“I don’t think you should leave,” she argued. “You haven’t healed enough, and—”
“I’m well enough to handle any threat to you.” He started to return to the tower, presumably to speak with his brother, when he stopped short and turned back around. “I owe my life to you, Lady Harkirk. And my daughter’s. If anyone dares to speak against you, he won’t live to see the dawn.” The vow was spoken with an edge of deadly intent.
A lump rose up in her throat, for no man had ever offered his life for hers or promised to keep her safe. Her cheeks were heated, but Alys took a step closer. “I’d rather you didn’t ride into their camp. We should leave this fortress so that no one will find us.”
“What of your family? Won’t they search for you when they learn what’s happened to Harkirk?”
“I am nothing but a pawn to my father. And my other sisters are wedded with families of their own.”
Finian reached out to take her hands. His palms were rough but warm. “Whatever is in my power to give you, I will grant. If you want to live among my clan, you may. Or if you’d rather I escorted you somewhere else, I will do so.”
She tightened her grip upon his hands in silent thanks. “I will go with you and your men for now. And make my decision later.”
When she tried to pull back, he kept her hands a moment longer. “Last night,” he murmured, “I was caught up in a vision that I believed was only in my mind. I don’t even know if I hurt you, but if I did—”
“You didn’t,” she answered, her face burning with shame. “You didn’t even know who I was. It was a mistake, and just as much my fault, since I fell asleep at your side.”
He let out a breath, and she saw the guilt and remorse upon his face. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I ask for your forgiveness.”
She lowered her head, trying to find the right words. He believed he’d harmed her, but in truth, she’d never felt such desire in all her life. Pulling her hands back, she gathered the pieces of her courage and faced him.
“No man ever touched me in that way before,” she admitted, covering her cheeks with her palms. “I didn’t know . . . that anything could feel like that. You gave me a gift.”
He stared at her, and Alys fled his side, unable to wait for a reply. She’d told him the truth, though it had speared her pride to admit it. The few moments when he’d caressed her skin, drawing out such a feverish lust, had burned within her until she couldn’t stop thinking of him.
She strode within the tower, passing by his brother and kinsmen without a word. Hurrying up the stone stairs, she sat down near the curving edge and buried her face in her lap.
Whyhad she said anything to him? She should have kept silent, pretending that the moment had never happened. But Finian MacLachor had a strong presence that drew her close. He’d offered her anything within his power to give. And when she’d caught him watching her, he looked upon her as if she were an angel. He wouldn’t understand the sinful thoughts running through her mind right now.
Below stairs, she heard him talking to his brothers, and they armed themselves. No doubt they would pursue Sir Geoffrey and find the English camp. She didn’t know whether to be grateful for it or even more afraid.
Footsteps resounded upon the stone stairs, and Alys raised her head to find Finian approaching. She started to stand, but he motioned her down. Instead, he held back, one hand on the wall, the other upon the curving steps above him.
“Did your husband hurt you within your marriage bed?” he asked.
“Sometimes.” She hid her face from him, turning toward the wall. “I was his possession. Never a wife that he cared about.”
Finian moved closer, resting his hands upon the stair above her. With both arms surrounding her, she was caught in an embrace. “He was blind to what he had.”
He leaned in until his face was only a slight distance away. Though he did nothing more than look at her, Alys saw the unspoken desire in his eyes. He was studying her as if he wanted to remember her face.
Just as she wanted to remember his. She understood that whatever silent bonds had formed, there could be no future between them . His dark hair hung down to his shoulders, his gray eyes burning into hers. She knew the feeling of his firm muscles from smoothing the salve upon his back. Even now, the faint scent of the healing herbs emanated from his skin.
“Are you angry with me . . . for touching you?” he asked huskily.
In answer, she raised her mouth to his and kissed him. Finian let out a shuddering breath and took her lips with his. He bent her back against the stairs, claiming the kiss like a man who had waited all his life for her.
She held on to his shoulders, arching back against the stairs as he devoured her mouth. The heated desire flooded through her body, warming her skin and making her crave his bare skin upon hers.
She needed this. Though she couldn’t understand why she wanted this wild, barbarian Scot, he made her feel . . . almost beloved. When his tongue swept against hers, she clung to him while he cradled her torso to protect her from the harsh stairs.
When he drew back, her lips were swollen and tingling. She saw the fierce need within his expression, and it made her feel vulnerable. Before she could stop herself, a question blurted forth. “Did you love your wife?”
“We were friends,” Finian said. “Gillian and I were companionable enough. Our fathers arranged the marriage between us. We were wed a year before she died giving birth to Iliana.” He reached out to draw her up. “For a time, I blamed myself for her death.”
“There was nothing you could do, was there?”
He shook his head. Alys rested against the wall, her knees feeling shaken by the encounter. When he gently touched her face, she admitted, “I don’t know why I kissed you.”
