Magnus knew that he had better do something if he didn’t want to be fighting the urge to slam his fist into jaws all day. He thought he’d been so clever, coming up with the idea of the ale.
But he’d miscalculated. Badly. He hadn’t anticipated the effect of wet fabric.
Jesus, his mouth went dry just thinking about it. The heaviness. The roundness. The faint, wrinkly edge around the perfect bud of a nipple. He ached to slide his finger over the soft ridges. To lower his head, put his lips around the taut tip, and suck every last bit of ale from her skin.
His cock swelled, throbbing at the memory.
Hell, he’d go to bed with every inch of that incredible breast emblazoned on his mind. And he knew that as he’d done many nights before, he’d take himself in hand and try to take the edge off.
But the edginess only got worse over the next few days. His hand didn’t help. Working himself senseless on the practice field didn’t help. Nothing helped.
Helen had found his weakness and took every opportunity she could find to test him. Brushing up against him. Dropping things at his feet so she could bend over and pick them up. Reaching for anything she could on high shelves.
He’d never known her to take an interest in needlework, but it seemed as if every gown she wore had been taken down two inches in the neck and taken in two inches everywhere else. He was surprised she could breathe, they were so bloody tight.
But it wasn’t just the clothing—or lack thereof—that was driving him into a frenzy. Far more dangerous was the open, honest desire he saw in her eyes.
Bloody hell, couldn’t she at least try to hide it? Show some proper decorum for once? But artifice wasn’t Helen’s way. It never had been. She wanted him, and he could see it in her eyes every time she looked at him. Resisting that had stretched him to the limit.
Thank God, the end was in sight. The king had recovered, Magnus had kept his word to Gordon, and Helen wasn’t in any danger. He could leave with a clear conscience.
But his conscience wasn’t clear. Something nagged at him. A vague uneasiness that he attributed to being so long under his enemy’s roof.
He was hardly objective when it came to the Sutherlands, but he didn’t trust them. Bruce might think them loyal subjects, but Magnus wasn’t so easily convinced. Swallowing pride wasn’t part of the Highland creed. Vengeance. Retribution. An eye for an eye. Those were the mother’s milk of Highland warriors.
But suspicion and lifelong enmity weren’t enough to jeopardize the tentative alliance with the Sutherlands that Bruce had fought so hard to win. The betrothal between the king’s sister and the earl was all but agreed upon.
Magnus had survived the past few years by instinct, and pushing it aside didn’t sit well.
So as he did every day, he took his frustrations out on the practice field on a series of opponents, including Munro. Unable to properly quiet his taunts by beating him into the ground, Magnus was in a foul temper by the time the king called the day’s “exercises” complete. Holding back—whether on the lists or every time Helen looked up at him with those take-me-in-your-arms-and-ravish-me eyes—left him feeling like a lion in a very small cage.
The last thing he needed was Kenneth Sutherland tossing oil on the flames of his discontent. If it weren’t so dangerous, Magnus might actually admire the bastard’s tenacity.
Magnus was returning his arsenal of weaponry to the armory for storage when Helen’s brother cornered him. “Munro gave you an opening, why didn’t you take it?”
Magnus turned around slowly. “I would have, if I’d seen it in time.”
Sutherland shook his head. “You pulled back. I saw you.”
Magnus shrugged. “It’s nice to know I have such an admirer in the Sutherland ranks. I’m flattered by your appreciation of my skill. Perhaps I can give you a few pointers tomorrow?”
A rewarding flush of anger crept up the other man’s face. “You can give me a fair fight.”
“Haven’t you heard?” Magnus said with a lift of his brow. “We’re friends now.”
“You and I will never be friends.”
He held his gaze. “Something we agree on.”
What Gordon had seen in the arrogant, hot-tempered arse he didn’t know. Magnus had hated the Sutherlands for as long as he could remember, and proximity sure as hell hadn’t changed his mind any.
Sutherland stepped forward, effectively—due to his size and the small building—blocking Magnus’s way to the door. Magnus, his back to the wall, gave no indication that he recognized the threat. But his muscles tensed with readiness.
“I want the damned truth about what happened to Gordon.”
Magnus tried to rein in his impatience, but he felt the horses pulling away. “You’ve had it. We were attacked. He took an arrow in the chest and fell overboard before anyone could catch him. His armor dragged him down.”
Sutherland wouldn’t have believed him, even if it had been the truth. “It’s merely a coincidence, then, that I heard of a battle in Galloway at the very time you were gone. A battle where Bruce’s phantom warriors fought off thousands of English soldiers to rescue Edward Bruce from Threave Castle?”
