by Kris Kennedy
But she would not look. She would not look.
She knew very well what had pressed against her back. She’d seen enough male shafts over the years, outlined inside tight-fitting hose. But she had never been so close to touching one…and such a magnificent one.
Splashes of water proved he’d taken to the river. Keeping her chemise on and staying firmly in the shallows, she quickly washed.
The river coasted by, lazy on its summer path. Ripples of white and blue moonlight ribboned along its surface. The air was mild and fresh. The world was quiet but for the sound of him splashing.
Wrapping an arm under her breasts, she tipped forward and peered around the rock.
He’d removed himself to an outcropping of high stone. He stood half behind it, his back to her. He lifted an arm and soaped beneath it.
Sucking in a breath, she looked away.
Unable to resist, she tipped back again and peeked out.
The river came to just above his hips, giving her a view of a great deal of his body. His hair, wet and slick, fell to a triangulated point midway between his shoulder blades. His spine formed a valley down his back, tapering to a trim waist. His arms were muscled, his back was muscled—oh dear. Everything was.
She took a small step further out into the river, her foot sinking in the uneven, pebbly earth, wanting to see just a bit more…
The river bottom abruptly fell away.
She went under the water with a shriek cut short.
She shot back up, chemise drenched and sticking to her. Shocked the river would have been so ungallant as to dump her, she gasped and sputtered, trying to regain her footing.
When she looked up, Máel stood ten feet away, grinning like a madman.
She clutched at her wet chemise, then folded her arms protectively over her chest. The water rose past her waist. On him, it rose only to his hips. She could not resist following the hair that covered his chest, down to the narrow cable along his hard stomach, between his trim hips, and then, just below the water level…
She jerked her eyes up. “Do not just stand there grinning at me, you devil,” she snapped. “It is highly improper.”
“I agree. I told you not to fall in. Very improper—”
She aimed a disgusted look his way.
“—and unnecessary.”
Her eyes narrowed, but it only made more water drip into her eyes. “What do you mean, ‘unnecessary’?”
“It means if you wanted to look, lass, you could have just said so,” was his chivalrous response.
She stared at his laughing face and thought of the last day of her life. Of the tourney left behind. Of her father. Of how she’d been spirited away, through no fault of her own, to a moonlit wilderness. How she had fallen in a river and was now sopping wet…and this beast was laughing at her.
Well, it was simply too much.
She curved her hands under the river surface and swept them up, sending water crashing over him.
He gave a shout of surprise and ducked, but it drowned him anyhow.
She smiled.
He cocked a brow. “Aye?” he said softly.
She folded her arms over her extremely wet chest. “Aye.”
He cupped his hands under the water. Her face fell. She held her hands out defensively. “No, you devil. Don’t you dare—”
With his huge arms, he lifted an entire wall of water and sent it crashing over her.
It was as if a rainstorm had broken overhead. It fell down on her in blinding sheets. She bent to the side to take the brunt of it, then, using the palms of her hands, wiped water-soaked hair off her face.
She was infuriated.
Or…was that fury? It certainly felt riotous and overwhelming. But it also felt a great deal like…laughter.
Whatever it was, it made her wish to simply bury him in water.
She bent her knees, spread her arms as wide as he had, and swept a wave of water over him.
This time, he didn’t move. He let it fall like a summer squall. It rained down on his body in moon-glistened sheets. When it was over, he shook his head like a dog. Water droplets sparkled in the air.
“Oh lass,” he murmured. “You’ve much to learn.”
Whether the words were warning or amusement, they terrified her. She backed up quickly. But the water was, after all, wet, and the river bottom quite slippery, and she fell again and went under, her hands flailing.
Before she could find her footing, Máel was there, lifting her up, his hands wrapped around her arms, holding her steady.
Their wet bodies were so very close. The world was vivid with sharp-cut things: a black sky lit by a rising moon; the silhouette of rock in the distance; his body, like a moving marble statue; his blue eyes, catching the moonlight. Everything glistened: the river, his body, her skin. She panted softly from exertion, but otherwise, it was silent.
She could not look away from his eyes, could not stop being aware of his body, so close to hers, so…naked.
“Are you done?” he asked, peering down at her.
“Done what?”
“Looking.”
Her jaw dropped on a stuttered, outraged gasp. Then she sneezed.
Abruptly, he bent and lifted her entirely out of the river. Only her bottom dragged through it as he walked them to the edge.
“I was not looking,” she announced.
He grabbed the gown off the rock and covered her with it. “I thought you said you did not lie.”
His body was so warm against hers.
She tilted her face away. “I suppose I shouldn’t have splashed you,” she admitted in a small voice. “But I was angry.”
“Is that what it was? Anger?”
In truth, she wasn’t sure anymore what had propelled her to do such a thing.
He trudged back to the river’s edge, his powerful legs slicing through the river, his body throwing heat onto hers, and she realized what had urged her to splash him. It hadn’t been fury or indignation.
It had been…fun. She’d been having fun.
And it hadn’t been proper at all.
Chapter 21
Máel carried her to the camp. Her body was wet and curving and cold, except where their bodies pressed together.
He’d had every intention of taking her right there in the river. Push her back against the boulder and drag up her chemise. Then she’d sneezed.
Vulnerable.
Innocent.
Do not destroy.
The thought cut like a blade through every urge and inclination.
Defying his desire, he’d picked her up and, instead of ravishing her, carried her to their campsite.
He set her on her feet and she dripped on the dirt. He looked her over, standing barefoot, her chemise soaking wet, her gown clutched to her chest. Long hair hung down in a thick knotted mesh to her lower back.
He wanted to run his fingers through her hair. Comb out the knots, spread it around her face, then lay her back on the ground. Lift her knees and sink inside her. Take her, hard, make her scream his name.
She wanted it, too.
But if she was smart, which she was, she would not take it any further. For he would take it much, much further.
“You’ll want some different clothes,” he said gruffly.
“I haven’t any.”
“You can’t wear that.” He gestured at her, the gown held in front of a chemise that was no doubt still clinging to her lush body. He had a vision of stripping it off her.
He ripped his gaze away and turned to his pack. He yanked out an extra tunic and his cloak. It was fur-lined, but even in summer, the nights could get cold. He held them out.
She reached out with a hesitant hand.
He built up the fire and strung up a blanket between two trees, so that he could sit on one side with the fire and Cassia on the other. Then he turned to her.
She was rummaging through her hair for pins. Eventually she gave up and simply gripped her hair in fists, wrapping a length of
hair around her wrist in a tether. She squeezed out what water she could, then dropped it to hang down her back. Most if it still dangled, knotted, by her face.
Ablutions done, they looked at each other.
A lightning bolt of guilt seared through the center of his chest and left him almost breathless. Fortunately, it passed just as quickly.
Guilt did not serve an outlaw.
Cassia changed quickly behind the blanket, heated by the fire a few feet away and the shock of cold river water that was now turning her blood hot. Indeed, the shock of swimming in a river at all. At midnight. On midsummer. Frolicking in said river with a bandit.
Frolicking.
She turned, letting the fire warm and dry her back and buttocks. Her hair was steaming, almost dry now, albeit in fuzzy disarray. It would take weeks to comb it out when she got back hom—
She lifted her head, startled by the thought of “home.” It seemed so distant. Like a horse and rider galloping away, leaving the castle behind, off on adventures.
She slid Máel’s tunic over her chemise. It hung past her knees. She peeked around the edge of the blanket.
Máel was sitting against the log, one knee up, head bent, whittling. He did not look up.
It twisted something in her chest to see his dark head bent over something so small. The way he had bent over her ankle.
“I am sorry you lost all your little figures in the fire,” she said softly.
His head jerked up. “I will make more.”
And he would. She knew it. He was energy and vibrancy, and he had a thousand more things to do in his life. A thousand more adventures to come, and he would always be pushing hard for more.
This was her last one.
Moonlight leaked through the trees, an eerie light that seemed to mingle with the damp, rich, peaty odor rising from the disturbed earth underfoot. She was caught in between the strangeness, floating in a netherworld.
Hesitating, she nodded to the figurine in his hand. “Will you show me how?”
He stared, then dipped his head to the side, indicating she should come closer.
She knelt before him, very primly. If kneeling in a midnight forest could be said to be proper.
He eyed her a moment, sizing her up. “Easiest to make a walking stick.”
“Oh,” she exclaimed in disappointment. “I thought I could make a figure as you did. Perhaps a dog.”
He shook his head. “My father taught me how to carve wood when I was a boy, and even so, I’ve almost sliced my fingers and thumbs off too many times to count.”
“I would like to try,” she insisted. “If I take off a body part, well, it is mine to lose.”
He said no more, just leaned toward the pile of kindling and branches and began looking through it.
She felt stunned. To him, it was nothing—most likely he was simply weary of arguing with her—but to Cassia, it felt almost like…a gift.
When had she last been able to do a thing she wished, when others wished it not?
She cautioned herself against being too overwhelmed by the outlaw’s disregard for her personal safety.
He hauled his axe out of his pack, chopped off a good, thick section, and handed it over.
“First, the bark comes off,” he explained.
She nodded.
“You use the bigger blade for that.”
“Of course.”
“Hold it so,” he demonstrated, “or you’ll slice your finger off.”
She nodded again, intently focused.
“And best to hold it between your knees, not on your thigh, or I’ll be carrying you in my arms until the end of our days.”
A strange little thrill went through her.
You. My. Our.
“We can’t have that,” she said mildly.
He shifted, leaning closer, the tutor now. “See what you want to make in your mind, and then see the curves of it. Do not make the thing, make the curve. And follow the way the wood moves.”
She frowned. “Wood does not move.”
“Everything moves. Everything has contour, if you look close. There are no straight lines, and they won’t serve you here. Go with the grain. That’s the veins of the wood. Follow it. You see?” He held up his piece of wood and moved his forefinger over it.
She stared, listening to him explain how everything was alive and nothing was what it seemed. She looked up at him.
“I understand. All I need now is a knife. The big one, please.”
He met her eyes slowly. “Was this all an attempt to murder me in my sleep?”
“No.” She smiled. “I will do that while you are awake.”
That earned the little half-smile, and it was worth the effort. “As it should be, lass. You’re a warrior at heart. Here.”
He handed her his blade and reached for another from the arsenal on his body.
A warrior at heart.
She bent to the wood, her heart fluttering a strange new beat.
Chapter 22
They worked silently beside each other, slicing small bits of wood into smaller ones, and it was good.
Máel kept an eye on her, ensuring she didn’t open up any arteries. “What are you making?”
“A bandit lair,” she replied absently.
He laughed.
Everything she did surprised him. If his heart wasn’t hardened and gnarled like ancient wood, he’d say she delighted him, but he did not know what the word meant. If he’d ever felt it, it had been a thousand years ago. It could not be recalled now.
She held the wood up and examined it by the firelight, before lowering it again. She pushed the blade down in a skillful stroke, clearing an entire section of bark in one sweep.
He pursed his lips in silent approval.
“What did my father do?” she asked abruptly.
Ah. Just so. It was time. He surely hadn’t thought she’d leave off it, had he?
He gained a moment of reprieve by finishing a tricky turn, then said quietly, “Do you truly want to know, Cassia?”
“I’m sure I already do,” she replied quickly, not sounding sure at all. “It was likely some kind of gambling.”
“Oh, it was a gamble, all right.”
Her hand stilled, then moved on.
He did not want to tell her what her father had done. For all her wealth and privilege, she seemed to have little to lose.
In truth, she seemed…forlorn. And he did not wish to rip away the one thing she did have: an unfounded faith in her father as a loyal king’s man. She would learn, eventually. But he did not want it to be right now. Not tonight. And if it could come from someone other than him, that would be good.
He told himself this was because he needed her alliance. He would do nothing to undermine that, not now, not until he had his sword.
“Better you do not know, lass.”
She made an impatient gesture with the knife, swinging it close to her face. His hand shot out protectively. “Smaller blade,” he said quickly.
She changed knives and went back to work. “Everyone thinks everything is too much for me.” Her tone was complaining. “But they are wrong. After all, I escaped from you.”
“Almost.”
She ignored him. “And survived a tent fire.”
“That you did.”
“And a boar attack.”
“Och, the tales you’ll have to tell.”
Her head tipped back on a lilting laugh that was filled with pure pleasure. Her skin glowed from river water and firelight.
So close, so curving, so perfectly woman.
She lifted her head, smiling, and held up the wood. “Look!”
He examined the wavy stump that might be…a house? Or were those ears?
“’Tis…beautiful,” he said carefully.
“It is your horse, Fury.”
“Of course it is,” he murmured. She’d whittled his horse?
“He seems to like you,” she explained. “What do you think of it?” She pushed the bl
anket up her forearms, exactly as she had pushed up the sleeves of her gown in the tent, when she was filled with exultation at throwing off the burden of care.
Just before she’d kissed him.
“I think it is magnificent,” he said firmly.
She tipped up her chin higher and peered at his piece of wood. “What are you making? Is that a—”
He reached out and laid it in her palm, stilling the query, for he did not want to speak of what he’d been carving.
She stared at it, brow furrowed, confused by the sudden gift. “For me?”
“For you.”
She looked at it a moment longer, then reached out with her other hand and extended the carving she’d been making. His horse. Who seemed to like him.
“And you may have this,” she announced.
He closed his fingers around it, holding tight, ignoring the long, confusing slide of heat that washed through his chest.
“I think I will carve a bottle of wine next,” she announced, then yawned.
“Next, we sleep.” He tugged down the blanket and piled it and a few others up, tucked up against the log. Then he patted it.
“Fit for a princess. Lay down,” he said to her, indicating the blanket.
She moved off the log hesitantly and sat. He crossed to the other side and propped his back against a rock and pulled a blanket around him, hiding everything but his eyes.
“Sleep,” he said. “I will keep watch.”
Chapter 23
She did not sleep. Máel knew it, for he watched her sitting stiff as a board on the pile of blankets, the hood of his cloak shrouding her head as she stared wide-eyed into the fire.
A wolf howled again. She jumped.
“Easy,” he murmured.
Her gaze flew across the fire. “That was a wolf,” she informed him in a harsh whisper.
“Do you hear Fury?”
She tugged her head out of the hood and listened a moment. Her gaze sped back. “Yes. He is grazing.”
“That means we are safe. He will not let anything happen to me, and I will not let anything happen to you.”