Aye, she’d heard it. Loudly. Dear God, how could she have been so mistaken? Was this just another example of her barreling down the mountain like a rolling stone? Had she imagined something that wasn’t there?
Her lower lip trembled. Her shoulders shook. The tears began to flow. Oh God, she had to get out of there!
She heard him call after her and would have ignored him if he hadn’t caught her arm.
“Let go of me!” She tried to shrug him off, not wanting him to see her cry. Not wanting him to see how badly he’d hurt her. Could he not leave her one shred of pride?
Apparently not. He wouldn’t let her go; his big warrior’s hand closed around her upper arm like a steel manacle. He spun her around so she was facing him, but she wouldn’t look up. She kept her gaze pinned to the embroidered neck of his linen tunic. But even that hurt. It tied at the neck, and she found herself staring at the dark patch of skin underneath. Skin that she still wanted to touch.
The heat of his body enveloped her. Cruelly. Teasingly. Taunting her with memories of things that would not be.
“I don’t want to hurt you.”
She gave a sharp laugh that came out as more of a broken sob. It was rather late for that. “Then what do you want, Ewen?” She looked up into his eyes, a flash of reckless anger restoring some of her boldness. “Oh, wait. I know what you want.” She leaned her body into his, her nerve-endings sizzling at the contact. But desire wasn’t love. “How could I have confused this for anything else?”
He made a harsh groan, twisting her arm around to cinch her in even tighter against him, although she didn’t think he was aware of what he’d done. “Stop it, Janet. That isn’t true.”
His face was a dark, tortured mask. His mouth a hard line, his eyes chips of steel, his jaw clenched.
Her heart seized. She hated him for making her want him so much. For every one of the hard muscles pressed against her that made her body heat, even now. For being so handsome it made her heart ache to look at him. For making her lose sight of her plan and believe even for a moment in faerie tales. And most of all for not loving her back.
“What isn’t true?” she taunted. “That you don’t want me?” She pressed her hips against him. “I’d say your body disagrees.” Her eyes bored into his. She was shaking with anger, frustration, and hurt. She wanted to lash out. She wanted to hurt him just as badly as he’d hurt her. “But you know what, Ewen? That is no longer enough for me. I no longer want you. So let me go!”
Panic rose hard and hot inside him. She meant it. Ewen could see it in her eyes. She didn’t want him anymore. He’d pushed her away one too many times. It was what he wanted, wasn’t it? He’d thought so. But as they stood there pinned together, sparks of anger and desire clashing between them in a fierce battle of wills, he knew he couldn’t let her go. If he let her walk away now, it would be too late. He would lose her. She would never come back. It would be over.
He could fight desire—he might have even been able to win—but he couldn’t fight the fear wrought by thoughts of a future without her. She’d battered down his defenses until he just couldn’t fight it anymore.
To hell with it. His mouth covered hers in a hot, possessive kiss meant to leave her no doubt of his intentions. He was going to make her belong to him, in the only way he could. For the first time, Ewen didn’t hold anything back, giving his desire free rein.
He proved her a liar with his lips and tongue, entreating—nay, demanding—with each deft stroke, until she was returning his kiss with as much heat and passion as burned inside him. She did want him.
The plaid she was clutching—his plaid—fell into a pool at their feet as her arms circled around his neck. Her tiny body stretched out against his and he sank into her, breathing her in in hot, heavy draws.
It was incredible. Her warmth. Her softness. The heady scent of her hair. He delved deeper, fitting her body into his, digging his hand through the silky golden strands to cup her head, and sinking his tongue deeper and deeper into the sweet, warm cavern of her mouth.
He couldn’t get enough. His mouth was ravenous for her taste, his hands eager to roam every inch of her, and his body aching for more pressure.
She moaned and shuddered, her tiny fingers clutching—digging—into his shoulders, visceral proof of how much she wanted him.
A bolt of heat struck hard in his groin, filling him. Making him swell. Throb. Bead.
He wasn’t going to last.
Sweeping her into his arms, he carried her over to the pallet. He broke the kiss only long enough to set her down and tear off his shirt before coming down beside her.
Her eyes widened, traveling over the spans of bare skin. Nay, “traveling” wasn’t quite right. “Feasting on” was perhaps more accurate. He was not unaccustomed to women admiring the effects of warfare on his body, but with her it was different. With her, it mattered.
“My God, you’re beautiful,” she blurted.
He smiled. “Warriors aren’t beautiful, lass. I thought you were good with words?”
She blushed, even though she knew he was teasing her. “Very well, ‘perfect’ then.” Her eyes went to the cut he’d suffered in the battle with the English the previous morning. “The wound does not hurt?” He shook his head. As he’d told her, it was no more than a scratch. “What is this?” she asked, outlining the mark that bound the Highland Guard on his other arm with her finger.
Ah hell. “Nothing.”
She ignored him. “It’s the Lion Rampant with some kind of band and inscription.” She squinted in the candlelight. “Or inveniam viam. ‘I shall find a way,’ she translated. “Fitting for a tracker. It sounds like the inscription for a sword.”
“It is,” he said. He had the same mark on his sword. The Lion Rampant tattoo, encircled with the torque-like band of a spiderweb, was the mark used to identify each member of the Highland Guard. But many of the warriors had personalized it with weaponry or mottos. Ewen had done both. He had two pikes crossed behind the lion and the inscription on his sword below.
