“Looks like we had the same idea,” he said with a smile. “When I came back from returning the cart and you were gone, I thought you might have left.”
Was she imagining the relief in his voice? Had he been disappointed to think she’d left without saying good-bye? God, she was a fool.
She plastered what she hoped was a careless smile on her face and said, “I thought I’d better wash the worst of it off before I returned to the abbey, or they might bar the door against me.”
“Aye, even at camp where the stench is less than pleasant most of the time, I figured I’d better do the same.”
He knelt beside her. The rock wasn’t that big and his side brushed hers, as he washed his hands with the harsh efficiency she’d noticed of most soldiers and started to scoop water in his hands to splash over his face, not caring that he was getting his shirt wet.
It wasn’t fair, she thought to herself. Even after a day of hard labor in the garden, covered in dirt and dung, he was gorgeous. Maybe even more gorgeous than usual. There was something primitively appealing about this physical side of him—the raw masculinity of a hot, sweaty man.
He didn’t look so perfect, and she realized she liked it. She liked him like this.Like a man who knew how to get dirty.
Her body flushed. She shouldn’t think of that. It was dangerous. He was dangerous, and the intimacy of the situation certainly wasn’t helping. They were alone in a secluded section of the garden, washing side-by-side. It would be fine if he were her brother or—her flush intensified—her husband.
It felt a little too natural, a little too perfect, and a little too much like they should be in a bedchamber. There was a sensual undercurrent in the air that made her heart flutter and her belly quiver. Did he feel it as well?
She needed to do something to lighten the mood. To dispel the aura of intimacy that made her imagine how easy it would be to do this every day, and how easy it would be to fall into his arms again.
Brother.What would she do if he were her brother?
A wicked smile turned her mouth. She dipped her hands into the water and looked at him. “I think you missed a spot.”
As soon as he looked at her, she was ready. “I did?” he asked.
“Aye, right here.” With as much force as she could, she pushed her hands through the water and splashed him in the face.
CHAPTER FIVE
The dousing of cold water shocked the lust right out of him. Randolph had been struggling. He’d made the mistake of watching one stray drop of water make its way down her throat, to the bare skin above her bodice, and disappear between the deep cleft of her round breasts. He’d wanted to follow it with his tongue—wanted it with an intensity he didn’t understand. He’d wanted to watch the water slide all over her body and lick the cool droplets from her flushed skin. Suck it from the tip of the tiny nipples that were beading through her dress from the chill of the water.
Those prickled nipples did him in. He’d turned as hard as a rock. Desire surged like a thunderbolt of fire through his blood.
He’d been trying not to think about how easy it would be to pull her into his arms again when she spoke. But when the water came barreling at him a moment later, he couldn’t believe it. Bloody hell! She’d splashed him as if he were a lad of ten and not one of the most formidable knights in the land.
It wasn’t indignation that roared through his blood, however. He wasn’t just a knight; he was also a warrior. AHighlandwarrior whose first—only—instinct was to fight back and do what it took to win.
Shaking the water from his hair, he dipped his hands into the water. But the lass had obviously learned a thing or two from her always-fight-dirty Black Douglas cousin. Anticipating his retaliation, she put both her hands on him—not in the place he ached for her to touch, unfortunately—and gave him a big shove. Forward. Perched as he was on the edge of the rocks, he only had one place to go: right into the damned pond. A moment later he was covered in about four feet of water that was marginally warmer than freeze-your-bollocks-off cold.
The lass might not have realized it, but she’d just declared war. And as one of Robert the Bruce’s greatest knights, he had no intention of losing. Before he surfaced, a plan had already formed.
He stayed down at the silt bottom of the pond and didn’t come up for air. He was almost grateful for the training (torture) he’d experienced at the hands of the Highland Guard. Hawk had taken Randolph’s change of allegiance personally, and when he’d returned to the Bruce fold, he’d spent over a month in the Western Isles under Hawk’s command—most of that time spent in the icy cold water of the Irish Sea suffering and learning how to curse like a seafarer. He’d been a passable swimmer when he’d started, but by the time Hawk was done with him, Randolph could swim for miles in the open ocean, stay afloat in the harshest storm, and hold his breath underwater for four minutes—Hawk could do over five.
Although he was out of practice, Randolph figured the most he would need was three. But he’d barely counted to two when the shadow appeared over him. As he’d expected, she’d grown concerned that he couldn’t swim and was looking down into the water to see if he was all right.
He was ready. Moving too quickly for her to react, he sprang from the water, grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her in.
The yelp of surprise would have become a scream if he hadn’t dragged her down under with him. Once he was sure she was good and soaked, he brought them both up to the surface.
The sound of laughter was the first thing he heard as she twisted out of his hold and darted away from him. His hand latched around a slim ankle. She tried to kick free—losing a slipper in the effort, which he tossed back onto the rocks—but she was good and caught. Ignoring her laughing protests, he slowly wheeled her in.
Randolph couldn’t remember the last time he’d had this much fun or felt so carefree. That he was doing so during the siege—the most important test he’d ever been given by Bruce—was even more remarkable.
Sliding one arm around her waist, he hauled her tight against his body. She wasn’t getting away again; she was good and trapped in the ironclad bands of his arms. Every time she wriggled and pushed against his chest, his arms tightened. Their bodies were fused together, and even in the icy water he started to warm.
“Let go of me, you beast,” she said, laughing. “That wasn’t fair.”
Her face tilted to his and he felt like he’d been clobbered in the head with a poleaxe. God, she was lovely. With her hair slicked back and water streaming down her face, the delicateness of her bone structure was more evident. Her beauty was timeless, he realized. The kind of beauty that became more pronounced the longer he looked at her. He could look at her a long time.Maybe forever.
