Kiss her all over. A promise he’d made to himself that he’d broken when Comyn’s men had discovered them. But he was remembering it now. He wanted to strip her naked. Fill his hands with all that creamy flesh, bring it to his mouth, and suck each delicate pink nipple until it was berry red and throbbing tautly against his tongue.
He shifted, feeling a not-so-slow thickening in his braies. She was bent over him, her body achingly close, torturing him with her gentle touch. Her fingers smoothed the ointment over his wound, drawing small, caressing circles that only increased his ache.
Finally, when he didn’t think he could bear her closeness, her touch, the warm fresh scent of her another minute, she wrapped a clean cloth around his head and stepped back.
He nearly sighed with relief.
Her flushed cheeks told him he was not the only one affected. “Are you hurt anywhere else?”
“Nay—”
“He has a cut on his arm and some nasty-looking bruises on his stomach,” Boyd volunteered.
Lachlan shot him a death glare. He was going to kill Boyd for this. The bloody bastard knew exactly what kind of pain Lachlan was in right now.
Bella pursed her mouth. He couldn’t tell whether it was in anger or reluctance. “Let me see.”
He lifted his shirt to reveal the numerous blue, black, and red mottled bruises that had turned to one big, angry mass covering his entire right side.
She gasped, and then gave him a fierce scowl. “Why didn’t you say something? It looks as if you’ve broken some ribs. I could have wrapped them for you.”
He shrugged, trying not to wince. They were broken, all right. “There wasn’t time.”
She reached out, gently skimming her fingers over the tender flesh. He flinched when her hand dipped low on his stomach.
Her voice softened. “I’m sorry, did that hurt?”
Aye, but not in the way she meant. His cock was pressing against the ties of his braies, doing its damnedest to inch closer and closer to her hand. “A little,” he said gruffly.
She gave him a puzzled look. “I didn’t think I touched you that hard.”Hard. He groaned.Don’t say hard. The throbbing increased. “I’ll try to be more careful.” She paused, hesitating. “If you take off your shirt, I can see to the cut on your arm and bind your ribs.”
Lachlan swore he could hear Boyd smirking. “Are you going to sharpen that blade all night?” he bit out angrily. “Aren’t you supposed to be finding us a boat?”
Boyd didn’t bother hiding his amusement. He got to his feet slowly, sliding his sword back in the baldric at his back. “Aye, I’m going. It might take me a while,” he pointed out unnecessarily.
Lachlan was already painfully aware that he’d made a mistake. Boyd’s amusement was a hell of a lot safer than being alone with her. Before he could think of a way to call him back, the other man was gone.
Steeling himself for what was to come, Lachlan pulled his tunic over his head. The quicker this was over, the better.
She didn’t make a sound but went perfectly still. Jaw clenched, he kept his eyes straight ahead. Horror. Disgust. Pity. He didn’t want to see any of them. If she thought this was bad, she should see his back. But as it was, she stood in front of him and could see only the smattering of battle scars that crossed his chest and arms.
Growing impatient and wanting this torture to be over, he ventured a glance in her direction. It was a mistake. It wasn’t the scars, the cuts, or the bruises that had made her hesitate.
She was…
Hell, she was staring at his chest as if she were starving, and he was a platter of marzipan.
He swelled harder. He couldn’t take this. “Is something wrong?” he snapped.
She blushed and quickly averted her gaze. Picking up the salve, she began to tend the cut on his arm. It was a deep sword slice across his forearm from the Battle at Brander a couple of months ago, which had reopened at the hands, fists, and feet of Comyn’s men.
Having her hands on him was no easier the second time around. His nerve endings snapped and fired with every touch. He felt as if he were jumping out of his damned skin. Especially when her finger started a slow trace of the mark on his arm.
A few days ago he would have taken care to hide it. The lion rampant, the symbol of Scotland’s crown, set in a shield and encircled with the torquelike band of a spiderweb. It was the mark borne by all members of the Highland Guard. As many of the Guard had done, he’d personalized his, with two swords crossed behind the shield and a viper coiled in the web. She might not know it was the mark of the Guard, but the symbolism was clear.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” she asked.
He met her accusing stare. “I took an oath. Besides, it was—is—too dangerous.”
