She opened for him, instinctively, and he caught her bottom lip between his teeth, biting just enough to make her gasp again, to make her forget to care about anything. She gasped against his lips, her hands coming up instinctively, clutching athis tunic as he devoured her with his kiss. There was no trace of the careful, disciplined Jacob she had known—only hunger sharpened possibly by years of restraint.
From this moment on, neither of them could pretend otherwise.
Elena melted into him, her hands fisting the heavy cloth at his chest, her senses reeling at the ferocity of his need. The stone wall at her back did not exist. The frostbitten field and the keep behind her faded to nothing. There was only the heat of his mouth, the taste of him—clean and wild and wholly unfamiliar—and the wild thud of her own heart, so loud she felt sure he could sense it through her lips.
She had never been kissed before, but had imagined gentleness, courtesy, perhaps even some measure of reverence—but this was not gentle, was nothing near polite.
Jacob’s body was hot and solid, and Elena was precisely aware of everywhere they touched. She felt his breath shudder against her cheek, and she exulted in the realization that she could do this to him, that he was not made of stone after all.
She clung to him, her own hands greedy, desperate, tracing the hard line of his shoulder, the nape of his neck, the unfamiliar grain of his hair beneath her fingers. She wanted to know all of him at once, to imprint the sensation of him on every sense she possessed, forever, his touch, his scent, the way he kissed her as though he’d been starving for just this.
Eventually, the kiss slowed. Jacob’s thumb stroked at her cheek, shaky and tender, even as the rest of him was all heat and iron-hard tension. For a moment, she let herself believe that this was how it would be—no more hiding or wondering, only the clarity of being wanted, fiercely and without apology.
When he finally broke away, it was only enough to breathe, his forehead resting against hers, his breath uneven, his grip still iron at her back, as if letting go was no longer an option.
Elena reveled with delight, believing that there was no going back from this.
Then Jacob went utterly still with alertness.
He straightened and stepped back, leaving Elena against the wall still. His gaze slid sharply to the left, toward the postern arch.
She turned instinctively, following his line of sight.
A man stood just inside the open gate.
He was Lowland by cut and bearing, neatly dressed in a dark wool cotehardie trimmed modestly at the collar, his hair oiled and combed flat against his skull. He was no soldier—no weapon at his hip, no mail beneath his clothes—but a minor lord or steward by the look of him. Elena thought she recognized him as Sir Andrew Kinnard, a cousin twice removed to one of Hamilton’s bannermen.
At present, he stared. His mouth hung open slightly, his eyes wide, fixed not on Jacob but on her, skimming over her heaving chest and flushed cheeks, and her kiss-swollen lips.
For the briefest moment, no one moved.
Then Sir Andrew flushed, color rushing up beneath his pale skin. He looked away as though burned, took one step back, then another, retreating through the gate with awkward haste. The door scraped stone as he pulled it shut behind him—not slammed, but closed with enough urgency to carry meaning.
The silence that followed rang louder than the kiss.
Elena’s heart slammed into her ribs, a cold rush chasing the heat from her limbs. Panic surged—bright, immediate, terrifying in its clarity.
Jacob swore under his breath. His face had hardened, jaw set, possibly already calculating what would come next.
“Elena,” he said low and fast, stepping back just far enough to put more space between them, “go inside. Now.”
She swallowed. “Jacob—”
“Go,” he cut in, not unkindly but without room for argument. “Straight to yer chamber. Ye stay until either yer father or yer mother comes for ye—or I do. D’ye understand me?”
She nodded, though her legs felt unsteady beneath her.
She walked quickly, head high, and turned only once, to see Jacob turn toward the postern gate and exit hastily.
JACOB WAITED ONLY LONGenough to be certain Elena had gone.
Then he turned back to the postern gate and stepped through it himself, eyes scanning the narrow path beyond, half-expecting to see Kinnard scampering with haste to spread word of their forbidden kiss, but he was nowhere in sight.
Which meant the damage could not be stopped, not that Jacob had any idea how that might have been accomplished.
Swearing under his breath, he pulled the gate shut behind him with more force than necessary.
He should have known better—he did know better!
