There were pauses in the violent shaking now.
“I think it’s working,” he said, smiling up at his captains. The apples were back in Leland’s cheeks. Duncan ruffled Jamie’s hair. Kincaid nodded, but continued to watch.
Tearloch turned back to the woman in his arms, and suddenly realizedthere was a woman in his arms!How long had it been? He couldn’t recall. Before Macbeth’s defeat? No, just after. A year ago, then. He vaguely remembered the impish grin of an innkeeper’s daughter.
The woman’s breathing was calmer, almost normal. Her head tipped back to rest on his arm. His hand lingered on the side of her neck and his fingers itched to stroke the smooth skin there. He slid it forward, feeling the pulse at the base of her throat. Her lips parted. Her neck lay exposed. His arm that crossed in front of her registered the feel of her bosom.
This was no imposition. He’d hold her through the night if necessary…
Ever so slightly, she sighed but still didn’t wake.
He bent over her. No longer concerned with spectators or who she was, he lowered his mouth onto her perfectly sculptedlips. It was the most natural movement he’d ever made. She tasted even better than he had imagined she could, sweet and warm with a flavor that appeased a long-denied hunger—a flavor made for him alone. He sipped lightly, savoring, coming to his senses only when a hand stopped his progress across her chest, and he realized…
…the hand was hers.
A voice over his shoulder. “By the Rood, he’s kissed her!”
Tearloch put off opening his eyes as long as possible, then slowly lifted his lids. To his relief, the eyes he gazed into were not filled with outrage, but with wonder. And yet again, he was lost to all coherent thought.
“He was just tryin’ to warm ye, my lady. I wanted to loosen yer clothes—so ye could breathe easier, mind ye—” Leland’s explanation ended on a grunt, thankfully.
The cursing had come from Duncan and Tearloch looked up to see the older man had discreetly turned his back. Jamie and Kincaid watched avidly, their mouths hanging like their lower jaws were made of gold, far too heavy to hold up. Leland was rubbing his side and exchanging disgruntled stares with Monroe, a promise of a skirmish to come.
Duncan turned back around, his face reflecting the orange of the lowering sun as it fought to stay afloat in a heather-tinged horizon.
Just when he thought he could find his tongue to apologize, Tearloch turned his head back to the lass, only to find her eyes closed once more. With slight hesitation, he gave in to the urge to kiss her again and leaned down.
“Now dinnae start that again, laddie.” Only Duncan called him laddie, or lad, addressing him as Commander outside their small company. “I ken she’s a bonnie thing, but ‘tis not proper to take advantage.”
“Aye, Sir. Wait until she wakes so she can kiss ye back. I’ve found it much more pleasant that way.” Leland, too helpful by half.
“I thought it quite pleasant already,” Tearloch murmured quietly to the sleeping maid, only to catch the slightest twitch of a smile that disappeared so quickly he may have imagined it. To test her, he added, “but I may as well have my fill. What she does not ken cannae harm her.”
Outraged brown eyes flashed open and she pulled from his embrace, the plaid slipping from her shoulders. Every eye fell to her breast where she still held Tearloch’s arm against her.
She threw the limb aside and cleared her throat.
Eyes darted away and faces flushed.
She lifted a fist to wipe her knuckles across her lips, feigning fury. Her pose would have been much more effective, though, had she not been sitting in the middle of the road, her legs straight in front of her. She resembled more of an angry hen, refusing to surrender her egg.
Her eyes once more narrowed on Tearloch. “Aye, but whatyoudo not ken may well harmyou, sir.”
“Ouch. The lady bites, Commander.” Leland said with a laugh. “Lucky bastard.”
With no expression at all on his face, the towering Kincaid gave one smooth shove to the short, square man’s shoulder, and Leland went flying into a stationery horse. Both man and animal grunted, stamped their feet, and moved further away from the sober captain.
A fight with Monroe was one thing. Fighting Kincaid was quite another.
Tearloch stood, pulling the spitfire up with him. He turned her and brushed the dust from the back of her rump with two hard swipes that were more of a spanking. He released her when she would have pulled away from him, and she spun freely ina circle, her fists flailing without purchase, then landing on her hips.
“How dare you!”
He sought an immediate remedy for his suddenly mute tongue. Touching her had worked before, he had to try it again. He wanted desperately to speak normally with all eyes on him.
Ever so casually, he closed the distance and dropped a hand on her shoulder. The usual stone tongue in his mouth softened instantly. “I, my lady? I dare anything I like.” He moved a menacing inch closer, but she stood her ground. “Until I hand ye to the king,ye’re mine.”
Her hand came up and whisked his hand off her shoulder when he’d been prepared for a slap to the face. She was not intimidated in the least! But since intimidation was his best weapon, he was lost. He had no clever words, no pretty phrases that might soften her toward him.
