She froze, like the deer in the clearing, and Conall could not help but note the similarities: slender, long-legged, skittish beauty…
“My hair?” she asked, her alarm and confusion obvious in her tone.
But Conall ignored it, stepping within reach of her, somehow restraining himself from touching her.
“When you’ve finished,” he offered, his eyes devouring the sight of her dewy skin where a sheen of perspiration glistened along her hairline. “I could rinse your hair with the wash water. I used to do so for Nonna when ’twas too cold to bathe outdoors.”
Eve stiffened. “Nonna was your wife?”
“Aye.” Conall wondered for a moment if it was a mistake to mention Nonna, but he wanted Eve to begin to understand what he was asking. He wanted to touch her, wanted her leave for him to do so.
“I don’t think that’s wise, MacKerrick,” Eve said, and Conall took the way her voice had gone breathy as a favorable sign. Her face was still turned partially toward him, but now her gaze dropped to the flagstones.
“Why, lass?” he asked quietly, taking a slow step toward her. If he but raised a hand, his fingertips would graze her back now, he was so near. “I willna hurt you.” His hand twitched and he let it brush across the ends of her hair, just enough so that she could feel his touch. He saw her shoulders rise slightly with an intake of breath. “If you doona like it, I’ll stop.”
“MacKerrick, I—”
“Eve,” he said, cutting her off as he bent to one knee behind her. His face was now near hers and she turned her head minutely toward him, although her eyes still would not meet his. Then Conall did let his hand go to her hair, grasping a handful of it gently and stroking it once to its end. “Let me,” he said in a whisper, the tendrils around her ear fluttering beneath his breath.
He brought his hand up again and let his fingers comb jerkily, lightly through the length of snarls. “I’ll be gentle,” he said, his own breath coming heavier as he realized the double meaning behind his promise.
His hand came up again and Conall let his fingertips grasp Eve’s scalp, massaging beneath her soft, silky hair. Her eyes fluttered closed.
“Slide the bowl to me,” he directed softly and was surprised when he heard the scrape of the wooden vessel on the flagstones. Eve had pushed it to the side with one foot, the rag floating in it limply.
Conall reached down and pulled the bowl closer, then lifted the soaking rag. With his other hand he grasped her hair again and tugged. Eve’s head dropped back slightly, exposing her neck. Conall raised the rag and squeezed it over her crown, repeated the movement until her hair was thick and dark with water. Then he began to rub her scalp, press the length of her tresses between his fingers, sluicing the water down and out.
She sighed and Conall looked down to see one pale knee peeking out of the cloak. He began to rub Eve’s scalp again, letting his fingertips trail to her hairline at her nape, wrapping his fingers around her warm skin and massaging.
When Eve gave a little hum of pleasure, ’twas all Conall could do to keep from dragging her from the stool backward into his arms. His whole body shook with desire, the smell of the lavender oil warmed by her body making him drunk. ’Twas Conall who was supposed to be seducing Eve, but without any effort at all, the lass had bewitched him in his own game.
He dropped his mouth near her ear. “Eve,” he whispered and felt her shiver.
“Hmmm?” Her eyes remained closed and Conall saw her hands fisted in the black wool of the cloak.
“Does it feel good?” He let go of her for an instant to retrieve the bowl and her head raised, her eyes opened.
“Yea, thank you, MacK—”
Conall grabbed the wet rope of her hair and pulled, more roughly this time, dropping Eve’s head back once more. She gasped.
“I’m nae finished,” he warned quietly.
Her throat convulsed as she swallowed, glancing up at him through her lashes. He might have seen a flash of fear. Her eyes flitted away.
Conall poured the scant bit of water over her hair, liking the primitive sound it made on the stones. Some of it ran down the sides of her face, her neck, inside the cloak. Conall set the bowl aside and ran his fists hand over hand down her hair, squeezing the water from it. Then slowly, deliberately, starting from the bottom, he wound Eve’s hair around his palm, over and over until his fist rested against her exposed nape. Her head was now drawn back fully and she whimpered.
Her breasts rose and fell quietly, rapidly, and Conall brought his mouth to her ear once more.
“Eve,” he whispered. “I want to marry you.”
Her eyelids fluttered open and she looked at him from the corner of her eye.
“I want you”—Conall tugged her head back even farther, bringing the soft skin behind her ear to a hairsbreadth from his lips—“to be my wife. Do you understand, lass?”
She squeezed her eyes closed again and Conall could not resist pressing his lips to the curve of her jaw near her earlobe—so soft and warm there. His breath swirled in the hollow of her neck. He pulled her back gently but surely by her hair, until her shoulders rested against his chest, and skimmed his lips down her neck, damp with the fragrant oil. He flicked out his tongue for the tiniest taste.
“MacKerrick,” she said, her voice low and choked.
