Another shiver tore through her before she could stop it.
There was movement at her side. Apparently, Ciaran wasn’t fully asleep either. The weight of the plaid shifted as he raised his arm, curving it around her shoulders, settling it warm and solid around her.
She stiffened, but only with surprise, not anything else. It wasn’t tender, not exactly, not affectionate at all. But it was shelter, and kindness, and it stunned her all the same. He said nothing, did nothing more than pull her into his side, sharing his body heat. To Claire, in that moment, in that bleak darkness, it felt like an epic gesture.
“Thank you,” she murmured, less weary than even thirty seconds ago.
Claire allowed herself to lean, just a little. Her head came to rest against the curve of his shoulder, the hard muscle beneath his tunic gorgeously unforgiving. The warmth radiating from him seeped slowly into her bones, and she breathed more easily for the first time in hours. Oh, this was so much better.
The minutes trickled past, and nothing more was said. His breathing deepened, though she suspected he still wasn’t truly asleep, just resting with the vigilance of a man who had spent a third of his life in war.
She dozed again herself and when next she woke, she realized the rain had finally stopped.
She turned her face against his shoulder, whispering, “It’s not raining anymore.”
He was awake again or still, it seemed, and nodded against the mud wall. “Nae. Stopped about a quarter hour ago.”
“What time do you think it is?” She asked, letting her head fall back more on his shoulder, still looking up at him.
“I’m nae sure,” he admitted. “Well past midnight, I imagine, even though my arse says several days have gone by.”
Her lips curved faintly at his answer, since her butt was cold and numb as well. Her gaze lingered on his face in the dimness. For a long while he didn’t move, only sat with the stillness of a man used to keeping vigil. And then, slowly, he turned his head, the faintest motion, until she felt the weight of his eyes upon her.
She tipped her face further upward. In the dark she could scarcely see more than the pale glint of his gaze, yet the moment stretched, seemingly momentous, all things considered. She felt it more than saw it, the quiet intensity of his gaze, the awareness of being pressed so close, wrapped in the same length of wool, breathing the same chilled air. Her chest tightened with a breath of anticipation, her pulse beginning to thrum.
Then he bent his head, hesitant at first, pausing for a long moment, before he lowered his mouth to hers, brushing hers in a touch so fleeting it might have been imagined. But it wasn’t. She felt the warmth of him, the tremor of restraint. Claire froze. She totally hadn’t seen that coming. My God—had it been that long since she’d had a first kiss from a man that she hadn’t picked up on the vibe? Her stomach swooped, her breath snagged. She hadn’t kissed another man in ten years, none but her husband. And those had been few and far between of late, almost perfunctory—certainly not like this, with the thrill of anticipation.
He was as still as she after that first cautious foray. But she didn’t turn away; their mouths remained only an inch apart, and Claire’s pulse leapt when he read into her invitation—if she hadn’t wanted him to kiss her more, again, better, she’d have turned away from him, would have lowered her face.
His lips found hers again, still in exploration mode, learning and feeling, this kiss slow and thoughtful, in complete contrast to the thudding of Claire’s heart. The kiss deepened an instant later, tentative giving way to hunger, his lips pressing harder, coaxing hers apart. Her breath caught, then fled entirely as she leaned into him, answering with equal fervor.
Claire didn’t want him to stop. She opened her mouth and covered his lips and felt she should thank him at some point for acting on such a fabulous idea. With a gruff snarl, he turned into her, opening his mouth, driving his tongue against hers.She answered eagerly, swirling her tongue around his, breathing something—joy? desire? thankfulness?—into the kiss.
Heat surged through her, chasing away the chill. Her hand rose, fisting lightly against his chest, seeking more, craving the solidity of him. The plaid shifted as she angled closer, caught up in the sudden, breathless fire of it.
Without thinking, she slid her hand along his arm, wanting to crawl up against him.
The response was immediate. His body jerked, stiffened; a sharp sound tore from his throat. He wrenched back just enough, and cursed, low and ragged. “Jesu!”
The word shattered the fragile cocoon of heat between them, leaving only the harsh rasp of their breaths and the echo of what had almost been.
“Oh, shit—I’m sorry.” The apology tumbled out unconsciously, her voice breathless and unsteady. She winced at the sharpness of his curse, at the pain she’d caused him yet again, having pulled at his injured arm. Trouble seemed to trail her at every step, and now she’d managed to ruin even this.
And still... still, her heart thundered. Beneath the guilt and self-reproach was a wild, undeniable thrill. He had kissed her. Ciaran Kerr, all scowls and steel, had actually kissed her. For one crazy, impossible moment, he hadn’t been untouchable. He’d wanted her. The thought sang through her veins even as so much guilt cluttered her brain as well.
Oh, but she’d definitely ruined it.
He shifted away, careful of his injured arm, the plaid pulling loose between them. His breath was a bit ragged, as was hers, but his voice came out low and steady, very firm. “Best ye get some rest.”
Claire’s eyes widened as she jerked her face from him, sitting stiffly, his arm still draped around her.
Oh, my God. And now they were going to pretend that hadn’t just happened?
She was expected to ignore the way the ground had all but tilted under her?
Shit, how utterly humiliating.
She sat frozen, her lips still tingling, her heart drumming in her throat. His kiss had been a gut-punch, in the best, most confusing way.
