Bride of the Beast (18 page)

But he had, and they melted his heart.

"I know you shall. Never doubt it." The rich timbre of his voice as well as the portent of his words enfolded her in a wondrously languid warmth.

Made her feel... wanted.

And almost free of shame.

Watching her with an intensely focused expression, he traced his fingers along her cheekbone, then eased his hand around the back of her neck. His caress, light as a summer breeze, sent tingling ripples of sensation fanning through her.

Sensations she'd only known long-ago inklings of, but never the full glory ... till now.

He looked down at her, his gaze disturbingly knowing, its intensity wooing her senses as surely as his touch stirred pleasurable flutters low in her belly.

Closing her eyes, she reveled in his warmth and the bracing scents clinging to him: the fresh tang of the wind-whipped sea and salty breezes, leather and clean, polished steel.

A hint of wood-smoke, the spicy musk of his maleness, and the magic of starry nights and moonbeams.

Starry nights and moonbeams?

Caterine's eyes snapped open.

She bit her lower lip ... and tried not to inhale.

He smiled.

Then he took away his hand and stepped back, his withdrawal leaving her breathless.

Stunned, more than a little confused, and yearning for more of the brief glimpse of magic he'd shown her.

She lifted her own hand to her nape and skimmed her fingertips over the place where he'd touched her.

The skin there still tingled.

And her heart hadn't yet ceased knocking wildly against
her ribs.

"Will you apply the unguent now, Caterine?" His voice came deeper, a note huskier than before. "Mayhap below, before the fire in your chamber?"

She nodded, not trusting herself to speak. Not that her thick tongue would've formed a coherent word had she tried.

He
suffered no such affliction.

With all the mastery of a well-practiced spell-caster, his words and his touch worked their magic. Little by little, he tore loose the locks and restraints shielding her from his charm, ripping down her defenses and casting every last shred of her resistance to the four winds.

His Englishness remained the one thing he couldn't undo, but, much to her surprise, even that blemish didn't seem so glaringly annoying ... at the moment. So long as he looked at her as he was doing now. She waited as he turned away to lift the resin torch from its bracket on the wall. Her chest tight with prickling anticipation, she followed him down the winding stairs and through the little ante-room, pausing only long enough to snatch the bowl of healing salve before tagging after him into her bedchamber.

He made straight for the hearth, his bold claiming of her private quarters and the undeniable ease with which he moved through them, sending showers of tremors spiraling through her. Just watching him breathed pulsing life into all
her dormant hopes and dreams, long-lost bundles of wishes winking at her from the farthest horizons of her heart.

Unbidden, the layer of years peeled away, falling aside as if time no longer existed, leaving only the fanciful girl she'd once been and the woman she was fast becoming.

A woman entranced, and very close to entering the untrodden realm of her own beckoning femininity.

Content to simply look at him, Caterine lingered in the threshold to her chamber, allowing herself a few moments to savor the wonder of him... before other memories could intrude, their hold on her sealing the door to her soul. A door he'd cracked with brilliant ease. Unthinkable, if ever he flung it wide. "You said my sister charmed you," she blurted, those other memories pushing hard on the door. "I do not believe you. You are the enchanter, the one who ensnares, pulling others into your web of smooth words and moonspun magic."

He cast a skeptical glance at the closed shutters stretching the length of the opposite wall. Nary a glimmer of moonlight fell through the wooden slats.

Even the deep alcove of the window embrasure with its two facing seats swam in darkness.

Looking back at her, he cocked a single brow. The simple gesture spoke volumes. "There is no moon this night," he said anyway. "Only a storm."

"I am full aware of both those facts." Caterine pulled her
arisaid
more securely around her shoulders. "Especially the storm."

"I see that you are," he intoned. Not meaning a whit of the wind and rain blasting through the night. "I, too, have noted it," he added.

And meant the storm inside her.

As had she.

His gaze lighted on the bowl of unguent clutched tight in her hand. Caterine swallowed, already wishing she hadn't agreed to smear the salve on his ribs.

The very thought undid her.

She drew a shaky breath... and stared at him, wholly unable to move.

A bone-chilling damp pervaded the chamber, but she burned with the heat of a thousand flaming torches. Someone, most likely the e'er faithful Eoghann, had stoked the hearth fire, but its token warmth couldn't match the fire raging in her belly.

Nor could its welcoming glow and smoky-sweet scent entice her to take a single step forward.

For truth, the hapless clump of smoldering peat hissed and spit in its grate, seeming to warn her to keep her distance lest she find her defenses paltry proof against Mar-maduke Strongbow's pervasive allure.

An amazingly powerful appeal had seized firm hold of her the instant he stepped to the edge of the fire's glow and began unbuckling his sword belt.

"I said I would tell you how your sister charmed me," he said, placing the belt and his brand atop a nearby table.

"Would you believe I could not even smile before she began plying me with potent healing concoctions to relax my damaged facial muscles?"

Caterine blinked. Thinking of her sister made the corners of her own lips curve upward. "Linnet was always good with herbs and healing."

"She healed hearts, too. Especially my liege's." He paused to strip off his tunic. "Saints, we thought he no longer possessed one, but she proved us wrong. She swept into our lives, spilling light and laughter in her wake, and charming us all."

Charmed as well, Caterine's feet took a few tentative steps toward him.

Holding his hands to the fire, he flexed his fingers. "Your sister slayed many dragons at Eilean Creag."

He glanced at her. "I would slay your dragons, my lady," he vowed. "If you will let me."

Caterine froze. Too transfixed by the hard-muscled expanse of his chest—and the honeyed promise in his words— to think, much less continue her stilted progress across the rush-strewn floor.

She drew a deep breath. "Have I not expressed my gratitude for your help in ridding us of Sir Hugh's tyranny?"

"I did not mean de la Hogue." His words confirmed what she suspected. "'Tis the dragons gnawing at you from within that I referred to."

To Caterine's surprise, she suddenly found herself standing frightfully close to him.

Drawn by her fascination with the muscular contours of his body, the intriguing dusting of crisp, dark hair disappearing beneath the waistband of his hose, and the magical pull of his mellifluous voice.

"You truly couldn't smile?" She blurted the first thing that popped into her mind.

Anything to steer the conversation away from her dragons and the sea of self-doubt they swam in.

"I could do little but grimace, so tight was the skin around my scar," he answered, one finger worrying the pale seam marring the left side of his face. "Nor did I have much cause to smile in those days."

Caterine's gaze lighted on his mouth. "You are smiling now."

A twinkle lit his good eye. "So I am," he said. "Times change, and I find I have much to be pleased about these days."

"Linnet may have enchanted you, my lord, but I vow you beguiled her as well."

A
s you are now beguiling me.
The truth of the notion surprised her almost as much as discovering her fingers dipping into the healing unguent.

Dip
ping most eagerly.

Looking quite pleased with himself, he said, "So you've concluded I am indeed a charmer?"

"I think you cast some sort of glamour over Linnet." It was as close to the truth as she cared to venture. "Especially if you smiled at her like that."

With the self-same bone-melting smile that now drew her unguent-smeared fingers inexorably to the bruised flesh of his ribs.

They hovered there, just above his skin.

Too shy to touch him; too captivated to retreat.

He gave a short laugh. "Lady, I admire your sister greatly, but I never once looked at her as I am now looking at you." He glanced at her hovering ringers. "And never have I craved a woman's touch more than I desire yours this moment."

Caterine swallowed.

Not a dainty, lady-like attempt to recover her composure, but a bold, hopefully not too audible ...
gulp.

With great effort, she tore her gaze from the taut-muscled plane of his abdomen and her trembling, ointment-coated fingertips. She looked up at him to discover he no longer smiled, but peered at her as if he could see into each and every corner of her soul.

Holding her gaze, he curled his fingers around her wrists and guided her hands the rest of the way to his midsection. He used his own hands to keep hers pressed lightly against his flesh, moving her fingers in slow, comfort-dispensing circles over his sore ribs and his stomach.

He also took great care to assure that her fingertips slid over each sculpted ridge of muscle he could boast of.

Her soft gasp amply rewarded his efforts.

Marmaduke smiled.

His heart sang, for her quick indrawn breath could not be mistaken for anything but what it was: a clear sign of outright female appreciation.

A reaction he knew well for there was naught lacking about his muscles, or his manhood.

His prowess could match the best of men.

Oft were the nights he could choose amongst a fawning swarm of comely maids, each one eager to lift her skirts and discover if the rumors about his mastery at pleasing a willing wench proved true.

And never yet had one left his bed disappointed.

Only he had remained unfulfilled, his ease taken, but his soul more needy of sustenance than before.

The kind of nourishment such light-skirts, usually serving maids ablaze to sample a nobleman's tarse, couldn't spend him if he stood on his hands for a fortnight pleading for it.

His lady drew a sharp breath, obviously realizing he'd released her wrists and that her fingers, no longer spreading the salve over his ribs, now explored the dark hairs curling just above his waistband.

"Oh!" She jerked her hands from his abdomen and met his amused gaze, two bright spots of color staining her cheeks.

"Very dear lady, surely you have touched a man's body before?"

"N-not like that." She made a fluttery little motion with her hands and her
arisaid
slipped off her shoulders. Digging her hands into its folds, she clung to the woolen wrap as if it were a shield.

But she didn't gather its folds around her shoulders again.

Meeting his gaze full on, she said, "I have ne'er toyed with a man's body hair, sirrah."

Marmaduke almost choked on her frankness. Her candidness shot straight to his loins, and he could no sooner ignore the insistent pull there than keep himself from enjoying the creamy expanse of flesh now exposed above her gown's Plunging neckline.

"Saints, you are indeed a woman of plain speech," he managed, his voice two shades gruffer than he would have liked.

She glanced toward the windows where the full fury of the storm now battered the closed shutters. The night's damp chill warred with the peat fire's gentle warmth and challenged the sputtering flames of the wall torches.

The cold air seeping into the chamber, or preferably something else, assaulted her nipples as well, rousing them to hardened peaks that thrust proudly against the linen of her bodice.

They beckoned to him, their enticements so close to the top edge of her gown a mere flick of his fingers would release them.

Marmaduke swallowed thickly and wished the front flap of his tunic still covered his groin ... and the undeniable evidence of his arousal.

"Did you mind touching me thus?" he asked suddenly, deciding to speak as directly as she.

"It was not wholly unpleasant," she said, her voice barely audible above the lashing rain.

Not wholly unpleasant?

The tip of her tongue darting out to moisten her lips indicated otherwise.

Marmaduke fought back a disgruntled
harrumpf.

"I found it most pleasant indeed." He drew himself to his full height. "Pleasurable enough to ask you to do it again."

Her brows shot upward. "Toy with your body hair?"

The bold wording grabbed fast to his maleness and squeezed.