Cates, Kimberly (20 page)

The words wounded, yet Rachel lifted her chin, allowing him no retreat. "Why can't you?"

"Because if I did, I would never stop—and I can't have you, Rachel. I can never have you."

"It's only a kiss, Gavin. You say a man should cherish me. But I don't even know what that is. Show me, so that I'll be able to tell once this is all over, and you're back in your glen alone. It isn't fair to send me away with the dreams you've spun in my head and in my heart, not knowing how to capture them."

A soft groan tore from Gavin's throat. His battered hands framed her face, his touch so tender an answering ache shuddered to life in Rachel's heart.

His mouth drifted down, strong and firm, tasting of flavors Rachel had never known: hunger and regret, worship and hopelessness, awe and loss. His lips melted into hers, seeking, as if on a holy quest, clinging, as if he were a drowning man and she were a tiny island of sanity in a violent sea.

But beneath his tenderness, Rachel tasted other things he was holding back—passion, need, the grief and shame and shattered honor of a man who had lost everything on a battlefield. She knew he was a man who had been forced to abandon everything he'd loved in order to fulfill not his own dreams, but the dying wish of the father whose love he'd tried so fiercely to win.

Rachel let her lips part under his and threaded her fingers through the tawny thickness of his hair, pressing her body closer to his. Soft breasts pushed against the hard masculine wall of his chest, thigh brushed thigh, the fragile skin of her inner arm brushing against the fiery satin of Gavin's naked shoulder.

His tongue quested with shattering fervor, tracing her lips, slipping inside, and she came undone.

She wanted. She burned. She bled from wounds inside herself that only Gavin could heal. But he was under such rigid control, as if she were somehow torturing him, tormenting him. She arched her head back, trying to deepen the kiss with a hunger she'd never suspected existed inside herself, inside the world of mortals and far from love ballads and legends and maiden's imaginings. Hers was not the need of a starry-eyed virgin, but a woman's need, so piercing that every part of her soul was lanced by it. Such sweet, sweet pain.

She was shaking when Gavin's hands closed on her shoulders, gently breaking the kiss and the subtle, sensual contact of their bodies.

Rachel stifled a whimper of protest, feeling as if this man, with his angel's kiss, had stripped her soul until it was naked and new, something unfamiliar and totally of his making.

How was it possible that her whole world could shift off its axis because of a coward and a dreamer, a traitor and a brigand?

"That is how a man should kiss you, lady," Gavin whispered, utter desolation in his eyes. "For God's sake, don't destroy your life with a loveless marriage. I'm already lost, Rachel. But you're not. Not yet."

But she
was
lost, Rachel realized with a surge of panic and of wonder—lost in the soul of a man who was everything she'd scorned. She was lost in his dreams and his nightmares, and the certainty that she could never share them.

Lost.

Because in that instant she was certain that no man, of human flesh or spun of sorcerer's arts, could ever kiss her as Gavin had.

CHAPTER 12

The beast was stalking him.

Gavin could feel its fetid breath against his throat, hear its claws raking at the bars of its prison. It snarled in malevolent anticipation. Victory was assured. It would feast on Gavin this night.

Gavin knew the cold sweat of terror, the subtle madness that would follow. With each second that ticked past, the bars of that prison were melting, thinning. Soon the beast would be free.

No! He staggered to his feet and paced the confines of the tiny croft. He had to fight it, had to beat it back. He couldn't let it escape, not with Rachel here to see him, hear him.

Christ, it had been painful enough that she know about Prestonpans, but to expose her to this ugliness caged inside him, trying to break free—no, he'd rather slit his own throat than have her hear so much as a whisper of his pain.

His gaze flashed to where she lay cuddled on the makeshift bed he'd made for her near the fire. The light turned her skin to sweet cream, her hair to dark secrets. Her gown was wound around the supple curves of her body, but not half so tangled as the emotions he'd stirred between the two of them with his kiss hours before.

Gavin could still see wonder clinging to her lashes, awe painted onto the rose silk of her lips. He could feel the confusion still clutched in the curve of her hand.

And he felt a wild jealousy toward the Scotsman who had built this croft, carved the cradle that lay tucked in the shadows. He felt as if he would gladly sacrifice everything—his name, his future, his life, for just a tiny space in time where he could build dreams for Rachel the way that simple unknown man had built them for his lady. He yearned to hew for her a bed out of bog oak, to work for her until his hands bled, to love her until this simple hovel was transformed in her eyes into a place more beautiful than any enchanted castle on a fairy hill.

But that was as impossible as the other phantasm he futilely chased—the ability to wash his hands clean of blood, dredge his spirit from the muck of battlefields and failures and regrets.

Exhaustion suffocated him, grief so heavy his whole being seemed carved from stone. A harsh sound tore from his throat, and he stifled it beneath his fist, biting his knuckles until they bled.

The beast snarled, mocking him. No coward could ever defeat it. It was too brutal, too savage, too strong. Nothing could save him on the nights when it came, hunting in the place where his nightmares lived.

Nothing, not even an angel...

Rachel.

Every fiber of his being screamed with the need to touch her. But he couldn't. He shouldn't even stay here, watching her like a damned soul with his face pressed against the gates of heaven. A noble man would walk away, knowing he had no right to touch her, even with his eyes, knowing he wasn't worthy.

Coward.

The jibe echoed from deep in the beast's lair.

Ionly want to sit beside her, watch her for a little while,
Gavin reasoned.
For her, I can beat it back into the darkness.

Coward.

He sank down to his knees a hand's breadth from where she lay, his shoulders sagging against the rough wall behind him.

God, he should never have kissed her, discovered with such painful clarity everything that he had lost.

He loved her, his militant angel, a lady brave enough, honorable enough to be a hero's bride. The lady deserved to hold the whole world in her hands, unlimited treasures for her to explore: a forever of laughter and loving, bounty and joy, things he could never hope to give her.

Loss scraped away everything inside him, leaving him hollow and brittle and alone.

He needed her—to drive the beast back into the darkness, to banish the images it unleashed in his head.

God, no. What kind of a selfish bastard was he that he would think, for a moment, about tainting Rachel with his poison, releasing his monsters to stalk her?

His eyes slid closed against the memory of the first time the beast had broken free to tear him apart. Adam had found him—Adam with his bearlike hands, his warrior's face, his fierce hawk eyes. Adam, who could wield a sword with consummate skill, had held him in an awkward embrace, tears streaming down his craggy face. It had been the only time Gavin had seen his brother cry.

The next day, Gavin had begun to wall off his own section of the cave, so he could imprison himself when the beast came stalking. Weeks, even months would slip past without the familiar cold terror pressing in his chest. During the time Rachel had spent in the cave chamber, the beast had been blessedly silent.

Yet the events in the village had roused it as cruelly as sadistic boys poking at a bear with sharpened sticks, rousing it to frenzy.

He should drag himself up and stumble outside, far away from the woman sleeping beside him. He would. He'd go back into the darkness and close the cottage door to keep her safe just as soon as he drank in a little more of her beauty, sipped a tiny bit more of her courage.

Rachel... Rachel, I'm so damned afraid....

His cheeks burned, his soul bled.

Coward... coward... coward...

Pearlescent castles danced in Rachel's head, bold knights in armor of gold riding past her, pennants fluttering in liquid rainbows against the sky. She saw heroes of a kingdom buried in her soul, half forgotten from the days of skinned knees and tiny petticoats, exquisite dolls and lead soldiers.

She was queen once again, waving her scepter to make the stars dance and the dragons spit delicious spikes of flame. She reveled in her power, commanding everyone from the boldest knight to the lowliest wildflower to bow down in her honor.

She watched the dragon huff and puff, sinking to its knees so hard the ground shook; she watched the sun dip respectfully in the sky.

But somewhere in the familiar landscape of her childhood dream, something was different. Something was wrong.

A man—without gleaming armor, naked of sword or shield—rode toward her on a stallion. A simple blue tunic clung to his chest. His hair, threaded through with all the colors that gold could be, tumbled about broad shoulders.

"Only a hero may approach me," she shouted as he dismounted and came toward her. "It is the law."

But he didn't turn away. He waded through a sea of swords drawn by her angry knights, miraculously unscathed, and climbed up onto the dias no one else had dared to set foot on. He gentled the baby dragons snarling at his ankles by brushing their scaly heads with his hands, then knelt down before her.

"What trophy of courage did you bring me?" she demanded in her most imperious voice. "The head of a giant? A troll king's treasure?"

"Only a kiss." He dared to do what no other ever had, lifting his eyes to meet hers. "The first kiss of soul-deep love."

"Love?" she said derisively. "Love is nothing. Look at all I have—castles and knights, dragons and heroes."

"Love is the only thing that lasts." He warned softly, so softly.

But the creatures of her kingdom stared back at her, horrified, scornful, jeering at this man. She dragged her gaze away from his lips and the haven that shone in his eyes. "Let my whole kingdom crumble into dust before I lower myself to kiss a coward."

Slowly, she turned her back upon him, walking away.

With each determined step, pieces of her spirit seemed to peel away, left behind in that humble pilgrim's hands. The pearls of the castle walls shifted into shattered bits of glass.

The sun flickered out, leaving behind the sharp crackle of fire, the rumbling thunder of destruction. Flames and terrified children, bloody swords in soldiers' hands drowned the tawny-haired pilgrim, blotting him out until only his sorrowful eyes still shone in her heart, his raw, animal groans pulling at her until she sobbed, pleaded for the treasure he'd offered... that single, healing kiss.

She started awake, almost wild with terror, yet despite the fact that it was a dream, she couldn't drive away the sounds, the grinding moans of misery, despair. She shoved herself upright, her whole body shaking, her bleary gaze darting about her surroundings. The croft. With numbing relief, she remembered where she was. She was in the croft, and Gavin had kissed her. She hadn't turned away. She was safe. He would make her feel safe.

She was about to call out to him when she heard it again—the noise that had sizzled into her slumber and yanked her from her bad dream. The sound tore the stillness of the croft, the cry of some wounded creature. She spun around to see the flickering fire limn the restless figure beside her, exposing him with ruthless light. Sweat ran in rivulets down Gavin's knotted jaw, the muscles in his face so taut they seemed ready to snap. His eyes were closed in sleep, yet anguish spilled out, pooling against his lids, dampening his lashes. His legs and arms thrashed, as if against some enemy he alone could see. His hands reached out, closing on emptiness.

Was he in the grip of fever because of his wounds, or was he being torn on the talons of some horrific nightmare? After what he had seen in that village, in that cottage, how could he not be?

"Gavin?" Rachel whispered, clambering onto her knees beside him. She pressed one palm to his brow, stark relief surging through her. Cool—it was blessedly cool. She caught his hand with her own. "Gavin, wake up."

"No! Won't leave... him!" He tore his hand away from her. "Promised wouldn't... ever leave him... Scared... he's so... scared."

He was frightening her with the intensity of his anguish, making her stumble blindly into nightmares only he could see.

"It's over, Gavin. Only a dream." She tried to shake him, awaken him, but he writhed more violently, more desperately.

"Willie!" The name was ripped, ragged-edged, from lips bitten until they bled. "Sweet Jesus... help me! Can't... can't stop it..."

"Can't stop what? Gavin, there's nothing here! No one here!"

"Can't stop... blood. Can't—"

Oh, God. Was this Willie someone Gavin had tried to help? Tried and failed? Who was this person who still haunted his nightmares?

Rachel lay against Gavin, stroking his face, his hair. "It's all right, now. Wake up, Gavin. Please. It was all a long time ago."

"Jesus, no! Can't... leave him behind! Won't! Help me! Help me carry... him! Help—"

The plea shattered on a sound of primal pain so visceral Rachel felt it plunge like a lance into her own chest. "I'll carry him," she said, attempting to plunge into Gavin's world of horror. "I'm here, Gavin. I'll help you."

"Over! Turn—turn him over!" His hands grasped her, bruising her, his whole body shaking on a soul-wrenching cry of denial. "Oh, God! He doesn't have a face! He doesn't... have a... face..."

"Gavin!" She screamed his name, the horrifying image spilling before her eyes with such vividness, she almost retched. She had to wake him. With all her strength, she smacked the flat of her hand against his cheek, the blow reverberating up her arm.