He laughed, making her feel naive again. “Everyone is capable of betrayal, Bella, everyone. It’s only a matter of finding your weakness.”
“So it’s better to live your life in fear? To cut yourself off from everyone so that no one can ever hurt you?”
He gave her a hard look. “It’s not me I’m thinking about.”
His men, she realized.He’s still punishing himself for the deaths of his men.
Her eyes widened. A mad thought stole into her brain. No. It wasn’t possible. But the thought, once formed, could not be dislodged. It was something he’d said right before he’d shattered inside her. Something she’d barely noticed at the time but had recalled when he’d been talking about his wife.
She took a step closer, forcing him to look up at her. “Lachlan, when you said ‘too long,’ what did you mean?”
He turned away. His gaze fixed in the firelight. His voice was low and rough. “I haven’t been with a woman for a while.”
Her heart picked up speed. “How long is a while?”
He turned back to her, his handsome face painfully still. “Since my wife died.”
“But that was…”
“Ten years ago,” he finished flatly.
Bella couldn’t believe it. How could a man who exuded virility have existed like a monk?
She must have voiced her question aloud without realizing it. He laughed harshly, giving her a pointed look. “There are other ways to find release.” She blushed, realizing he was talking about pleasuring himself. “I was busy fighting most of the time. It wasn’t difficult until recently.” The heat in her cheeks intensified—he was talking about her. He shrugged. “It isn’t all that unusual. There are the Templars, for example. Many warriors believe it adds to their strength.”
He tried to fob it off as nothing, but she knew it didn’t have anything to do with religion or his warrior’s strength. “How long are you going to keep punishing yourself, Lachlan?” she asked quietly.
“I’m not punishing myself.” He gave her a suggestive look. “Or don’t you remember?”
“I remember,” she said huskily. Only too well. Her body burned with the memory.
He held her gaze in the firelight. Night had fallen as they spoke, and the old stone building had grown darker. More intimate. More dangerous.
She was painfully aware of how close they stood, and how easy it would be to reach out and put her hands on his naked chest. A naked chest that had taken her breath away. She’d never seen anything so magnificent. Powerfully built from years of living by the sword, every inch of his lightly tanned flesh had been honed to perfection. Broad-shouldered, arms stacked with layers of bulging muscle, not an ounce of extra flesh marred the hard planes of his chest and tightly banded stomach. All she could think about was putting her hands on him and feeling all that strength under her touch.
Realizing she was staring, she lifted her gaze back up to his. His eyes glowed dangerously. “It’s not a good idea, Bella.”
The soft warning in his voice didn’t give her pause. She thought she’d be content with passion, but she was wrong. She wanted more. Much more. He cared for her, and she intended to prove it. “Why?”
“I’ve nothing more to offer you.”
But he did. If only he would see it. She put her hands on him, feeling a blast of heat shoot through her. Lightning. It was as if she were harnessing lightning. Her nerve endings snapped at the contact, the hard, warm flesh singeing her palms. She could feel the muscles straining under her fingertips. Fighting to be set free.
God, how she wanted him!
The muscle at his neck stood out like a taut rope. His fists clenched at his side. “It won’t change anything,” he warned.
But it already had for her.
She’d take the chance. Bella had never shirked from a fight, and she wouldn’t start now. Without another thought, she leaned down and pressed her lips to his.
Seventeen
He pulled her down on his lap and kissed her. Kissed her in a way that seemed to reach down to her toes, claiming every inch in between. It was both hot and possessive, less furious and frantic than before but every bit as passionate.
Bella gave herself over to his seduction. God, did he know how to kiss! Each skilled stroke of his tongue, each smooth caress of his lips, seemed calculated to draw her in deeper, eliciting every ounce of pleasure from her that he could and leaving her weak and boneless as a poppet of rags.
Herpleasure. A bubble of warmth rose and burst inside her. He cared about her pleasure. It wasn’t just lust—not in the way she knew it. Tender was the last word she would use to describe Lachlan MacRuairi. Yet when he held her in his arms and kissed her, tenderness is what she felt.
