11
People were confusing. Men even more so, especially when they got ideas into their heads. Rhiannon could not be one hundred percent certain what had gotten into Ian’s, but she did have a tiny inkling.
The man was mad.
Mad for her, she suspected. To be fair, she was mad for him too. Their kiss, the way he’d touched her, the slide of his body on hers, the way it had felt to have her hips wrapped around his, the hardness of his arousal as he pressed against her most intimate place. The sounds of his breathing, the low growl of approval when she’d kissed him back, still echoed in her ears. All of what had happened haunted her the entire day. That was why she’d been unable to stop talking about anything and everything if only to distract herself from…herself.
And, it appeared, she was better at hiding her feelings than he was. The man was positively a grouch.
Aye, she was way better.
Ian stomped around their camp; before that, he’d stomped every time they stopped. As if the act of stomping would squash his inner turmoil. He even made it seem as if his horse were stomping as they trotted along their course.
Poor man was positively riddled with guilt or regret, though she wasn’t sure why because as much as he had ravaged—a word she rather liked—her, she had ravaged him as much. Or maybe that was the issue—he wished he’d not done it. Which would be surprising given his enthusiasm.
Not since her fling with the lad ages ago had she felt so…elated. As if she were floating, and her body sizzled. When she saw him, smelled him, she wanted to touch him. To be touched. Every inch of her tingled, reaching, wanting.
At first, she’d chalked it up to the excitement of adventure. The thrill of something new. Maybe even a little bit to falling for the man who saved her. After all, there had to be some feelings for the man who was taking her away from an unwanted future. And he was very handsome. His body was rock solid, which seemed unfair to any other man.
But his body, or even the striking cut of his jawbone, wasn’t why she liked Ian. Why she wanted him to kiss her. It was the way he looked at her—eyes full of interest and admiration, a little teasing and even better when they flashed desire. The way he talked. The way he joked. The way he respected her. The way he nodded with approval when she threw her dagger. Ian made her feel like a real and whole person, which wasn’t always the way it was for women. She knew that, just as every other woman did. Just the way women also knew that it was their lot. They were the birthers of babes, the caretakers of the men, the runners of the household. How dare she dream of anything more? And yet, Ian seemed to commend her for being different.
So, besides his incredible body and being the kind of kisser that made her toes curl, Ian made her feel good on the inside too. Until now, that wasn’t something she knew she wanted.
And she suspected she made him feel the same way. Or at least she hoped.
Having spoken with him and knowing the reasons for his running from his responsibilities in Orkney, she supposed she understood why he would want to push her away now. A man on the move didn’t want to be entangled. And she knew firsthand that kissing was a complication. The only question was, how long could she hold out before she demanded he quit this nonsense and kiss her again?
What if he held out forever?
What if she never kissed him again?
Or maybe the better question was: what did she want? A husband? Rhiannon frowned. That was not what she had wanted a few days ago.
She slid her glance toward Ian, watching him frown into the horizon. The problem was she didn’t know what she wanted. Until he’d appeared at the edge of the forest, she’d desired to get away from her brother. To escape a fate that would have been pure misery. And even the first day on the road, she’d just needed to survive, putting one foot in front of the other. And now… Now, she longed for more. For a life that included a man who supported her interests, a man who cherished her. Could Ian be that man?
Ultimately, whatever happened between the two of them, whether it was to become more or less, she knew she wanted to be around him again. She didn’t want their last kiss to have been in the forest under a tent with his calloused fingers massaging her bare leg.
Right here, right now, she wanted more than that.
By evening, her legs were starting to hurt, her rear long gone numb, and they still rode. She curled her toes in her boots, flexing her leg muscles and her bottom, trying to restore the feeling into them, but nothing helped. With days still left to ride, she wondered if she’d be able to walk by the end of this journey.
“How much longer until we make camp?” she asked, unsure if she’d get an answer since his predilection today had been to nod or shake his head or grunt—she suspected this was his protective mechanism against her and his desires for her.
“We’re almost there.”
“Almost where?”
“Castle Dunbais—my brother’s holding.”
“Ah, already.” She’d forgotten about that and thought they had another day. Perhaps that was why her legs had gone numb—he’d pushed them past the breaking point. “That’s wonderful.” And she was genuinely happy because she’d been promised a bath, and she loved baths. She had high hopes that the warmth of the water would work some of the kinks out of her sore muscles. Besides, she felt so grimy that she practically itched to scrub herself clean.
No more than an hour later, the castle turrets came into view. Their approach slowly revealed the outer walls, the tall keep. There was the collective sound of men on the ramparts preparing for the impending intruders, and then Ian let out a shrill whistle that seemed to communicate the men could stand down. Rhiannon wasn’t sure what she’d expected of a Scottish castle, perhaps one more rough-looking than those in England, but it looked about the same as Dacre. Stones were evenly stacked with mortar. The great doors were freshly constructed, judging by the color, and they opened wide behind an iron portcullis that had been raised. Ian nodded for her to go first through the entrance while he protected her back. It was the subtle things like that that she found endearing.
A moment later, they were being ushered into the bailey of Dunbais.
A warrior, the spitting image of Ian right down to the chiseled and stubbled jaw—which was rather shocking—trotted down the castle’s stairs and jogged over to meet them. Ian’s brother had a wide grin on his face as he wrestled his brother out of his saddle, the two of them joshing with each other until Ian remembered her presence.
With a slight clearing of his throat and a gesture toward her, Ian said, “This is Lady Rhiannon.”
