The Warrior Bride Page 9

  But he had fled.

  Something curled tight and uncertain in Hunter’s stomach. She lowered her own gaze. Through the sheer fabric of the borrowed garment, she could still see the dark, sensitized rings of her nipples. Below the pale tunic, the scarred leather of her breeches looked worn and rugged in comparison.

  That was it then. She was too much the warrior even without the scars. ‘Twas understandable. Preferable even, she told herself, and tightened her fist on her dirk again, but her thoughts roiled on.

  He had turned aside the maid too and she had been naught but the picture of femininity.

  He was gentle. Yet he had a ferocious need to prove his prowess in battle.

  When he had thought her a man, he followed her relentlessly.

  He spoke of his mother with rare reverence.

  He remained unwed. Indeed, for one so appealing, he seemed strangely uncomfortable around females.

  Hunter sat in stunned silence as her thoughts halted abruptly in her head.

  Damn! The truth was suddenly clear. Lachlan MacGowan favored men.

  Chapter 7

  It seemed to Hunter that she stared into space for an eternity, but finally hunger drew her from her trance. She lit a candle and ate.

  The meal was simple fare, but it was hearty enough, and she felt a bit of normalcy return with each bite. When she’d eaten her fill, she washed in the water left in the basin and turned to stare numbly at the bed.

  Aye, she was tired, but there was only the one mattress and she would not be sleeping alone. Then again, it was late already. Darkness had fallen long ago and MacGowan had yet to return. Perhaps he did not intend to. Perhaps he had turned back toward his father’s keep, or even toward Evermyst. They would be awaiting his return-the brother rogues and their delicate wives. Ready to welcome him back into the fold-the men jovial with mock rivalry, the women fawning. Oh, aye, though the twin maids had come from far different backgrounds, they would both fawn. Indeed, ‘twas most probably how they had won their husbands’ attention. But perhaps not. Perhaps all that was necessary was for them to be women. She had seen how their husbands looked at them, had sensed the depth of feeling lying hidden beneath the surface. There was passion, yes, but there was more. There was caring, kindness, loyalty.

  Why would MacGowan not return to Evermyst? After all, he had fulfilled his vow to save her life. He was probably on his way there even now.

  Then again, maybe he was merely out enjoying a bit of revelry. Maybe he’d met a likely… lad.

  She grimaced and paced fretfully as she tried to acknowledge the truth. The man was not attracted to any woman-much less her. Not that she cared. In fact, it was much preferable this way, for she no longer had to worry about keeping him from her. She glanced at the bed. Fatigue dragged at her limbs, but did she dare risk falling asleep when he might return at any moment?

  Aye, she decided abruptly, for she would be perfectly safe there beside him. Her heart rate increased at the thought, but she ignored the rush of excitement, for she was only being practical.

  If he did return to their shared chamber, he would not touch her. He could pretend he kept himself from her because he was a man of honor and she could pretend she did not know his secret. In fact, she would tell no one, for she bore him no ill will. He had done nothing to harm her. Quite the opposite, in fact. He had been rather considerate. But perhaps that made a bit of sense. After all, each sex had its weakness. Women were thought to be kindly, but tended to be weak when trouble brewed. Men were strong, but were wont to abandon all good sense when women were involved.

  Perhaps it was those in between who had the best of both worlds. She, for instance, had obtained a man’s skills, yet she could see their shortcomings, for she did not share their lust for women. Mayhap MacGowan was somewhat the same. Aye, he had been momentarily discombobulated when he’d first realized her sex, but his shock was understandable. If his interaction with the chambermaid was any indication of his steadiness, she could guarantee he would not play the fool for even the comeliest of lasses.

  So surely he would keep his wits around her. She had no need to worry about his advances.

  For a moment she glanced through the distorted glass of the window to the street below. The night looked dark and empty. She turned away, facing the bed alone.

  The situation could not be more perfect, she told herself. She could get the first full night’s sleep she had had in some time. In fact, there was no reason she could not remove her breeches and find some comfort. ‘Twould be a relief.

  Slipping back the borrowed tunic’s lengthy sleeves, she pulled up the hem and pushed down her thick hose. It felt quite lovely to pull the leather from her legs and better still to slip into bed. The worn sheets felt soft against her calves.

  Aye, this was good. She needn’t worry, she told herself, and lay alone in the darkness.

  Just down the rutted, winding street, Lachlan paid the leather wright and retrieved Hunter’s jerkin.

  The road back to the inn was muddy and dark.

  She would probably be asleep by now. He nodded to himself. Aye, she would be sleeping. All would be safe. After all, he wouldn’t be expected to touch her, or bandage her, or pretend that her presence didn’t make him crazy.

  He swallowed and tightened his fist on her vest.

  Though padded and tough, it was soft and supple. Like her. Strong and firm, but smooth as satin beneath his fingertips, and when he touched her-

  Holy mother! What the hell was wrong with him?

  Had he no pride whatsoever? She wasn’t interested in him. Damn! She wasn’t interested in his entire gender!

  How could he be so daft!

  ‘Twas just like him to turn aside the chambermaid in his yearning for another who would never want him. Oh aye, in retrospect, he realized Grace had shown some interest in him when she’d brought their meals. But at that precise moment it had been impossible for him to concentrate on her, for he was a man to focus all of his attention on the task at hand, especially when that task involved a warrior woman with a siren’s voice and an angel’s body.

  The maid had probably been bonny enough, but Hunter had been… well, she was Hunter! With her warrior’s pride and maiden’s softness. Hunter, with her endless legs and hidden bosom. Aye, he would be the first to admit he had always favored delicate women, but they made him… well, fidgety. Of course, Hunter made him fidgety too, but in a different way entirely.

  If one looked at the situation in a certain light, she was right-they were alike. Indeed, it almost seemed that she understood him, and yet they were worlds apart. Her breasts-

  Even now he ached at the memory of them. Even knowing she had no interest in him. Even knowing she had shown more interest in the maid than he had. In fact, maybe they were together at this very moment.

  The thought literally stopped him in his tracks. A combination of raw emotions curled in his stomach. Part revulsion, part…

  He didn’t know what the other part was, but suddenly his feet were hurrying him back to the inn. He ascended the stairs two at a time. For a moment he paused at the door, then, taking a deep breath, he pushed inside.

  Beside the bed, a candle still glowed, and upon the far pillow, the light shimmered like gold on Hunter’s flaxen hair. It was spread about her in gilded waves. And now, in the auspices of sleep, there was no harshness in her face. Her lips were slightly parted, rosebud bright and bowed slightly as she slumbered. Her lashes were long and full, shadowing her ivory cheeks. One palm cradled her chin just so, showing the frail blue veins that crisscrossed through her wrist.

  She was, in that moment, the very picture of womanhood, and for a second, Lachlan failed to breathe. Without thinking, he took a step forward, but with that movement, he remembered his resolve. She was not for him. In fact, she was not for any man. Perhaps that realization should have made him feel better, but somehow it did not. Four and twenty years he had seen, and though he had been interested in a multitude of maids, never in
all that time had he met one that seemed to match him so exactly. He had never met a woman he ached to call his own. What did it say for him that now that he had, he found that her interest lay in another direction entirely?

  But perhaps that was best, he thought as he clenched and unclenched his fists. Of course it was. She was not the type to get involved with anyway. She was more man than maid, he told himself, but at that moment, she sighed and shifted slightly in her sleep. The blankets were pushed aside and Above them he could see that the tunic he had loaned her had not been closed. Instead, the metal-tipped laces lay lax, leaving the neck opening twisted askew so that the sweet slope of one breast was visible. His throat felt dry. His erection tightened with painful intensity.

  More man than maid? Who the devil was he fooling?

  At that moment she looked more angel than human and suddenly he felt hot and cold all at once. He turned abruptly and paced silently across the length of the room.

  What the devil was he supposed to do now? He could sleep on the floor, but glancing at the planks beneath his feet, he winced. It looked hard and cold and lone… Well, his back ached at the sight of it. The battle, after all, had taken its toll on him, too, though he had come out better than Hunter.

  She had fought like a gladiator. In fact, regardless how she looked just now, he must not forget what she was: a warrior, trained and tested in the heat of battle. No more and no less. A few of his miscellaneous body parts were eager to dispute that idea, but he assured himself it was true. She was a warrior and he had shared sleeping quarters with other warriors innumerable times. ‘Twas the way of the world. Accommodations were oft harsh. More than once he’d slept in stables or under the stars, but surely he would be a fool now to turn down the comforts of a bed. In fact, she might well be insulted if he did. She had gone out of her way to make him realize she thought of them as the same. He dare not induce her ire by implying that he disagreed.

  Fatigued by his intense justification, Lachlan took a step toward the bed. She lay as before, but now, just past the edge of the tunic, he could see the darkened skin that encircled her nipple. Something hit him in the gut, or perhaps it was just lust, wound tight as a crossbow inside him. Heat flooded his face. He turned rapidly away, crossed to the wash basin, and splashed water on his cheeks. They felt coarse and unshaven. He exhaled through his mouth, straightened, and washed his hands with a bit more decorum.

  All was well. All was fine. Retrieving the soap, he lathered his hands. She wasn’t really a woman. Not really a woman. He ran the thought round and round in his mind like a mantra His stomach settled. He kept scrubbing until his fingers felt raw, then, rinsing his hands, he dried them thoroughly and turned back toward the bed.

  The candlelight still glowed on her face, shone on her hair, and turned her throat a golden hue. Below that Damnation, it was hot! He turned back toward the window, braced his hands on the edge of the sill and drew a deep breath.

  Hot! Aye, that was the problem. He had but to cool off before he could find sleep. ‘Twas simple enough.

  Tugging his tunic from beneath his belted plaid, he whipped it over his head, then found the wash rag and applied it vigorously to his chest.

  Upon the bed, Hunter lay very still, breathing softly through her lips, watching him. Oh, aye, she was awake.

  She wasn’t certain why she pretended to sleep. It was not because she was unsure of her feelings for him. Nay, of course not.

  And obviously, she had no reason to worry about his arrival, for he could barely even look at her. Every time he turned toward the bed, she could feel his glower before he pivoted away again. She would not be at all surprised if he chose to sleep on the floor, but there was no need for such foolish chivalry, for it was plain she would be perfectly safe with him.

  His back was toward her now as he washed his chest.

  His shoulders glimmered damp where he’d swathed the rag across them and when he moved they bunched with undeniable power.

  He lifted one arm. Muscles swelled and danced beneath his dark flesh and for a moment she failed to breathe, but it was only because she was worried he would discover she was awake. It wasn’t as if she were aroused. She squirmed a little, pulling her knees higher, and he turned, exposing his phenomenal torso.

  Candlelight glimmered on his flesh like moonlight on waves. Shadows lay in the dells between his ribs and on the valleys of his abdominals. His belly was flat except for the hard hillocks that sloped down toward his lean hips.

  Her throat felt dry, her stomach odd. She closed her eyes in earnest and refused to open them. He was just a man. A man with no interest in women. None at all. And…

  The room was cast suddenly into darkness, and she knew he had extinguished the candle. In a moment he was moving, pacing toward the bed.

  She dared open her eyes now, though only slightly, and through her slitted lids she could see a vague outline of him. He stood beside the mattress with his back to the window, but what he did there was a mystery. And then, even in the blackness, she saw his arms move. The sound of his sporran hitting the floor all but shook the room, and then it was up to her imagination to guess the rest for she could see little and hear less. But finally the mattress creaked and bent as he sat upon its edge. She failed to breathe as he removed his shoes and when he lay down and rolled onto his side she remained frozen, not moving a muscle.

  But the seconds ticked away and all was well. In fact, he had not come beneath the blankets, but remained on the surface, probably covered by his own plaid Aye, all was well, she assured herself, but in that moment she deduced the truth.

  Lachlan MacGowan, the Rogue Fox, was naked.

  Chapter 8

  Lachlan awoke groggily. He was tired. And sore. And as randy as…

  But in that instant, memories stormed into his mind and he jerked to his elbow to stare across the bed.

  Startled from sleep, Hunter awoke immediately, snatched her knife from beneath the blanket and sat bolt upright.

  From their respective positions, they stared at each other for several hard heartbeats.

  “Oh.” Her voice was breathy, her eyes wide. She cleared her throat and lowered her voice an octave. “‘Tis you.”

  He said nothing, but stared at her, hoping he looked casual, or maybe even bored. As if he awoke every morning to a wide-eyed warrior woman. As if his heart wasn’t threatening to leap out of his chest.

  “I- ” she began and lowered the dirk, but all words were now lost to him for when she moved her hand, he saw that her tunic had slipped, revealing one creamy shoulder.

  His gaze snagged on that ivory hillock. but beneath that, where the garment slanted sideways, much more was revealed, for one nipple was just visible in the tunic’s opening.

  Desire crashed through him like high tide, leaving him shaky.

  He tightened his grip on his plaid and remained very still.

  “MacGowan!” she said, but in that instant she realized his lack of attention and lowered her own gaze. “Oh.” Her hand moved with poetic slowness, covering herself, but against the pale fabric he could now see that a flush of color brushed her throat and cheeks. “Me apologies,” she said.

  “Apologies?” He hadn’t meant to say the ridiculous word aloud, but he was caught off guard and floundering rather hopelessly in the wild sea of desire.

  “Aye.” She tightened her fist in the shirt’s front, pulling the fabric tight across her bosom.

  God help him.

  “I didn’t mean to…” She paused. The color had faded from her cheeks a bit, but her eyes still looked large enough to drown in. Her hair framed her face in bright disarray and her lips seemed extraordinarily bright. She looked like nothing more than a startled archangel. Ethereal, but dangerous.

  The dual image was disarming, but hardly unmanning. He shifted uncomfortably as he searched for something to say to fill the silence. Still, try as he might, he could think about nothing but that nipple.

  She licked her lips. He watched her tongu
e dart out and in and wished he could swallow. “I did not mean to offend you. But…” She smiled a little sheepishly. ” Highland warriors oft shed their garments before going into battle, do they not? Surely you are accustomed to it.”

  “Accustomed.”

  “Aye.” She nodded curtly and cleared her throat. “‘Twas wise of you to share the bed.”

  He didn’t respond. She would have to survive for a few moments without his clever repartee, for he felt entirely uncertain of his ability to talk. His body felt as tight as a crossbow, arched and ready for action.

  “You must ache.” He stared at her.

  “You fought bravely,” she explained.

  “Oh.” It was difficult to breathe, but he managed it with a Herculean effort. “You speak of the battle.”

  “Aye.” She scowled a little as if he were daft, and it was entirely possible that he was, for he felt as dizzy as a dervish and as dense as a rock. “I am not sure I thanked you properly.”

  He could feel his heart beating in his chest and wondered if she could see it pounding there, for now and then she glanced down from his face.

  “Warriors are not always adept at…” She paused again. Her gaze darted lower, then she licked her bright lips and breathed through them for just a second. His erection thrummed to the rhythm. “I am not always good at expressing me gratitude.”

  She held her dirk against the mattress now, and her borrowed tunic drooped in that direction, covering her hand to the fingertips. It seemed a strangely erotic image. He stared, first at her fingers, then at her face, trying his damnedest to avoid everything in between, for if the truth be told, he could barely trust himself with those two innocuous body parts.

  She cleared her throat. “And what of you, MacGowan?”

  It took him a moment to realize she’d asked a question. “What’s that?” Perhaps quick-wittedness was not his forte, but he liked to think he was somewhat brighter than he sounded at that very moment.