In the Highlander's Bed (14 page)

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The smell seemed more pronounced now that she had pointed it out to him, and he was relieved when she came running out, so that they could both find some fresh air.

“May I wash my hands?” she asked.

He led her to the loch’s edge. They passed a few couples who nodded to Gordon but watched them with curiosity.

“We will be the talk of the camp,” she whispered to him.

“I always am,” he assured her. He stopped at an outcropping of rocks everyone used for washing.

“There’s soap right there.”

“This is soap?” she said with distaste, holding up the gray, mushy mass. She tossed it to the ground and then washed her face and hands.

He did the same. “The women in the camp make it,” he answered in his defense. “It’s fine enough.”

“They didn’t let it cure long enough.” She made an impatient sound as she rose to her feet. “Your latrines are disgusting and your soap too soft to be of use, and that is just the beginning of the problems here.”

She was right, except he didn’t want to hear this from her. Not now. He was too damn tired. He needed six hours sleep and then he’d solve all the problems of the world. “I supposeyou know better?”

“I do,” she said without flinching. “I’ve lived my life out-of-doors. I know what is important. These are everyday matters, but they must be attended to or you will find your people losing their will to go on.”

Which was what had been happening.

Gordon scowled, angry at her for no other reason than because she was so capable. “Why couldn’t you have been an empty-headed debutante?” He turned and started walking to the tent, knowing she would follow.

And she did.

“I’m going to have the latrines moved,” he said. “We weren’t going to stay here that long anyway.”

“With this many people, it doesn’t take long,” she answered, her voice as stiff as his.

He didn’t reply because he saw the stew pot on its side in the doorway of his tent. Tad was nowhere to be seen. He had been so focused on Constance, he’d not secured his quarters before he left. “Damn dog,” he muttered.

He picked up the pot and set it upright by his door. Tad hadn’t left a lick behind. There was nothing that would attract a wild animal. Whoever had gifted him with the stew would collect the pot in the morning.

Indicating for Constance to enter the tent first, he followed, dropping the flap over his door. He didn’t waste time, but brought out the rolled quilted pallet and blanket he stored behind his tack chest. He made quick work of making his bed on the hard dirt floor.

Constance stacked the dishes—Tad had licked those clean as well—and picked up his tartan from the
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chair where she’d left it. She wrapped it around her shoulders. “Am I sleeping there?” she asked.

“We’re both sleeping here,” he answered, daring her to raise a complaint.

She bit her bottom lip but remained standing.

That was fine. She could stand all night.He was going to sleep, although he had planned on Tad keeping guard.

“You’ll have to use the tartan for your cover,” he told her as he sat in the chair and began pulling off his boots. He set them aside and stood, pulling his shirt from his breeches. “You don’t need to worry that I’m going to ravish you,” he said.

Two bright spots of color appeared on her cheeks, and he knew that had been on her mind.

Good. Sheshould be uncomfortable around him. For that reason—and because she’d been right about the latrines and the state of his camp—he stood and started to take off his shirt.

“What are you doing?” she asked, her voice sounding strangled.

He paused, savoring the moment, and then pulled the shirt off over his head. She stood as far away as she could from him in the narrow confines of the tent, a distance of only a foot or two, his tartan protectively pulled against her. If he had not been standing in front of the door, he had no doubt that she would have run right out it.

Gordon smiled, feeling wolfish. It was about time she saw him as a man.

“I’m undressing for bed,” he said.

Her eyes widened with alarm and she whirled around, giving him her back. Dear Lord, had he ever been that innocent?

“How far do you expect to go undressing?” she asked.

“This far,” he said. He dropped the shirt on the chair close by her. She gave a little jump, as if the cloth was alive.

Pleased to finally have the upper hand, Gordon said, “Come, Constance, you’ve seen a man’s chest before, and probably more, out in your wilderness. Why, I hear the Indians run around naked.”

“They wear clothes,” she assured him.

He stretched out on his side of the pallet. His bed took up most of the floor space. His leg was close to her moccasined foot. There would be enough room for her on the pallet but it would be close between them. “What’s this? Bold, fearless Constance Cameron blushing? If I’d known I could subdue you by taking off my clothes, lass, I would have removed them sooner.”

“I don’t think the Duke of Colster would approve,” she responded primly.

Gordon yawned. “Then we’ll keep it our secret. After all, Iwant the Sword of the MacKenna, not to be run throughby it. But don’t worry, I’m too tired to think about anything but sleep. Although,” he added
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quickly, “I’m a light sleeper. You won’t be able to move without my knowing it.” He didn’t want to tie her up again. Not with her wrists as bad as they were.

“Wait,” she said, her suspicions aroused. “You are teasing me, aren’t you? You haven’t taken off your clothes.”

Constance whipped around so quickly to accuse him, her foot tripped on his leg.

She came crashing down on top of him just as he closed his eyes.

Gordon acted on reflex. He caught her and rolled over, his body settling on hers. They were leg-to-leg, hip-to-hip, chest-to-breasts…nose-to-nose.

Her eyes rounded.

He’d wager his were, too.

“Youare naked,” she whispered. Her hands rested on his shoulders. She didn’t move them.

He could have corrected her impression, told her she was only half right—except right now all he could think about was how well they fit together. How warm and welcoming she was.

How hardhe was.

Other men weren’t alone. They lay beside their wives and their sweethearts. They had someone to share the burdens of the day, salving them with the sweet release that could only be had in a lover’s arms.

Gordon knew he had nothing to offer a woman. His sister had already paid a very dear price. He chose to be alone.

And yet, right now, all he wanted was another kiss. One kiss.

Was that so much to ask?

Ten

Constance didn’t move. She was paralyzed by what she saw in Gordon’s eyes. He wanted to kiss her.

Shewanted that kiss.

For the first time in her life she understood the power of attraction.

His arousal, strong, present, demanding, didn’t frighten her. Instead, it filled her with pride, and an aching need that she’d never experienced before.

Her legs seemed to open with a will of their own, knowing better than she did how to bring him closer.

His weight felt good on her body, and she couldn’t help but let her arms relax, her hands feeling the play of honed muscle beneath the warmth of his skin.

Gordon’s lips hovered just above hers.

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Constance swallowed, waiting.

He lifted her braid, wrapping it around his hand, binding him to her—and just when Constance couldn’t take it any longer, he kissed her.

She parted her lips. He’d taught her that much in the first kiss…but she discovered there was a great deal more she had to learn.

Their mouths melded together. Her hips raised, as if this part of her, too, needed to be closer.

His tongue found hers, stroked, cajoled, caressed, and Constance was lost. Kissing this man was as natural as breathing. She liked the taste of him, the feel, the touch…the everything.

He moved his hips. Her very core tightened, yearning for something more. Her breasts grew full, as if reaching for him, needing him.

With a soft sigh, Constance opened herself fully to him.

The earlier kiss had been an assault on her senses. This one was much the same, except now she was assaulting him right back. And she wanted more than just a kiss. She wanted to climb into his skin, to completely surround herself with him.

She was no fool. She’d lived close to nature. She knew what happened between a man and a woman, but knowing and experiencing were two very different things—

Gordon broke off the kiss, throwing himself onto the pallet beside her. He breathed hard, as if he’d just run a long race.

A chill skittered across her skin. She turned to him, wanting his warmth and his touch. She was not ready to quit quite yet. As she leaned to kiss him, he stopped her by pulling the tartan tight around her shoulders, his hands holding her prisoner.

Constance smiled. His pupils were dark and wide, his eyes glassy with desire. She knew how he felt.

Her senses were as stimulated, and she wasn’t about to quit something that was proving so pleasurable.

However, he stopped her. “Good night,” he said.

Then he rolled over onto his side, away from her.

“Good night?” Constance repeated dumbly. She frowned. She wasn’t ready to sleep yet. In fact, sleep was the furthest thing from her mind. And she defied him to pretend he felt different.

“Stop wiggling,” he said.

“I haven’t moved.”

“Good.”

Constance frowned at his back. Her passions were beginning to cool, replaced by a profound embarrassment. “Was that another one of your tricks to humiliate me?”

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When he ignored her, she reached over and gave his side a pinch.

“Ow,” he said. He lifted his head to give her a cross look. “Go to sleep.”

“I would have, before you didthat. ”

His brows came together.

She tensed, preparing to defend herself against whatever charges he might make that she deserved such treatment. “I didn’t ask you to kiss me,” she muttered.

“I know.” He sighed heavily, raking a hand through his hair before laying down on his back beside her.

“I shouldn’t have done it.”

“Yes, you should,” came out of her mouth before she could question the wisdom of such words.

His expression softened. He raised a hand as if to touch her hair but then let it drop. He whispered,

“You know we can’t play that game.”

She nodded, disappointed.

Gordon’s gaze dropped to her lips. His own twisted ruefully. “I wish we could have met at another time, another place.”

“Like where?” she wondered.

He considered a moment. “A party, in London. I would be a talented young advocate with a promising career in the courts ahead of me.”

“What would I be?” she asked.

“What you are.” This time when he raised his hand, he touched her hair. “A vibrant, challenging creature who knows how to set hearts on fire.”

His words melted her last remaining defenses. “Not I,” she said, secretly wanting him to repeat those words, to substantiate them with more. “My sisters are the ones who turn heads. Everyone notices them first.”

“I don’t believe that,” he countered. “But I shouldn’t have said what I did.” He let go of her braid, a sadness in the seriousness of his expression. “I shouldn’t have kissed you—”

“I wanted you to.”

He acknowledged her words with a small nod. “’Tis wrong. You have no choice in the matter, Constance. We both know that. You are our hostage.”

She drew her brows together. “You weren’t forcing me. I kissed you back.”

He rolled on his side to face her. His gaze traveled over her face as if memorizing the details. She wanted to touch him, to place her palm against the side of his jaw and promise him that everything would be all right.

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But she knew better.

“I understand,” she whispered.

“I know.” In the same serious vein, he added, “I have nothing to offer a woman, Constance. My life will probably end with a hangman’s noose. But every once in a while, I yearn for a taste of what I can’t have.”

A coldness crept through her at his prophetic words. “Your rebellion might succeed. Freedom is a good thing. My country rebelled.”

“Aye,” he agreed.

But he knew differently, and so did she.

Constance folded her arm under her head. “Why?” she asked. “If you know you will fail, why do you continue?”

“Justice,” he said, as if that one word explained all.

“Is it worth your life?”

“Yes.”

She shook her head. “I don’t understand the way people think here. Why stay if you are mistreated?”

“It’s our home.”

“This?” She cast a glance around the tent.

“Scotland is,” he corrected. “And there have been many good men who have died for it.”

“Yes,” she conceded. “But how long does a fight continue? I come from a place where if a man doesn’t like where he is, he moves on. He doesn’t attempt to overthrow a government.”

“A man can’t move on forever.”

“In America he can,” Constance said boldly. “There is so much land there, he can keep moving forever.”

Gordon shook his head. “You don’t understand, lass. A manhas to take a stand. If he doesn’t, if he keeps running, then he isn’t much of a man. Now, go to sleep. You have had a long day. We can argue tomorrow.”

He closed his eyes.

Constance didn’t. She lay awake, watching him. The lamp’s soft light turned his skin the same golden color as his hair.