by Caroline Lee
Foolish, aye.
She spent the rest of the morning chattering on about things, but Gregor didn’t mind. He didn’t respond much, tried to hold himself back, tried to remind himself the Sinclair had trusted him. But sometimes she’d ask for his opinion, or sometimes he couldn’t help but push her for more details on what she was talking about.
Aye, she certainly liked the sound of her own voice, and Gregor, Lord help him, did as well.
They didn’t stop until midday, when her stomach growled for the third time. She hadn’t complained, but he’d been aware of her shifting uncomfortably behind him. When he lifted her down, she hurried into the underbrush, presumably to take care of her needs. But when she returned much later, she cradled hawthorn berries in her skirt and beamed proudly at him.
They shared a meal of berries and oatcakes, stretched out in the sun. Afterward, she examined his wound, declared it healing properly, and applied another poultice with material she’d torn from her shift.
The rest of the day was much the same, except they took a break to forage for nuts and mushrooms to supplement his dwindling supply of food. Had they William’s sharp eye and bow, they might have some fresh meat, but Gregor didn’t have much hope of killing an animal with his sword and knives.
That evening, he made her a pallet beside the fire while he prepared to keep watch. As a warrior, he was able to sleep in any position and wake at any noise. Another few nights of sleeping upright under trees or beside rocks wouldn’t do him much harm, but he’d be ready for his cot and a full night’s sleep when they returned.
Of course, that full night’s sleep would be alone. Because regardless of his desires to have Pearl in his arms, duty demanded Gregor return her to the laird once they reached home.
Pearl had her own plans, however. She waited until he was comfortable and propped up against the trunk of a tree, then she scooped up the second plaid and walked over to him. Before he knew what she was doing, she’d thrown the length of material around both of their shoulders and settled beside him. Nay, not beside—basically on top of. She nudged his right arm around herself, tucked her feet up under her gown so her knees were propped against his thighs, and pillowed her cheek against his chest.
He sat in stunned stillness for a long while, until her breathing deepened and he felt her muscles relax. That’s when he allowed his shoulders to loosen and his arm to tighten around her.
But the thickness in his chest, the rightness of this, didn’t ease, and he vowed not to consider how good it felt.
Lifting his left knee so the knife in his boot would be closer to his hand if need be, Gregor rolled his wounded shoulder a few times to keep it limber, then allowed himself to sleep.
The following day was much the same, and the day after. On the fourth day of their return north, he knew they were nearing the Highlands when storm clouds swept in and dumped frigid rain on them. At first, Pearl curled against him, pressing her face to his back. But as the deluge went on, he felt her begin to shiver and heard her teeth chatter.
He didn’t bother stopping for a meal at noon, because it would’ve been a miserable experience. But after she was done seeing to her needs—in the pouring rain—he mounted and held his hand out for her. When she grabbed his hand, that same spark of warmth spread up his body, and instead of waiting for her to step up on his booted foot and swing up behind him, he pulled her into his lap.
Her squeak of surprise was enough to make him smile. That, and the way she immediately wrapped her arms around his middle and tried to burrow into his warmth. The lass was cold, and he could help. With her sitting on his lap once more, he could scoop up the spare plaid and drape it around her head and shoulders, cocooning her—and him—in a little island of warmth as she dozed.
The rains abated by late afternoon, and the sun made a valiant effort to break through, but the clouds were too thick. They stopped to stretch their legs and eat the last of the oatcakes, for a bit, then Gregor pushed them onward. He knew they were a little more than a day from Sinclair land, and it didn’t make sense to linger in such miserable conditions.
He draped the spare plaid over the back of the horse to dry as much as possible, and kept her in his arms. She insisted on turning the right way ’round, which probably made her journey more pleasant. But it meant he spent the rest of the day with her pert little arse bumping against the hardest part of him.
When she sat behind him, he had a hard-enough time trying not to imagine her lips on his skin, but when she sat in his lap like this…? It was impossible not to think of his lips on her. On her throat, her breasts, her thighs…
Thank God, she was chattering on about all sorts of things, and didn’t seem to notice his distraction.
He pushed on, even after the sun set and the going became difficult. They were picking their way along a ridgeline, with the valley to their right. There would probably be a loch down there, and after almost a fortnight in the saddle and sitting in their wet clothing, a wash sounded nice. But it was soon too dark to risk an injury to the horse, so Gregor stopped for the night.
It was too damp for a fire, and they were too exhausted anyhow. After caring for the horse, he settled beside a boulder, and wasn’t at all surprised when Pearl curled up beside him. This time, she rested her cheek against his thigh, inches from his traitorous cock, and was sleeping soundly moments later.
Him? He stared up at the swiftly moving clouds and the half moon, and tried to think of honor, loyalty, anything besides the woman in his lap.
It didn’t work.
So, he was in a nasty mood the following morning, although he doubted she noticed. The lack of food in his belly didn’t help things either, but he couldn’t deny the sun was a welcome visitor when it finally burst through the clouds.
She was sitting atop the horse, and he was leading the animal by the reins down the rocky slope when the light shone through the trees. She sucked in a breath, so he turned. Her head was thrown back and a joyful smile curved her lips. The light hit the smooth column of her throat, and sparkled in the gold of her hair, and Gregor didn’t think he’d ever seen anything so beautiful.
The lass had been through so much, and he knew being in the same gown for the last few days hadn’t helped matters any. She was probably as stiff and sore and miserable as he was, but she found joy in this moment.
And dammit, but he’d make sure she found more joy. So, he nudged the animal into motion once more, heading for the loch he’d seen from the ridge.
“Oh!” she cried breathlessly when she saw the water. “Can we stop, Gregor? Please?”
He didn’t think he’d ever get tired of hearing his name on her lips. “Aye, lass.”
She slid off the horse when they were close enough to the shore, and Gregor decided to allow them all a well-deserved rest. He tended the animal while keeping an eye on Pearl.
When she saw what he was doing, she smiled. “We can take our time?”
He nodded.
“How far is it to Sinclair land?”
He considered the miles ahead as he finished and led the horse to a patch of sweet grass. “We could be at the keep afore midnight, if we pushed.”
“And if we donae?” she asked quietly.
“Resting here…one more night of travel, then reach home tomorrow afternoon.”
Her grin grew. “Then I look forward to the rest.”
And wasn’t that odd, from a lass who claimed to be anxious to return home, and never again leave.
“Take off yer shirt,” she commanded.
He spun around so fast he got dizzy, piercing her with an incredulous look, daring her to repeat herself.
But she just smiled again. “Yer shirt. Take it off. I’ll wash it, and yer wound.”
Oh. Put like that, there didn’t seem aught amiss with such a request. Still, he continued frowning at her as he slid the extra length of plaid out of the way and pulled his much-abused shirt from his belt. Just as he lifted it over his head—wincing slightly at the
tug of his wounded shoulder—he heard her suck in a breath.
When he emerged from the material, she was staring at his chest, and the realization made him go all warm. Nay, not the knowledge she was staring at him, but the look of frank appreciation he saw in her eyes.
Pearl, the youngest of the Sinclair Jewels, liked what she saw.
Then and there, Gregor vowed not to remove his kilt, because then she’d be able to see the clear evidence of just how much he liked her looking.
To distract them both, he tossed her the shirt. She didn’t react, and the damp material wrapped around her head with a thack. She emerged giggling, and sent him a mock glare as she went to the water’s edge.
He was grinning as he pulled off his boots and set about catching fish for their meal.
Standing knee-deep in the loch cooled his passion slightly. That, and the sun above and the easy rhythm of baiting and throwing his makeshift line. It reminded him of his childhood. He and Mam had been happy, in between his father’s visits. The man had married her young, but when he realized there was more money to be made robbing and killing than fishing, he’d taken off. He and his bandits roved through Sutherland and Mackenzie territory, striking like lightening and disappearing with their booty or hostages. He’d return once every few months, with gold and stories for a wide-eyed young Gregor, and heavy fists for Mam.
Was it any wonder Gregor had turned to thievery after her death? It was in his blood.
A series of splashes behind him jerked him out of his reverie. He began to turn, but her frantic cry stopped him.
“Nay! Nay, donae turn!” Then, a little less hurried, “Yer shirt is drying, and I’m washing my gown now. So that means…”
She was naked. Or near enough.
Shakily, Gregor nodded, staring at the distant shoreline with his pulse pounding in his ears and his cock suddenly rock-hard under his kilt. God in heaven, how was he supposed to catch any fish, knowing she was back there, nearly naked in the morning sun?
It didn’t help that God saw fit to laugh at him, and sent him two fine, fat trout on his line, one after the other. Gregor had to stand there, holding the first fish in one hand while he struggled with the other.
“Lass?” he rasped. “Can I turn now?”
“Nay, one moment.” More splashes, as if she was climbing out of the water. “I was washing my hair, an’ the sand was being problematic.”
Unbidden, the image of her bent over at the waist, rubbing sand in her scalp to clean it, rose in his mind. It would be awkward, to bathe like that—much easier if she’d just submerged all the way. He imagined her sinking down in the water, resting her head back and letting the water sweep away a fortnight’s worth of grime and dust. He imagined himself reaching down, his large, scarred hands sweeping the hair away, his fingers massaging her scalp.
He imagined her groaning in satisfaction and smiling up at him thankfully.
Gregor squeezed his eyes shut, knowing it would never become reality.
There was rustling from the shoreline. “There. I’m covered.”
Holding the fish by their lower lips, Gregor finally turned to trudge back to shore. But when his eyes found her, he froze.
Covered?
She was wearing his shirt. The shirt she’d washed first, and laid out in the sun to dry. Her gown and shift were spread on boulders near the shore, and her honey-gold hair had been hastily braided and wrapped around her head. And his shirt…
It barely reached her knees. It was missing a sleeve, which she’d used to bandage his wound, so her left arm was almost completely exposed. She was in the process of rolling up the other sleeve so it wouldn’t dangle past her fingertips, but the neckline gaped open almost to her breasts. And the cream-colored material was so thin, he could see the dark circles of her nipples, and a triangle of shadow between her legs.
He knees went weak.
Dear God in heaven.
She was like an angel.
When she looked up and caught him staring, she smiled. Even from this distance, he could see the teasing light in her eyes. “Well? Are ye going to stand there gaping like one of yer fish?”
Fish. Right. He shook his head, forced his legs to support him, and splashed toward shore. Once there, he tossed the trout on the ground near the place he’d chosen for a fire, and turned toward the trees to collect some wood.
But suddenly, she was there, standing in front of him, all cream and honey and sun-kissed goodness, smiling up at him innocently. He doubted she had any idea what she was doing to him, and prayed she wouldn’t notice the way his kilt hung oddly in the front.
“Gregor?”
He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. This wasn’t unusual, but this time he was trying. He swallowed and took a deep breath, reminding himself to keep his eyes on hers, and not to allow his gaze to drift lower, over the perfect breasts he could just glimpse through his shirt.
“Aye, lass?” he rasped.
And damn him if she didn’t step closer, until she was practically touching him. The linen of his shirt was all that stood between them now.
“Gregor, I have a boon to beg.”
He didn’t even bother trying to speak.
“I’d like to try kissing ye again, if ye don’t mind.”
Try—! Mind?
He blinked incredulously.
“Ye think I’m being ridiculous, don’t ye?” She shrugged. “But I verra much enjoyed kissing ye before, and I’d like to try it again. Ye made me feel…good. And ye have nae indicated ye enjoyed it, but I thought if we—”
He lost control of his good intentions. Even knowing he must smell of fish and sweat, he reached for her, pulling her flush against him so fast, she bit back her words with a small cry.
When his lips came down over hers, she was quick to wrap her arms around his neck, as if trying to hold him there, and that made the kiss so much better. She was young and inexperienced, but this jewel knew exactly what she wanted.
And for once, Gregor was able to give it to her.
In the back of his mind, there was a little voice reminding him of his duty to the Sinclair, but the rest of him was occupied by the particular Sinclair in his arms. She was soft and supple and perfect, and it was a struggle not to allow his hands to roam over her linen-clad body. Instead, he focused on her mouth, teaching her how to tease, how to give and receive kisses, how to use her tongue, and how to make him sigh with pleasure.
One hand slipped around her front and ran up her stomach to cup her breast. It fit perfectly in his hand, and she groaned when he gave it a gentle squeeze. Reminding himself she asked for this kiss, he flicked his thumb over her nipple at the same time he pulled her lower lip lightly between his teeth, mimicking what he wished he could do to her breasts.
He was rewarded with a gasp, which quickly turned to a moan. When he released her lip, she let her head tilt back, arching into his hold. He supported her with a hand in the small of her back, while the other cupped her breast. In this position, he froze when he realized his throbbing member was pressed against her belly.
She didn’t seem to mind. In fact, she wiggled a little, letting out another moan, as if trying to capture the sensation again. His cock responded at to the sweet sound, and his fingers tightened around her breast.
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 t
o 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 three 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.