The Fraser Bride (16 page)

“Emptiness,” he said.

The breath stopped in her throat. How did he know? None had read her thoughts before. None but Isobel.

“And fear,” he added.

Shaken, she lifted her chin and steadied her hands. “I am not afraid,” she said. “And if the truth be told, I learned a valuable lesson.”

“Not to trust.”

She refused to show her surprise. Instead, she nodded curtly. “Trust is a fool’s broken crutch.”

“You were a child,” he said.

“I was old enough to—”

“To be used?” His voice was hard, his eyes flinty. “Wounded? Terrified?”

“I was not afraid,” she said, but her words were no more than a whispered lie. “I was foolish. Old enough to know better than to—”

“You were a child!” he gritted. “Children are supposed to trust.” Agony ripped across his stoic features, and he pulled her against his chest, hiding his face from her. “Christ!” he whispered.

She squeezed her eyes shut, every muscle rigid as she fought for strength, but he reached up and stroked her hair, and with each tender caress her control weakened.

“You were but a babe.” His hand gently cupped her skull before skimming downward. “An innocent.”

She shook her head, denying, fighting the hot wash of emotion. “I was a tease. A—”

“Who said as much?” His fingers tightened for a moment in her hair.

She swallowed hard and gripped his arms for support. “Father thought—”

“Fathers!” he began forcefully, then paused and stroked her hair again, slowly, and on the descent she felt him tremble. “Fathers sometimes fail.” He pressed his face to her hair and against her temple, she felt the drop of a single tear. ” ‘Tis a sin. A crime of the darkest sort. Their first task is to protect, to love, to hold their young ones like precious blossoms in their hands.” His own hands were as gentle as a psalm, as warm as a summer breeze, and with the stroking, her defenses crumbled like moldering stone. Tears fell from her eyes onto the bunched muscle of his chest, and her arms crept around him. “You were a bairn, lass. A wee one. ‘Twas not your fault, and ‘tis not you who should take the blame, nor bear the burden.”

He was rocking slightly, swaying gently back and forth like the rhythm of quiet waves. ” ‘Tis the bastard who accosted you who shall pay the price for all eternity.” She felt him breathe in, then exhale slowly. “And the sire who failed you.”

He pressed his cheek against the top of her head. She leaned against him, seeking solace, forgiveness, forgetfulness, and in her tortured mind she again became a little girl.

‘Twas early summer and a warm breeze rustled her hair. The pipets were singing, the harebells were in bloom, and she was laughing. Not the cynical laughter of a jaded woman. Not the flirtatious laughter of a manipulator. But laughter of sheer, unadulterated joy, and as the sun shone on her uplifted face and her father crooned to her in tones of unmistakable adoration, she fell asleep.

Ramsay awoke slowly, yet there was no grogginess. He knew where he was and he knew who he lay with. He knew also that he should leave now, before she awoke, but he could not. For despite every incriminating condemnation he had thrown at himself, he was still weak, and she was so soft in his arms. Like the babe she had once been. Like the babe he himself had failed. Yet even now, even with the guilt he would always bear, he had learned nothing—for the truth was, he wanted her.

Her breasts were bare. Nothing separated him from their beauty, not a hand’s breadth, not the merest scrap of cloth. They were small and round, capped with delicate rosy nipples.

She sighed in her sleep, drawing his attention up-ward. As she shifted, her hair slid across her shoulder, gleaming like ripened wheat in the morning sunlight. Her lips were slightly parted, pink and bowed and hopelessly tempting.

Beneath the blankets, his shameless wick stirred, and as she opened her eyes he realized with chagrin that her thigh rested between his. ‘Twas a difficult thing to move away even a fraction of a inch. In fact, he barely managed.

“Oh!” The single word was breathy, frightened. He stopped all movement. ‘Twas clear that unlike him, she had forgotten where she was, who she was with. “I …” Glancing down, she widened her eyes and tugged a blanket over her nakedness. “I must have … fallen asleep.”

“Aye.” His voice was pitifully low. He could only hope she thought it because of the early hour and not because the sight of her thus had sent all his blood scurrying to his nether parts in a hot rush, like ale down a sailor’s gullet. ” ‘Tis morning.”

She cleared her throat and shifted her gaze perfunctorily toward the single narrow window. “Aye.”

The silence seemed endless. Now was the time to retreat, of course. Before it was too late. But dear God, she was so soft, like an angel there beside him, and regardless of how hard one might try, ‘twas a difficult thing to walk away from an angel when one’s soul was on fire.

“Are you well?” Her voice was soft, her expression shy, with none of the hard edged carefulness so frequently displayed.

“Aye,” he rumbled.

“You have …” She stopped as if uncertain, but in a moment she reached out and touched his forehead with feather light fingertips. “You have a bruise.”

He closed his eyes against her touch, holding himself unmoving before he found enough strength to open his eyes and still not advance. ” ‘Tis nothing.”

Slowly, she smoothed a lock of hair from his temple. “It seems I owe you my thanks yet again.”

“Nay.” He could barely force out that single word, for her fingers yet remained on his skin. “I did naught.”

” ‘Tis not true.” Her words were a murmur against his soul. “You saved me.” She swept her fingers over his ear, sparking off a million frenzied feelings. “Again.”

“I did naught but return to me room,” he said, fighting for control.

“And what of … the warrior?” He felt her shudder to the very ends of her fingertips, but he would not be moved by her feelings. He would not.

“There was not room for him in the bed,” he said, fighting for levity.

“He would have—” Her voice broke.

“Nay,” he said quickly, and reached out to console her. But despite all previous evidence to the contrary, he still had a modicum of sense, for he drew carefully back. “I don’t think he intended rape.”

He watched her lips form a circle.

“He brought a gown. ‘Tis on the floor behind you. I believe it is the one worn by the maid called Mary. I think he planned for you to wear it as he took you with him.”

“Took me … where?”

She had dropped her hand between them. It lay mere inches from him, nearly touching his chest.

“I cannot guess. Not without knowing his identity.”

She shifted her gaze to the few inches of mattress that lay between them. “You still think I know who he is.”

“Do you?”

“Nay.”

“But you know why he follows you.” He watched her, trying to read her meaning.

“I thought he …” She tensed, then forced herself to relax. A lesson in control. He knew it well. “I thought he meant to take what all men want.”

Silence stirred between them. He would have given much to convince her that she was wrong, that not all men were groping lechers, but he was not that good a liar.

“Why did you not?” Her voice was little more than a murmur of thought, her eyes twin clouds of blue emotion, pulling him in, pulling him under.

Good Christ, he could not risk the fall again.

“MacGowan?”

He drew himself back to reality with a hard hand. “What is it, lass?”

“Why do you not press your advantage?”

She was the most beautiful sight he had ever seen— delicate, desirable, her defenses down.

“What advantage is it that I have?” he asked.

A frown marked her brow, as if she wrestled with a lifelong mystery. “You are powerful,” she said and he almost laughed.

“And what are you, lass? Weak?”

She said nothing, and he turned his gaze carefully away, lest the temptation be too great.

“Aye, I am strong, for I am a man and I am a MacGowan,” he said, but even that simple attempt at vanity sounded pathetic to his own ears. “And yet who is it that has brought me brothers clambering to do her bidding?”

She shifted her gaze away and fiddled with her pillow before lifting her eyes fretfully back to his. “I cannot have every man swooning at my feet, aye?”

He winced as he rubbed the bump on his skull. ” ‘Twas not swooning exactly, was it? More like being thumped on the pate with—”

“Why do you not … want me?”

His heart twisted, his stomach jumped, and lower down, hope reared its head. “Do you want … me?”

“I …” She didn’t look at him. “After …” She met his gaze for the briefest instant, then skittered hers back to the blankets. ” ‘Tis … unlikely I will ever want anyone,” she whispered.

He remained still, letting the emotions rage hopelessly through him. “And if I avenged you?”

“What?”

He should take back the words. But they were out in the open and he could not regret them, though he would have sworn he was not a violent man. “If I found the bastard …” The words were hard to force out. “If I made him pay. If he hurt as much as he hurt you … could you want then?”

Her lips moved. A breathy gasp was released, then, “You would do that for me?”

“Mayhap I would do it for me.”

She shook her head, confused, afraid, though perhaps she did not know it. “Why? He has done nothing to harm you.”

“But harming him would surely do me good.”

“I think,” she began, and ever so slowly reached out. Breath held, he watched her hand draw near. “I think you are very kind,” she said, and he closed his eyes at the tender pain of contact.

Against his cheek, her hand felt like magic.

“You are good,” she whispered, and skimmed her fingers over the edge of his jaw and onto his throat. Warmth followed its passage onto his shoulder. “And strong.” Heat trailed across his chest, caressing his nipple.

“Lass, I—” he began, but when her fingers skimmed onto his belly, he could no longer speak. Every muscle contracted and a hiss of painful desire rasped between his teeth. “Lass, if you do not want this between us …” Her hand had crept onto his back and she moved a scant few inches closer. “I think it wise to stop now.”

“Is it your goodness that makes me undesirable to you?”

“Undesirable! Nay.” He could not resist reaching out. Her skin felt like finest velvet beneath his hand. Her hair was satin soft. “Nay, lass,” he breathed, and followed a silken strand down her slim arm. He tried to stop where the blanket was clasped against her breast, but it gaped away from her body, and it was simple, so simple to press it downward, to bare her breasts, to let his breath be drawn from his body in one hard rasp of desire.

He should not touch. He dare not touch, yet he could not stop himself. His fingers skimmed as light as hope over her nipple, cupping gently, before drawing painfully away. “You are not undesirable,” he said, his voice finally steady. “You are beauty itself, lass.”

She stared at him, her eyes wide as the heavens, and then, like a kindly angel, she kissed him. A thousand feelings smote him at once—hope, pain, need, all crushing in on him with that one feather soft caress. But he remained still, not daring to move, not trusting himself to reach out. She was so close, so soft, so tempting.

He kissed her back, and suddenly there was no return. Curling his arm around her back, he pulled her against him. She came with a moan. He swallowed the tiny sound, drinking in her desire, her need, her femininity. Their kiss deepened, strained. He pressed into her, rolling her onto her back, and suddenly she was beneath him.

Desire roared like an inferno in his head, thrumming like a heartbeat, throbbing in his loins.

“Stop!”

He heard her at the same moment he felt her fists against his chest.

“Nay!”

He rolled rapidly onto his hip. “Lass,” he soothed, trying to calm her, but she was already scrambling from the bed. Half falling onto the floor, she struggled to her feet, snagging the night rail to her naked breasts. “What is amiss?” he asked, but she backed away, her eyes consuming her face in a frightened blaze. “Lass.” He held out his hand and inched toward the edge of the bed, but she backed away another step. “Did I hurt you? Are you—”

“You are no different!”

He scowled, the dark haze of desire clearing slowly from his mind.

“I thought mayhap the prophecy—” She stopped abruptly, her bosom rising and falling above the scrunched fabric of her borrowed gown. “But nay.”

“Lass,” he said softly, “I did not mean to frighten—”

“Frighten! Nay, you meant to … couple, regardless of my wishes.”

“Nay.” He shoved his legs over the edge of the bed and rose to his feet. “I tried to—”

“To what?” Her voice was rising toward hysteria. “To rape me?”

He was not a impetuous man, but anger was brewing like a foul tonic in his soul. ” ‘Twould not have been rape, lass.”

“Are you saying ‘twas my own fault?”

He stared at her. Dear God in heaven, she was tempting. Even now, when his desire was cooling and his temper rising, he could not deny it. He wanted nothing more than to pull her into his arms and begin anew.

“You did not seem to mind a moment ago.”

“Oh. So you can read my thoughts, can you? You can see into my very soul and know my deepest desires.”

He shrugged. Pain burned through his wounded arm, but he welcomed it. “You give me too much credit, lassie. ‘Twas actually your moans that shaped me thinking. Your moans, and the fact that you lay bare naked in me arms all night, and tried not once to clothe yourself.”

“And why was I naked, MacGowan? Was it mayhap because another of your kind forced me at knife point to bare myself?”

The memory sent a hot flame of anger burning through him. He had almost forgotten the fear that had first propelled her into his arms. He scowled, a dozen emotions warring within him.

“You are no different,” she said, straightening now and refusing to back farther away. “Mayhap you think I owe you. That I’ll be willing to trade my soul for the safety you can afford me.”