Bride of the Black Scot (7 page)

Juliette entered the roofless abbey and found Edith, who was
leaning over a fire that boasted a cooking pot. She paused in the archway,
watching Edith stir the pot and talk to Angus.

Angus wasn’t saying anything back, of course, but that
didn’t dissuade Edith.

With a tired groan, Juliette found her tartan spread in a
corner and sank down upon it, gazing at the starless sky overhead. Stephen had
warned her not to expect a roof. Well, at least it had stopped raining.

With a weary sigh, Juliette watched as Edith handed Angus
the spoon and instructed him to stir the pot. Then, she turned away, coming
toward Juliette with a springy bounce in her walk. “Angus said you could have a
bath, m’lady.”

“I am too tired to bathe, Edith. Faith! I am too tired to
eat.”

“Rest then,” Edith said, and hurried back to the cooking
pot. Taking the spoon from Angus, she returned to stirring the pot herself.

Juliette lay down and closed her eyes.

Sometime later, the savory smell of food wakened her.
Juliette opened her eyes to see Edith hovering over her with a steaming cup in
her hand.

“I brought you some soup.”

Juliette sat up, taking the cup with thanks, drinking the
soup down, in spite of its scalding temperature. After she finished, she
decided the bath she had been offered earlier sounded better now.

Gathering fresh clothes, she slipped through the open
doorway of the abbey, making her way in the last rays of the day’s light.

Rising out of the mist like a well-hidden secret, the pool
was everything she had hoped it would be.

Located low on the side of a cliff, it was fed by a
thundering waterfall that hurled its icy burden over the cliff, then formed a
rushing, gurgling beck that ran down the fellside. There the water’s mad rush mellowed
as it slowly wound its way through the gently rolling heath, glistening like a
string of amber, until it widened into a placid pool.

Juliette followed a trail that ran alongside the pond to
where the water lay still and smooth.

There, she also found Stephen swimming.

She froze. She couldn’t bring herself to look away. He was
waiting for her in the cool, misty darkness. She could feel his gaze upon her
as she came closer.

“Go back to the abbey,” he said when he saw her.

She wasn’t about to move…not with him swimming in the water,
as deliciously naked as he had been that day when she first saw him. Stubbornly
she held her ground. “You said I could have a bath.”

“I’ll come get you when I am finished,” he offered.

“I will wait here…on this log, thank you,” she said and
seated herself at the pool’s edge.

He swam toward her and waded out of the water until he stood
waist deep. She felt a twinge of disappointment when she saw he was coming no farther.
She thought it a pity that she would not have the chance to see what she had
seen the other day, only closer.

“You had best be getting back before I come out and
embarrass you,” he said with a wry twist to his lips.

She felt it again. The same warming heat as when she had
seen him naked at the pool that day. She tossed him the tartan she had brought
to dry herself with. “Put that around you, if you are modest,” she said, “but
don’t cover yourself on my account. I have seen you before…when you were
swimming at the pool that day…before you took me from my English escort.”

He wrapped the tartan around himself and waded out of the
water, coming to stand before her. “I am sorry, lass, if the sight of me
frightened you.”

“I was never frightened,” she said. “I thought you were the
most beautiful man I had ever seen.”

He cleared his throat. “Weel, I ken it must have been a
shock…”

Weel
…I love that word, too, she thought. “No, it was
no shock, believe me.”

He raised a brow. “You have seen naked men before?”

“No, never. Oh, I know this sounds preposterous. Faith! I
don’t understand it myself. Only there was something about you…something that
seemed to reach out to me across the distance. I felt warm all over…which was
foolish, I know—especially since my teeth were chattering from the cold.”

“I ken you had your first taste of desire, lass, nothing
more.”

“I
ken
I had more than a taste…enough to make me want
to taste it again.”

He closed his eyes, as if to cut off the flow of her words.
She knew it was wrong to speak to him of such things, especially after she had
so foolishly declared her feelings for him last night. No lady would ever dare
speak of such to a man she was not married to.

If her father ever caught wind of this, he would tear out
his hair. This man was not her betrothed. She knew very well what could happen
to both of them if they went beyond the roles that had already been dictated to
them. But something compelled her to tell this dark and taciturn man how he had
touched her, in a way no man ever had, or ever would. She knew now, with every
breath she drew, that she could not become the bride of the Black Scot, not
even if rejecting him meant losing her father and displeasing the King of
England. Her destiny lay with Stephen Gordon. She knew it. And, God help her,
but she sensed he knew it, too.

“Would you kiss me?”

“You are playing with fire, lass.”

“Please,” she whispered and found herself in his arms. She
closed her eyes, absorbing the heat from a body that was cool to the touch,
feeling the pleasing hardness of him against her softer parts. His face was
mere inches from hers and she trembled like a newborn fawn in anticipation. A
long-restrained cry pulsed from her throat when his mouth closed over hers.

He had been the first man ever to kiss her. She knew with
all her untutored heart that there would never be another.

His body was close…so close his warmth became her warmth.
His scent washed over her, the fresh, wild smell of the Highlands, where every
bit of heather, every blade of grass whispered the secret aroma of life. Bathed
in warmth and excitement, she felt a deep sensation of desire begin to swell
within her. She wanted…what, she did not know, but some intuition said he knew…

“I knew it would be like this,” she whispered. “Make love to
me, Stephen.”

He groaned. “I canna,” he said. “Not now, not this way.”

Through a sensuous haze, she looked into his face, seeing
something akin to pain in his eyes. Her heart hammering wildly in her chest,
she could not speak. A sigh of despair and need escaped her. She gave him a
look that said she did not understand.

He kissed her softly on the lips, his voice coming to her in
a whisper that seemed to caress her flesh. “It isna because I dinna want to,
love. I want you with a fierceness that makes me ache. But I wouldna have
anything come between us. You have been honest with me. I can only be the same
with you. Aye,” he said, his voice laced with pain, “I will make love to you,
and well, but not until I speak what is in my heart. Not until I right a
wrong.”

Suddenly she was afraid. She knew that look, knew what it
meant. She did not know what horrible thing he had done, what unimaginable deed
he burned to confess. In truth, she did not want to know—for she sensed it
would bring an irrevocable change, driving them apart. She saw the agony in his
face even before she heard it in his voice.

“This thing between us…”

“No,” she whispered, pressing her fingers to his lips. Just
this once, her heart cried. Just this one time, and no more. She did not want
to know what he had to tell her…not now, not when she was so close to fulfilling
her dream.

Reality was her betrothal to someone else. Stephen could
never be hers—not really. She knew that and accepted it. But now, at this
moment, he would be hers.

“Don’t tell me,” she whispered. “If you don’t say it, it
won’t be true.”

“Lass, I canna…”

Tears welling in her eyes, she shook her head. “Not now, not
when everything between us is so beautiful. I will not have you change that,
Stephen. Make love to me,” she whispered. “Make love to me now…and break my
heart afterward.”

He held her close, whispering her name, covering her face
with kisses. “Tell me to stop,” he whispered.

“I cannot.”

“Aye, you canna, but you will come to regret this.”

“I will never regret it,” she said. “Never. And neither will
you.”

“Then God help us both,” he said, his mouth closing over
hers in a soft and gentle mating. He backed her up against a tree, kissing her
deeply, his knee coming between her legs. He kissed her with agonizing
tenderness, his hips flat against hers, the burning length of him searing and
hard.

She began to remove her clothes, watching him as he dropped
his tartan. Her hungry gaze wandering over his body, drinking in the sight of
him. He was as beautiful as he had been the first time she saw him, and she
made no effort to hide her desire.

“Jesus,” he whispered, reaching for her and wrapping her
tightly in his arms. “Dinna look at me like that, lass, unless you mean it.”

“I mean it.”

Her response fired his hunger and he groaned, his mouth
claiming hers with renewed possessiveness. They dropped to the ground and he
rolled over her, his body crushing her against the mossy earth, his hand
skimming the tender, sensitive skin of her breasts which ached for his touch.
She gasped, feeling agonizing pleasure when his mouth began to tug at her
nipple. Shuddering, she arched her back. His hands went lower, stroking her
belly until she wanted to scream. He seemed to be ceaseless in his assault upon
her body and she felt her own excitement build until she wanted to sob. His
hand moved between her legs and she gasped from the shock of it, realizing she
had not known before what exquisite agony was.

She was panting now, wet with wanting, consumed by urgency.
His movements seemed to go slower as he stroked her with infinite patience,
driving her to a frenzy. His mouth claimed hers, and he blocked every image
from her mind except the delicious weight of his body pressing into hers, the
feel of his skin hot against her own.

She moved against him in an unconscious gesture of passion,
strange feelings washing across her, unknown yearnings driving her forward. His
hands touched, caressed, inflamed the bare flesh, making her writhe.

“Flesh of my flesh,” he whispered. “I want you.”

She longed to tell him that she wanted him, too, but her
body seemed to take possession of her.

“Dinna hate me,” he whispered.

She could reply only by raising her hips, meeting him as he
came into her. She held her breath. The pain was no more than a sharp stinging
sensation, soon replaced by a feeling that was infinitely better. Her legs
tightened around his as he filled her completely, and then he was guiding her,
sweetly teaching her, his hands gentle, his kisses demanding, until she felt
she had given him everything, even her soul.

Her small, choked cry was absorbed by his mouth as he
deepened his kiss. Juliette was filled with tension, an aching need she did not
know how to release. But Stephen did.

As he began to stroke her intimately, she began to breathe
more rapidly. Without looking at his face, she knew he was watching her, knew
that he, too, was waiting for something to happen.

It happened. And when it did, Juliette stiffened with
surprise, then went limp with disbelief. “I never knew,” she whispered
afterward. “It was beautiful. Absolutely, perfectly beautiful.”

It was the act she had heard described a dozen times, but
actually experiencing it was so different than she had been told. Faith! It was
all she could do to keep from passing out from the pure pleasure of it, and
when it was over, and he rolled to his side, taking her with him, she felt she
had never known such peace. How any woman could find this joining distasteful
was far beyond her imagining. She looked at Stephen. Of course, not every woman
was so fortunate as to have such a man make love to her.

With a satisfied sigh, she lid her head against his
shoulder, but immediately his body stiffened. He lay unyielding and
unresponsive. He was withdrawing from her and she felt an aching loss. Perhaps
it was her fault. He had wanted to bare his soul in confession, but she had
persuaded him not to.

“You won’t give me any more than I asked for, will you?” she
asked, thinking she had asked him to make love to her and he had done just
that. He had made love to her, and beautifully, but abruptly the closeness they
had shared was gone.

He was troubled—troubled by something that she instinctively
knew would destroy the beauty of what they had shared. As she gazed at him,
sadness swept over her. He was separate from her now. Distant. Withdrawn.
Alone.

Had she been wrong to deny him his confession before he made
love to her?

Taking her hand, he drew her to her feet and wrapped the
tartan around her before slipping into his own clothes.

She felt suddenly chilled. “If you must tell me, then tell
me now. You will not rest until you do.”

Even in the dim light, she could see the muscle in his jaw
work as he threw his head back and stared up at the sky. “I have misled you. I
am not the person you think I am. I had good reasons for deceiving you, but
they dinna seem verra important now.”

Her heart seemed to stop. She stared at him with a look of
disbelief upon her face. She did not want to hear what he had to confess. She
did not want to believe what she suddenly knew was the truth.

“Forgive me, lass. I am not who I claim to be.”

“You are my betrothed,” she said. “You are the Black Scot.”

“Aye,” he said, “but never have I been less proud of it.”

“All along, it was you. I should have known from the
beginning…the way your men revere you…your fondness for wearing black…the
hundreds of hints you gave me along the way.”