Highland Enchantment (Highland Brides) (26 page)

Snatching her to him, he squeezed his eyes closed and kissed her hair, her brow.

She was safe. She was well, he told himself. But he needed to see her, so he pushed her away a few scant inches and cupped his hand across her cheek.

"Liam," she whispered, but he kissed her to silence, one smoldering, aching kiss because he could not stop himself.

"I'll take you back to camp," he said finally, and took her hand in his.

She stumbled on her injured ankle and nearly fell. Turning with desperate speed, he lifted her into his arms, hugging her to his heart, savoring the burn of emotion that smoked through him. She smelled of life itself. He filled his lungs with her scent, filled his heart with her presence.

She was safe. And he would keep her that way, he swore as he strode rapidly on. Twas his duty to care for Laird Leith's little girl, he told himself. But her breast was pressed against his chest, wreaking havoc with the little girl image. That image he needed so desperately, that image he'd held on to with fierce tenacity for more than a decade. It had not been so hard. For she was an innocent, always had been an innocent. No matter how she had matured, she had kept a careful, pristine veneer between herself and the world. The sainted child had become the sainted lady. And yet that lady had drawn him with a nagging persistence. No matter how he'd tried to deny it. No matter how he'd tried to lose himself in more worldly women. But now—now the sainted lady had changed. Her skin was dark and smooth like sweet pecans. Her hair was loose, flowing long and crimson black against the bright hue of her scandalous gown. But more than that—more than the physical, it was her demeanor that had changed. Where she had been cool and predictable, she was now wild and erotic. And yet, even now those qualities did nothing to negate her goodness, but only made her seem more real, more alluring, more touchable.

Her arms were tight about his neck. Her hair, long and dark and burnished, brushed his arm. He couldn't help but remember how it swirled when she danced. How it had hidden her face, making him long for a glimpse of her otherworldly eyes, her less than saintly mouth.

Those eyes turned up to his now. Her devilish lips parted.

He was mesmerized, trapped with no savior in sight.

"Liam." His name was like a prayer on her lips.

He tried to answer, tried to pull from her gaze, tried to find his voice, but no sound came.

"I knew you would come."

The words were sweet torture. What right did she have to trust him? None. He tried to tell her that, to lash her with the truth of who he was. But her lips were so close, and suddenly they touched his.

Lightning sparked through him, and she was the kindling. One moment he was carrying her to safety, and the next they were on the ground, his cape flared beneath them like a satin sheet.

Her eyes looked through him, but there was no incrimination, no distance. She lifted her hand to his cheek and ran her shivery-soft fingers across the stubble of his jaw. Her kisses followed, soft and vulnerable, so sweet it made him tremble with yearning.

He should not. He must not! he told himself, but now her hand was under his vest. His muscles coiled at her touch and he moaned. Twas a strange thing, one minute his vest was firmly laced in place and the next it was gone, magically displaced by her feather soft fingers, so that there was nothing between her touch and his heart. She ran her palm slowly down his chest, over his nipple, across the jumping expanse of his belly.

There was really nothing he could do. He was a weak man, always had been, and now he needed to feel her skin against his. It seemed unreasonably right to slip his fingers slowly over the cap of her shoulder and down her arm.

She closed her eyes, shivering beneath him. He could do nothing but kiss her where his hand ventured, on the sweet muscle of her upper arm, at the delicate crease of her elbow, over the tight tendons of her wrist, and then each finger, slowly, capturing every precious moment, every breath of life.

Her skin was dark, and if he tried, he might be able to pretend she was someone else, that he wasn't defiling the most perfect thing in his life.

But he couldn't bear to pretend, for she was Rachel, the woman he had wanted since the first moment. The woman he'd want for all time.

He kissed her lips with trembling passion, feeling the soft burn of desire clean down to his soul. The gown's laces sighed open, revealing the graceful swell of her breasts. He kissed her there, where the laces parted, and she arched against his cape and moaned. Suddenly there was little use for the gown. It slipped magically from her shoulders until she wore nothing but her own ethereal beauty and the dragon. She lay beneath him, unspeaking, unmoving, as natural as the earth itself, as beautiful as the stars.

Reaching up, she caressed his chest then skimmed her hand along his side to pull him closer.

Their lips met. Her hands slid lower, touching, feeling, lighting a fire that would not be quenched, not for as long as he lived. She was Rachel, the Lady Saint, yet she was more. He no longer had any hope of saving his soul by denying his heart.

Her fingers touched the laces of his hose. The garment slipped away, until they were flesh against flesh, naked in the misty moors. Lying beside her, he wrapped them in his cape and kissed her throat. Light as thistledown, she skimmed her fingertips along the center of his back. He pressed the hard shaft of his desire against her hip, and she turned and kissed him.

Passion flared like white lightning between them. He could wait no longer. Damn his bastard father, and damn his own worthless character. For this once, just this one sterling moment of time, he would allow himself a glimpse of heaven—where the Lady Saint resided.

He eased between her legs, and she opened for him. He kissed her throat, her shoulder, the high, proud swell of her breasts, just brushing her nipples, just allowing himself one tiny sip of that sweet nectar.

"Liam!" Her voice was raspy, her fingers tight on his hips, but she said no more. Instead, she pulled him into her.

She was soft and warm, as welcoming as a crackling fire, as sweet as summer dew. Her legs gripped him and her lips grazed his ear, whispering his name. He pressed in deeper, longing to push in hard and fast, to fly up the rise to the summit, but there was an impediment, her virginity. He had known it would be there, had known in his heart if not in his jealous soured mind. So he stopped his movement, letting her body relax around him, letting her adjust. But Rachel squirmed beneath him.

Liam squeezed his eyes closed and tried to remain still.

"Please, Rachel," he hissed, "I'm trying to wait till you're ready."

"Sweet Mary. I've been waiting for more than a decade, if I were anymore ready I'd already be done," she rasped, and with amazing strength, pulled him in deeper.

He pressed into her with a groan of unstoppable need. She pressed back, her legs wrapped tight around him. Together they found a rhythm as old as the seas, as predictable as the seasons. Yet each movement, each breath, each sensation was the first until they were swept into the heavens, soaring for a moment together before falling gently back into reality.

Euphoria faded slowly, leaving Liam with the bitter residue of guilt. Beside him, Rachel seemed small and defenseless, like a crushed wildflower, so fresh and untrammeled a moment ago.

But now her eyes were closed, her body covered by his and his cape.

"We'd best get back to camp." He managed the words, though they sounded hoarse and rusty.

She opened her eyes. In the glimmering mist he found that they had not changed. Even the sassy curve of her lips looked the same.

"Liam." She reached out with one hand and touched his cheek, but he pulled quickly out of her reach and turned away.

He could feel her gaze on his back but refused to look at her, for he knew what he would see— a wee lass in a white night rail with a smile that shined and eyes that mesmerized. Laird Leith's adored daughter, the Forbes's precious healer.

"Liam," she said again, but he reached out and jerked his hose on, and finally she turned away.

They dressed in silence. He wanted to let her wander back alone to camp, wanted to put as much space as possible between them, but when she took her first step, she faltered. There was nothing he could do but lift her into his arms. Nothing but carry her against his heart back to their wagon. Once there, he laid her down upon her blankets, and though he tried to draw away, he could not. Instead, he pulled her shakily into his arms and held her.

"Liam." Her voice was as soft as the dawn. "We must—"

"Shhh." He covered her temptress lips with his fingers and squeezed his eyes closed. "Please,"

he whispered, letting the pain wash over him like a cold tide. "Don't talk."

*

Memories of the previous night rushed in. Memories of Liam's chest, smooth and hard as glass. Of his hands, slow and warm as he skimmed her body. She flushed at her thoughts, but she couldn't forget his expression afterward. Neither could she decipher it. It had been almost like pain or guilt. But surely not. Liam was not the type to be weighed down by his transgressions, while she had always been too responsible for her own good.

And yet, God forgive her, she felt no guilt. Instead, she felt free and joyous. Against her breast, Dragonheart seemed to purr with shared satisfaction. Even her ankle felt quite healed.

Brushing back her hair, she captured it in a sloppy swirl at the back of her head, slipped into her tunic and gown, and stepped outside. But as the faces before the fire turned to her, her confidence fluttered.

Catriona's gaze sparkled. Marta's bore a sly glint of satisfaction. Rory's held a fierce expression that looked almost like anger. Only the children seemed oblivious to the night just past.

Fane had made stilts out of oak branches and Lachlan was testing his skill. Bear snoozed in the elongated shade of a mulberry bush, and Liam was nowhere to be seen.

"Break the fast," Marta said, her ancient voice creaking as she nodded toward the pot that simmered over the fire. "You look weak."

Rachel tried to convince herself that Marta's words had nothing whatsoever to do with the night just past, but there was little hope of that, or of stopping the blush that warmed her cheeks.

Lifting a wooden bowl from the back of a wagon, she stepped toward the fire. Everyone was quiet.

She scooped a bit of sowens into her dish and cleared her throat as the porridge steamed in the early morning air. "Have you, maybe, seen..." She almost said Liam, but caught herself just in time.

"Hugh?"

"Let the lad rest," Marta said with a chuckle, but Hertha, always kindly, stepped up with a wooden spoon.

"He but went to water the horses."

"Oh." There was nothing to say to that, for truly it would be unwise to let them know she couldn't wait to see him, to touch him, to decipher his emotions and tell him all would be well. He was, after all, supposed to be her husband of some years. Surely that sort of impatient need would wear off eventually. Wouldn't it?

She felt her blush deepen. In truth, she didn't know how she could grow tired of touching Liam.

Not after last night. And maybe, just maybe, there had been a sliver of truth to his words at the falls.

Maybe he truly did care for her a little, she thought.

But just at that moment a stranger hustled into their camp. John rose abruptly to his feet. Rory widened his stance and reached beneath his tunic.

The man was dressed in common attire, his face partly hidden by a drooping leather hat. "I saw your performance last night," he preempted, coming to an abrupt halt.

The words fell into silence.

He cleared his throat and glanced nervously behind him. "It seems to me you be decent folk doing naught but making a living and protecting your own."

"Why have you come?" John asked.

"Lord Pitney has just returned to the village. He says he was attacked in the woods during the night."

"We had naught to do with it!" Rory pronounced, taking a single step forward.

"In truth, it could have been any number of folk who might have wished him ill." For a moment the stranger's lip curled, suggesting that he himself was not exempt from the group. "He is a coward and a pig. But he is also lazy. If you are out of easy reach, I think, maybe, you will be safe," he said simply, and glancing quickly about, hurried back in the direction from which he had come.

The Rom's packed up quickly. Rachel could do naught but assist them. She would have a chance to talk to Liam soon enough, she assured herself, for they could spend all day in the wagon together.

The thought sent a blush of quicksilver emotion through her, but just then she glanced up to see Liam mounted on the white palfrey with Lachlan riding behind him.

She scowled, wondering if she should approach him, but John's wagon lurched into motion, and there seemed nothing she could do but wait. Carefully avoiding Rory, she hurried up beside Catriona.

The horses' hooves echoed louder as they moved from the grassy campground onto the road.

"Well?" Catriona asked.

Rachel didn't turn toward her. "Well what?"

The Gypsy girl laughed. Her eyes had taken on the color of the sky this morning, as blue as a harebell and as mischievous as a child's. "Was it wonderful?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"And I am a capon," Catriona said, and laughing again, turned her attention to the road.

Rachel waited breathlessly for nightfall. True, Liam had opted to sleep outside their wagon before. But surely he would not do so tonight, not after what they had shared. She was certain of it.

Thus, with just a few sparse glances in his direction, she ate her supper quickly, then retired to her bed and waited.

Time ticked along. From outside, she heard John and Hertha's soft good-nights as they herded their daughters off to sleep. The fire crackled. Catriona coaxed and threatened until Lachlan finally agreed to abandon his juggling lessons and find his bed.