment. No future and no past.

  But it was a fantasy. There was a future and there was a past. His past threw shadows forward onto any future she was looking for.

  And now both of them were going to have to deal with the consequences of jumping into something without thinking it through.

  An awful, awful thought hit him. And yet, the feeling it gave him was not awful at all. It filled him with the oddest feeling of warmth, even while it increased his need to protect her. They were nearly back at the cabin.

  “Is there any chance that you—” He didn’t finish the sentence, but he was sure it was crystal clear what he was asking. When his question was met with silence, he stopped and looked back at her.

  She had stopped dead in her tracks. She glared at him. If looks could kill a man, he would be six feet under.

  “Are you worried about another woman trapping you, Lancaster?”

  Lancaster. Not Connal. The change made him feel bereft, even as he could not let her know that.

  He was worried about her, not himself. He couldn’t believe she would throw the history he had trusted her with in his face, but he didn’t let the wound show.

  “I’m just asking a question,” he said, his voice carefully flat.

  “Well, if you were so concerned about that, you should have asked it yesterday,” she snapped.

  Truer words than that had rarely been spoken.

  The sound of the helicopters was deafening. They were going to land in the clearing around the cabin.

  In Lancaster’s world, there was one attribute in a man, or a woman, that mattered more than any other. And that attribute was honor.

  And he had just taken hers from her.

  Stripped her of her honor by playing around with her as if there was nothing at stake. As if they could just have a day of endless summer together with no consequences. And what did that say of his own honor?

  “Sophie,” he said, his voice too loud, trying to be heard over the deafening throbbing of the chopper blades, “I’m sorry.”

  From the look on her face—utter devastation, quickly masked with pride—it occurred to him that somehow, he had stumbled on exactly the wrong thing to say.

  Well, it wasn’t as if he hadn’t warned her he was not exactly a master of sensitivity around women.

  But that sounded like an excuse in his own mind, and he despised himself even more for trying to foist any of the responsibility for what had happened onto her. He was 100 percent responsible.

  The helicopter landed, and things happened fast. They were on it and airborne within minutes. He was sucked seamlessly back into his world, on a bench seat, trusted comrades on both sides of him, being briefed about the storm devastation on the island and the progress of repairing damage.

  He felt a sigh of relief. No one seemed to suspect anything untoward had happened between him and Sophie.

  He glanced up at her.

  She was sitting on the opposite bench, alone, the seats on either side of her deliberately left empty. Her chin was tilted upward and her face was pale and proud. She did not look toward him.

  When he looked at her, he felt the most incredible rush.

  It deafened him to whatever the man beside him was saying. It felt as if his whole world was a tunnel that led to her.

  He was pretty sure he had never experienced this particular feeling before: longing, hunger, tenderness, protectiveness, desire.

  Love.

  He recognized it only because he had experienced elements of it once before, in its purest form. With his son.

  He stared at her.

  It was as if a current passed between them, as if she could sense him looking. She turned and looked back at him, holding his gaze steadily.

  It felt as if the breath was leaving his chest.

  And with great relief, he knew what to do. He knew how to make this thing right. But was he brave enough to do it?

  The helicopter was lowering down to the helipad at the palace. He saw her holding back, waiting for everyone else to disembark. He waited, too.

  “Sophie,” he said, his voice low, “I have to catch up on some things. But I’ll come by and see you tonight.”

  The look she gave him was withering. “Don’t bother,” she said, and marched away, her nose in the air.

  He watched her go, dumbfounded. And then he found a smile tickling his lips. Nothing with her would ever, ever go quite as he planned it, and for someone who loved control as much as him, how could that be anything but a good thing?

  * * *

  It had been the hardest thing she had ever said! Sophie thought. When he had said he would come see her, she had wanted to collapse against him, scream yes, beg him to make it soon.

  Because of the need inside her.

  The need to be with him in every way a woman could be with a man. Her need to hold him and explore him and know him.

  For the first time in her life, she understood need. Real need. Not want. But need like a mother must feel to be with her baby and need like someone starving must have for food, and need like a dying person must have to make all that was wrong right.

  But all that need just made her weak when she needed to be strong.

  He’d already had one woman who had nearly suffocated him with her neediness. Sophie would not be another!

  He had made it clear, by his reaction to the arrival of his men in their clearing, that he regretted every single thing that unfolded between them.

  And so even though her need sobbed within her to beg him, she knew the truth. You could not beg another person to
love you.

  And you could not go to a man like Lancaster filled with need.

  Hadn’t he helped her recognize this in herself? That she went for a type? That she had an overwhelming need to be protected, to be with someone who made her feel safe in a world that could turn dangerous in the blink of an eye?

  She entered the palace.

  “I’m so glad you’re safe,” one of the staff members told her. “You’ve had a wee adventure, I understand.”

  A wee adventure.

  “The princess wants to see you.”

  She did not want to see Maddie right now. In this state of exhaustion, her heart in pieces, Maddie of all people would see right through her.

  “Could you please tell her I’ll see her tomorrow?”

  The staff member looked appalled. “Just for a moment? I think she just needs to make sure you’re all right.”

  See? Sophie chided herself. Self-centered as always. Go let her know you are all right. Without burdening her.

  She entered Maddie’s suite and then the bedroom. Maddie was sitting up in bed, reading a book. She glanced up and Sophie stared at her. Her friend, despite being in bed, despite being sick a dozen times a day, looked so darned well.

  Maddie was radiant. Sophie, thinking about Connal chasing her around the kitchen snapping that towel at her, understood that radiance more than she ever had.

  Maddie was a woman who loved and was loved in return.

  It made Sophie ache with quiet joy for her friend, and sorrow for herself.

  “Are you okay?” Maddie asked. “I heard you were stranded. With Lancaster, which reduced my worry, in one way, and made it worse in another.”

  “Oh, we were fine,” Sophie said breezily.

  Maddie looked at her closely. “Oh, Soph.”

  And at those words, Sophie’s attempt at a brave front dissolved. She burst into tears. And flew into her friend’s open arms.

  “I have to leave,” she finally said. “I can’t stay here, Maddie. Nothing has changed. No, that is not true. Everything has changed. For the worse.”

  She stopped just short of confessing that she loved him more than ever, that she felt as if she could die for loving him. She stopped short of confessing the troubling truth that she felt her need to feel protected would eventually suffocate any feelings he had for her.