“Then you should know how it’s done,” he suggested, his tone mediational. “Remove your clothes.”
She couldn’t move.
“Tell me, lass, is it yourself or me that you fear the most?”
“I fear no one.”
He stared at her for a moment longer, and in the depths of his eyes it seemed she could see her own emotions reflected as clear as sunrise. She shifted her gaze away and for an instant, from the corner of her eye, it almost seemed that she saw him smile.
“Disrobe now,” he said, “unless you need me own help again.”
She knew she should refuse, but his logic, her desire, and her own foolish words had conspired against her. She put her hand to the lace that held her undergarment in place, but her lungs felt compressed, her fingers unsteady. “Why do you just stand there, MacGowan? Have you nothing to do?”
“Ahh, but I am doing something,” he countered. “I am watching you disrobe.” He paused. His nostrils flared. “In order to be of more assistance to you in the future.”
Future! In the future! As though she could bear to do this again without admitting her own shameful weaknesses. As though… She gritted her teeth and forced her mind onto safer ground. Her hands shook. She tightened them to fists and tried to ascertain how to keep them out of trouble. “Fetch me soap and towels,” she ordered.
“Presently,” he said. “As soon as you are safely in the tub.”
“Now!” Her tone was brash and harsh, the command of a warrior.
He smiled. Her knees weakened.
“Nay,” he said, and took a step forward. “Mayhap you are in need of assistance.”
“Don’t- ” The harsh tone had weakened considerably, but she sharpened it quickly. “Don’t come nearer.”
“Tell me, me laird. Are you so aloof with all your servants?”
“I do not have servants, as you very well know.”
He scowled as if puzzled. “And why is that? Surely you are not afeared they will mistake you for a maid.”
“Nay. ‘Tis because I oft find them troublesome.”
He laughed and lifted a hand to indicate her loincloth.
Muscles jumped like leaping steeds in his chest and arms. “Remove that ungodly thing. The water cools.”
She swallowed hard. A million possibilities stormed through her head. Should she refuse, order him to turn around, challenge him to a duel? The options seemed limitless. Even swooning was a distinct possibility, though she’d rather die.
“Come now, laddie, surely you have naught I haven’t seen a hundred times since. After all, we are both warriors, you and I. Unless…” He paused. “Unless you admit you are something more.”
She lifted her chin and straightened her back. “Damn you, MacGowan,” she said and, tossing her dirk onto the bed, set her fingers to the string that held the last vestige of her modesty. It came away easily in her hand, then slid down her legs to the floor.
They stared at each other from a few mere feet apart as Hunter chanted a soothing mantra. All was well. All was well. They were two warriors, just as he said. And even if he were not a womanish man, she was surely not the type to attract him. Men were wont to idolize another kind of maid. Not a scarred, steely warrior like herself, but the small and the dainty. Therefore, there was no reason for her to worry. She was not attracted to him. He was not attracted to her. She could step into the tub without fear of molestation. In fact, she ordered herself to do just that, but her legs refused to move.
She was frozen in place, her gaze locked on his. But finally his attention shifted. It traveled downward as slow as pain, touching her breasts first. She held her breath and refused to wince, for she did not care if he found her unbecoming. But if he were repulsed, his emotions failed to show in his face. Indeed, his eyes seemed to be lit by a fire from within as he skimmed his gaze lower, over her waist and beyond to the tingling cap of hair trapped between her shivering thighs.
She drew in her breath as if struck and he caught her gaze again.
His nostrils flared momentarily. “Get into the tub,” he said.
She planned to refuse. Indeed, she opened her mouth to do just that, for no man gave her orders, but there was something in his eyes. Something dark and deep and just barely controlled. She hesitated just an instant, and then, like one in a trance, she stepped over the metal rim and into the water. It rose up her legs like a balm, and she sunk eagerly into its concealing warmth.
Their gazes never broke, but when she was beneath the surface, he exhaled softly and she wondered suddenly if he too had been holding his breath.
Might he be telling the truth? Might his desires be normal? But nay. He had turned aside the maid at the inn and concentrated on her. She shifted her eyes fretfully away and stared into the water. It was a smallish tub, just large enough for a good sized man to fit inside with his knees bent up. Still, the heat was soothing. She cleared her throat and tried to concentrate on that sensation, but she could feel his gaze like a brand on her face.
“What are you staring at?”
“Anything that is visible.”
She spurred her gaze to his. His eyes were ablaze, his body taut, but finally he drew a deep breath and unclenched his fists. “Where do I find the soap?”
She found her equilibrium with some difficulty and finally managed to give him directions. Disappointment and relief swelled in her when he finally left. She closed her eyes and breathed heavily, then sank lower into the tub and let the wilding panic take her.
Hell’s saints, what had she gotten herself into? What was she thinking? What-
But before she’d finished the garbled thoughts, he had already returned.
She hunched her shoulders, but refused to cover herself. After all, she was a warrior, and wholly without shame. Still, she had to force herself to meet his gaze as she cleared her throat.
“You found it then?” she asked, though she knew he had for he held the soap, along with an earthenware jar, in his hand… just below the dark nub of his right nipple.
She swallowed hard and raised her gaze to his face with a snap.
Not a word was spoken. Not a molecule of air seemed left in the room. “Good,” she said, and nodded. “‘Tis good. ‘Tis… well…” She nodded. The movement felt strangely disjointed. “I’ve no further need of your services, MacGowan.”
“Your uncle said to see to your needs.”
“Aye, well…” She licked her lips, and he seemed to follow the motion with his eyes. “Me uncle is clearly not in his right mind, for ‘tis certain I do not need you.”
The silence lay as heavy as sin around them. “Mayhap,” he said finally, and took a step toward her, his hard gaze raking her. “But I am here nevertheless.”
Her ribs were constricting her lungs. She struggled to breathe, to draw in air, to refrain from any kind of foolish weakness. Instead, she gripped the smooth metal rim and raised her chin.
“Find your bed, MacGowan.”
“Bed.” His voice rumbled deep and quiet in the firelit room. “Nay. Not just yet. You are not ready.”
“What?”
He raised his gaze slowly to hers. His eyes burned like living amber. “I will see you bathed first,” he said.
Her fingers hurt from her grip against the tub’s rim.
“In truth, MacGowan…” she began, but the truth was not her ally. Nay, though she loved honesty, ‘twas lies that had kept her alive these many years. “I prefer my privacy.”
Nevertheless, he came nearer. Beneath the water, her body coiled in on itself, feeling tight as a drum beneath the gentle waves.
“How long has it been?” he asked.
She steadied her breathing and hardened her glare.
“What’s that?”
”How long has it been since someone saw you thus?”
“Why do you wish to know?”
He was near the tub now and in an instant he was seated on the rim, just beside her whitened knuckles.
Her throat closed up.
“How long has it been?” he asked and, dipping into the jar, scattered a handful of herbs over the water.
The sweet smell of lavender spilled into the air, and suddenly she could think of no lies. “Some years,” she said, and even with those simple words, memories stormed her mind like evil birds of prey. She had been young when sent from Nettlepath. Young and scared and vulnerable, but there were those who did not care about a maid’s innocence. Those who would take it by force, who would ruin a wee lass and cause her to defend herself anyway she could. She had been a lad ever since, and never regretted it. Not until now.
“‘Tis surely a sin,” he mused.
“What?” Against her will, she covered her scar with her arm, squeezing her breast against her silver shell, but he leaned slowly forward. Grasping her wrist in gentle fingers, he tugged it away.
“Don’t,” he said simply. “‘Tis not right to hide such… ‘tis not right.”
Did he mock her? She speared her gaze to his, but his eyes were somber, his expression the same. She could only stare.
Reaching out, he brushed his knuckles along the path of the scar. Feelings darted through her like frightened harts, leaping for cover.
He raised his gaze to hers. “You made the bastard pay?”
It took a moment for her to find her voice. “The Munro?”
“Aye.”
“He is not your enemy any longer,” she murmured.
“Not since Ramsay bested him in battle. Not since he gave up any hope of having Anora. And surely not since he met his own bride.”
A muscle jumped in his jaw. “I’ll be the one to decide if he is me enemy,” Lachlan gritted. “Did he suffer?”
“He bears a scar on his cheek.”
“His cheek.” The words were softly scoffed. “It does not compare with the damage he has done.”
She pulled her arm from his grasp, clamping it to her breast. “Do not look if you find it so hideous.”
“Hideous,” he breathed. “Is that what you think I believe?”
“I do not care what you believe.” She forced the words out on a whisper.
He leaned toward her, his face sober. “But I will tell you nonetheless, for-”
“MacGowan!” she interrupted rashly, but he didn’t listen.
“I will pretend to be mute.” His voice was low. “I will feign servitude. But I will not pretend you are undesirable. And I will not pretend me own desire is unnatural. Not when you are what you-”
“Nay,” she whispered, then, “nay,” she said more forcefully. “We are the same, you and I. The-”
But in that moment, he grasped her hand and placed it against his chest. Beneath her palm, his flesh felt like living granite, as hard as stone yet soft as velvet.
Air escaped her lungs in one hard rush. “The same?” he asked.
“Aye,” she whispered and he pulled her hand lower.
Her fingers bumped over his nipple. The faintest whimper escaped her throat, but he was already skimming her hand lower, over his ribs and down the rugged hills of his abdomen. He halted her fingers just above his belted plaid.
“The same?” he asked. The question was little less than a threat. Beneath his plaid, she could see the hard outline of his desire.
She snatched her hand away and grabbed the tub with frantic fingers.
“What do you want, MacGowan?” she rasped. Absolute silence filled the room. For an eternity not a word was spoken. “You,” he finally said.
She tried to formulate a thought, but nothing came. “‘Tis you I want,” he repeated.
She tried to force a laugh, but she could not. “You jest.”
His eyes were as sober as death and failed to shift the slightest degree. “Do I look like I jest, lass?”
“I am not a lass. I am a warrior, scarred in battle and-” she began, but in that moment he touched his fingers to her lips, shushing her. Indeed, causing her to hold her breath.
He stared at her mouth for a moment, then lifted his attention back to her eyes as his fingers skimmed over the cleft of her lips and lower. Soft as a breeze, he trailed over her jaw and down the length of her neck.
Against her will, she shivered beneath his touch. Her eyes fell closed. Her hands ached against the metal as her head fell back. His fingers slipped into the hollow in her throat and against his flesh, she could feel the hard tattoo of her heart.
“Surely you know the truth.” His words were no more than a whisper. “You are temptation itself.”
“Nay,” she moaned and tensed to rise, but already his hand held her shoulder.
“You cannot escape it, lass. You are beautiful and you are desirable no matter how long you hide from the fact.”
She stared at him, her heart pumping wildly. “I am not beautiful.”
“Aye, lass, you are, but why would you wish it otherwise?”
Moments stretched into silence, then, “Beauty is weak,” she whispered.
He tilted his head and eased his hand slowly down the length of her sword arm. His fingers remained on her biceps for a moment, then continued on until he reached her wrist. Once there, he lifted it upward so that her palm lay open before him.
“Weak?” he whispered and kissed the hollow of her palm.
She sucked air through her teeth. “I think not.”
Her hand tingled. Her breath came hard. “What was your given name, lass?”
“I have many names.” Her voice was raspy, unnatural. “Aye.” He trailed his fingertips along the tendons in her wrist, over the blue ridged veins and upward. “Hunter. Giles. Warrior. Good names. And well used, all. But what of the name your mother gave you?” His fingers bumped over the crease where her arm bent. She jumped like a startled hare beneath the rampant sensations.
“Mother gave me nothing.”
His gaze felt sharp on her face, and though she knew she had said too much she could not seem to correct herself, to think, to focus on anything but the feeling of his fingers against her skin.
“Nothing?” he asked and, cradling her elbow in his palm, brushed his thumb across the bend.
She tried not to shiver. “She gave me life, but little else,” she corrected and swallowed the spark of pleasure that radiated from his touch.