“Such flattery, my lord. You do know how to charm a lady. I’ve always dreamed of being compared to a wart.”
“Or a mole.”
She laughed again. “Of course, how could I leave that out? Perhaps one day you might compose a chanson about it?”
“Tempt me enough, and I just might.”
“Why does it seem as if a gauntlet has just been thrown down?” She smiled mischievously. “How shall I tempt you?”
It took her a moment to realize what she’d said—and how it might be interpreted. That’s not what she meant. She meant tempt him by annoying him, which is what she seemed to have a talent for doing. But it could also have been meant flirtatiously.
She wasn’t flirtatious. And she wanted to tell him so, but if the flare of heat in his gaze was any indication, it was too late for that.
And just like that, the awkwardness and the tension returned full force. But it was a different kind of tension. It was the tension between two people who’d shared intimacy—passion—and were both remembering it.
CHAPTER THREE
As Randolph couldn’t very well tell her just how tempting he found her, he let the conversation drop. Fortunately, his Aunt Margaret Bruce (the youngest of Bruce’s sisters who was actually ten years younger than Randolph’s nine and twenty—his mother had been considerably older than her half-siblings) was seated on his left, and he spent most of the meal listening to her impressions of Edinburgh, which she was visiting for the first time.
At the outset of the war, the king’s two youngest sisters, Margaret and Matilda, had been sent to Bergen, Norway, where their eldest sister had been queen. The two girls had returned to Scotland a couple of years ago, but had remained in the north at Kildrummy Castle until recently.
As entertaining as his young aunt might be, however, Randolph spent most of the meal trying to pretend he wasn’t aware of every movement, every breath, every word coming out of the sinfully delicious mouth of the woman pressed up against his right side. Who would have thought that someone who could irritate him so profusely would taste so sweet?
Maybe if he hadn’t had that same softly curved body pressed up against his earlier in an even more intimate fashion, he wouldn’t be so conscious of how good she felt. He wouldn’t be so hot. And he wouldn’t remember how he’d hardened against her like a lad.
Christ. Just thinking about it made his face flush. To a man of his experience it was bloody humiliating.
But he hadn’t felt lust like that in a while. Hell, he couldn’t remembereverfeeling lust like that—although he was sure that he must have at some point. He frowned. Of course, he must have.
Still, the lack of control had been a surprise. As had been that kiss. How had it spun out of control so quickly? One minute he’d been thinking that he had to taste her, and the next he’d been thinking about wrapping her legs around his hips and swiving her senseless.
She’d been so warm and soft and surprisingly sweet, he’d found himself drowning. Melting. Losing all sense of time and place and right and wrong. He was about to ask her cousin to marry him, for Devil’s sake! What had he been thinking?
He knew exactly what he’d been thinking. He’d been thinking how good she felt, and how he wanted to feel all that soft warmth surrounding him.
But it was her passionate response that undid him.Thathe hadn’t anticipated. Although perhaps he should have. A woman who laughed so freely and with such ease would know how to find pleasure in life.
Find pleasure.He nearly groaned. An image of her lying in his bed—naked—with her hand stroking between her legs while he watched made him hard all over again.
Bloody hell, he shouldn’t be thinking things like that. Not when they were seated practically on top of one another. He shifted in his seat, but it didn’t do any good. They were still touching, and his cock was still rock hard and throbbing uncomfortably in his suddenly too-tight braies.
Damn these benches to hell! It seemed like half the nobles in the city were crammed around the long trestle table on the dais. There was one man in particular he wouldn’t mind knocking off, although until about a half hour ago, he’d considered Sir Gilbert de la Haye a good friend.
Lady Isabel laughed for what must have been the fifth or sixth time—not that he was counting, blast it!—and Randolph felt the muscles at the back of his neck bunch. What the Devil was de la Haye saying to her? Randolph had never known him to be so bloody amusing. The respected knight in the king’s retinue was about as stoic and serious as they came. But Lady Isabel seemed to find him hilarious.
Randolph gritted his teeth, but he couldn’t help listening. She had the most entrancing laugh. It was soft and soothing, like the gentle tinkle of water over rocks in a slow running burn. And there was something oddly contagious about it—something that made him want to laugh, too, despite his irritation.
Why the hell was he so irritated anyway? He should be glad she was trying to make the best of a decidedly awkward situation by shamelessly flirting with de la Haye. It was so obvious that she was trying to make him jealous. Randolph knew she could not be as immune to him as she was pretending—he’d seen that blush earlier.
Although she certainly wasn’t acting like she was aware of him at all right now. But that’s what it had to be—an act. She couldn’t be pressed up against him and not be thinking about that kiss. Not when he—who had far more experiences in these things—could think of nothing else.
She leaned over to listen to something de la Haye was saying in a low voice. The sly bastard had done it on purpose! The movement caused her bodice to shift, revealing at least another half inch of the perfect swell of her breasts. Randolph went rigid with rage when de la Haye glanced down into that deep cleft… Bloody hell, the blackguard! Randolph’s fist might have ended up through the other man’s teeth rather than squeezing around his goblet until his knuckles turned white if his aunt hadn’t said something.
“Is something wrong, nephew?” his aunt Margaret asked with a smile—she loved teasing him about her supposed position of seniority despite their differences in age. “I asked how the siege was going, but I guess you didn’t hear me?” She glanced at Lady Isabel with a little too much understanding.
The glance acted like a hard shake of sanity. What the hell was he doing? He’d given his word to Douglas that he would ask for his sister. He wouldn’t go back on that. He’d worked too hard to put past mistakes behind him and was careful about everything he did—extremely careful. Besides, Elizabeth Douglas was perfect for him and exactly what he wanted in a wife. She wasn’t just rich, beautiful, and well connected—all of which were important—she loved the excitement of court life as much as he did. She was well versed in many subjects, understood the politics of court, and would be an asset to his plans. He shouldn’t be dallying with her cousin. Admittedly, it wasn’t the first time he’d found himself in an unexpected passionate embrace with a woman, but he sure as hell didn’t go around ravishing virgins. Until today, that is.
He had to put a stop to this. If his aunt was noticing something between them, anyone could. At the first opportunity, he would talk to Lady Isabel and apologize. As young and inexperienced as she was, she was probably confused, and he didn’t want her to get the wrong idea about what had happened.
