The Rogue: A Highland Guard Novella (The Highland Guard)

by Monica McCarty

  Her body clenched, straining toward the final peak, and then finally soared into a realm of sensation that was indescribable. She felt transported—separated from her body as if she’d died for a moment—glimpsed heaven, and then came slowly back to earth in a shattering explosion of floating, spasming waves.

  The waves had barely ebbed when he picked her up and carried her out of the water. A moment later, she was down on the grass and he was kissing her again. This time with a tenderness and a sweetness that made her heart break.

  Nay, not break, she realized, open. She was falling hard and fast for Sir Thomas Randolph, and she feared there was nothing she could do to stop it. What’s not to love? She’d better figure out something quick.

  There was nothing Randolph loved more than to bring a woman pleasure. He loved the euphoria that transformed their features into something almost heavenly, he loved the pink flush that rose to their cheeks, the way their lips parted, their eyes closed, and their heads fell back as their bodies gave over in that final surrender. It was a look he’d seen many, many times before, and it always brought him a deep sense of satisfaction.

  But that was nothing compared to the fierce, primal feelings pounding through him now. He felt satisfaction, aye, but it was far deeper, far stronger, and far more primitive in its intensity than the vaguely detached feelings he’d experienced before. There was nothing detached about his feelings right now. He was experiencing every gasp, every clench, every spasm of pleasure right along with her. Her pleasure seemed integral—bound—to his own.

  He didn’t understand it, and he wasn’t sure he liked it. It was different, and he rather liked the way things were. His relations with women had always been easy. Something he didn’t have to think about. They liked him and he liked them. Simple. But what he felt right now sure as hell wasn’t simple. It was powerful, demanding, and intense. It was hunger and desire to the extreme.

  Her breasts hadn’t helped. Who the hell would have guessed she hid such perfection under all those modest gowns? They were spectacular. About the most spectacular he’d ever seen. The round shape, the more than a handful size, the creamy velvet of her porcelain skin, and the delicate shade of pink of those taut little nipples. He would dream about those nipples. How sweet they’d tasted, how they’d felt rolling under his tongue, how much he’d like to feel them raking against his chest as he moved in and out of her.

  Aye, he’d like that a lot—especially the moving in and out part. He wanted to be inside her. Wanted it with a desperate ache that he hadn’t experienced in a long time. Maybe ever. Which didn’t make sense. But he was beyond sense.

  It was her response that undid him. The moans, the little arches of her back that begged for more. He knew he could make her shatter, and once that knowledge was lodged in his head he couldn’t let it go. He had to touch her. Had to stroke her. Had to feel her release as he brought her to completion.

  He just hadn’t anticipated the effect it would have on him.

  His body was still hard as a rock, and lust pounded at the base of his spine, but his chest… his chest seemed to expand and fill with warmth and an overwhelming sense of pleasure. Not physical pleasure, but a deep, overwhelming sense of contentment—almost joy. The pain in his body—which hurt like hell—seemed secondary. He wanted to be inside her more than he’d ever wanted with any other woman, but he also wanted to snuggle her against his chest and hold her tight.

  It was the damnedest thing, and he didn’t know what the hell to make of it.

  Randolph wasn’t a man who was controlled by his lust, but when he carried her out of the water and caught a glimpse of the long, sleek limbs now visible beneath her sodden gown, he reconsidered. He might have forgotten every last ounce of his honor and taken her right there, if he hadn’t looked down at her face.

  She looked so incredibly beautiful—and very sweet and trusting. His chest squeezed as a hot swell of an unfamiliar emotion rose up inside him. It was the same strange feeling that made him want to hold her against his chest and protect her.

  Protect her.

  The realization did what the cold water had not, cooling the heat from his blood. He couldn’t do this. He had to stop. It was wrong even if nothing had ever felt more right. He couldn’t take her innocence no matter how hard his body urged it. She wasn’t his, and doing this wouldn’t make her so. He’d given his word. He wouldn’t back out of the planned betrothal with Elizabeth just because her cousin made him out of his mind with lust.

  So instead of ravishing her senseless as every fiber of his body urged to do, he kissed her gently. Tenderly. Telling her in a way that words could not how much what had just happened meant to him.

  It had meant something to him, he realized. Though what, he wasn’t sure. Nor did he like it. But whatever it was, it didn’t make a difference.

  Reluctantly, he lifted his head and gently stroked a wet lock of fair hair from her brow. Her pale skin was like velvet, and his thumb lingered on the delicate bones of her cheek as if he could hold on to the moment for just a little longer.

  Even though he knew it had to end.

  Izzie could tell by the way he was looking at her that something had changed. Regret. That’s what she read in his eyes, and it cast a sudden shadow over what might have been the most wonderful moment of her life. For the briefest instant—not much more than the space of a heartbeat—when his lips had caressed hers so tenderly, so lovingly, she’d felt that she wasn’t alone. She’d felt as if the same strange emotions that were confusing her might be confusing him, too. That maybe—just maybe—he might be falling for her, too.

  She’d felt the possibility of something wonderful. Something special. Something that might be meaningful. But now that feeling was slipping away.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  His brows drew together in a slight frown. “Nothing.”

  “Then why did you stop?” Her cheeks heated as she realized the boldness of what she’d said.

  She sat up, no longer feeling comfortable lying on the ground with him stretched out half on top of her. Though a moment ago she’d thought being under him the most natural place in the world.

  He followed suit, and without the closeness, without the connection, without his heat, she was suddenly cold. She drew her knees in tight against her chest and wrapped her arms around them, unconsciously perhaps protecting herself against what he was about to say.

  He bent one knee and looked idly at the pond, his thoughts inscrutable. He must be freezing as well, but he gave no hint of it. Feelings, emotions, cold… he looked like a man impervious to anything so plebeian. “Because if I went any further, honor would demand that I ask for your hand.”

  The stab between her ribs was surprisingly sharp. She understood. “And you don’t want that.”

  He gave her a sharp look as if her words had pricked. “I’m practically engaged to your cousin.”

  “Practically,” she said. “But not actually.”

  She hadn’t meant it as a challenge, but he seemed to take it as such. Some of the stiffness and defensiveness that had been absent for most of the day returned. “It’s the same thing. I gave my word to Douglas that I would offer for his sister, and I can’t go back on it.”

  “Can’t or won’t?” She couldn’t believe she was talking to him like this—about this—but somehow she knew if she didn’t say something now, it might be too late. It had suddenly become imperative that he not become betrothed to her cousin. Whatever possibility she’d felt in something wonderful would be gone.

  His mouth pressed in a tight line. “Both.”

  Izzie had never lacked for confidence, but even she was surprised when she said, “Even if you want me?”

  He didn’t deny it, but neither from the way he shrugged did it seem overly important to him. Maybe it wasn’t. Maybe she’d just imagined something that wasn’t there. Maybe it didn’t mean anything. Maybe what she’d felt had been one-sided. Maybe for him it was no more than desire. Lust
. Something he was used to.

  He did this all the time. She knew that women loved him. Flocked to him. Shame heated her cheeks. Offered themselves to him. Why should Izzie think she was any different?

  Why would he care about someone like her? He was extraordinary, and she was… not.

  Just look at him. He had everything. He was a knight at the peak of his prowess, gorgeous beyond reckoning with his dark hair, piercing greenish-brown eyes, and too-handsome features; he was one of the wealthiest men in the kingdom, the favored nephew of the king, and a legend in the making with his fantastic feats on the battlefield. If she’d written a faerie tale she couldn’t have come up with a more unbelievably perfect hero.

  Of course women loved him. But they didn’t see what she saw. They didn’t see the real man underneath. The man who could be dry and sarcastic, who could sing like an angel one moment and be as devious as the Devil the next (she was determined to get him back for tricking her into leaning over the pond), who shared her interest in architecture and could hold her spellbound while talking about rocks—right before he heroically saved her life from an avalanche of them. The man who was driven to be the best, and yet had time to help nuns fertilize their garden and make a dying young peasant girl feel like a princess. She could admire the hero like everyone else, but that was the man whom she could love.

  “I see,” she said and started to stand up.

  He grabbed hold of her arm, his hand wrapping around her wrist like a brand. “No, you don’t.” His sudden fierceness made her think maybe he wasn’t as uncaring and ambivalent as he seemed. “I gave my word, Izzie. My word.”

  Was that supposed to make her understand? Because if so, it wasn’t working. She suddenly felt like crying. “You said that.”

  “I will not go back on it again—ever.”

  “I didn’t ask you to.”

  “But that’s what you want.”

  It wasn’t a question, so she didn’t say anything. Is that what she wanted? Maybe it was. Maybe she wanted him to choose her—as unlikely as that may be.

  She tugged at her arm, and he let her go without a fight.

  That seemed somehow telling.

  She was shivering now; her lips were probably a pale shade of violet. All she could think about was getting back to the abbey and trying to forget about this. Trying to forget about him. She just hoped she didn’t burst into tears before she got there. Her pride had taken enough of a battering for the day.

  What could she have been thinking? This was Randolph. He wanted great and extraordinary; he wouldn’t tie himself to someone who wouldn’t enhance his image. Someone who loved court and would be an asset to his ambitions. That wasn’t her.

  She looked around for her cloak, glad that she’d left it on a fallen tree while she’d washed. But the warmth that enfolded her was temporary.

  She felt like such a fool. She’d practically handed him her innocence because she thought a few heated moments and tender kisses meant something. No matter how kind, how fun, how attached he’d seemed, how could she have let herself believe even for one minute that she was the kind of woman to capture the heart of a lauded rogue? Rogues didn’t fall for one woman. That’s what made them rogues. And if there was a woman who would ever bring him to heel, it would be a glittery diamond to add to his crown, like her cousin.

  Her chest squeezed. Izzie wasn’t a diamond. She probably wasn’t even a pearl. She was just the not-so-glamorous cousin—the supporting player to the lead in this faerie tale. The one who didn’t get the happy ending.

  She made it to the edge of the trees before he spoke. “I could never give you what you want, Izzie—even without Elizabeth.”

  She felt the first stirrings of anger. Did he think she was already in love with him? His arrogance truly was astounding—even if he was closer than she wanted to acknowledge. She spun around, fists balled tightly at her side. “I don’t want anything from you.”

  “Good, because I could never give it. You were right—I don’t have those kinds of feelings. You want someone who cares for you.”

  She’d thought the pang in her heart couldn’t sink any deeper, but he’d just proved her wrong. “And you don’t,” she said, saying what he hadn’t.

  “Not in the way you want.”

  She felt the lash of truth like a lick of flame. He’d left no room for misinterpretation, had he? He might as well have said, “I don’t love you, nor shall I.”

  She wouldn’t let him see how much his honesty had hurt her. She drew herself up, meeting his gaze unflinchingly. “And my cousin? Does she deserve that as well? Or maybe you care for her already?”

  He bristled, not seeming to like her point. “Your cousin and I understand one another.”

  In other words, her cousin wouldn’t make demands because she wouldn’t be fool enough to fall in love with him. Izzie gave him a pitying look. At times he could truly be an arse. “How fortunate for you. It sounds perfect. And that is what you want, isn’t it?”

  She wasn’t expecting an answer. Without another word, or another look in his direction, she left.

  What else could she do? He’d made himself clear. He didn’t care for her; he wouldn’t love her; and he wasn’t going to call off his betrothal.

  He’d said everything he needed to say.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Randolph hid his surprise when he saw Lady Isabel coming out of the guesthouse behind her cousin. He’d assumed that she would beg off from the outing to the market that had been arranged a few days ago.

  But he should have known better. Isabel—Izzie—wasn’t one to beg off anything. She confronted—whether the situation was comfortable or not.

  In this case, it was not.

  His discomfort wasn’t because of anything she was doing. Rather the opposite. Although her gaze had flickered to his on greeting, she paid little attention to him the rest of the morning and seemed to be enjoying the outing with her cousin.

  She gave no hint of the intense conversation they’d had yesterday—or of the intimacies they’d shared, for that matter. She was her usual confident, self-possessed, lighthearted, wryly funny, annoyingly indifferent-to-him self. His jaw clenched as he watched Isabel and her cousin laugh with some merchant over the cost of his ribbons. No one in the crowd who was watching them (they’d drawn a lot of attention from the townsfolk) would ever guess that she’d fallen apart in his arms.

  That she’d given herself to him.

  But he knew, damn it. And every time he looked at her, every time he heard her laugh at something Elizabeth said, every time she took a big bite out of one of those flaky fruit tarts she loved so much, he thought about it. He’d nearly done something more than think when the juice from one of the berry tarts dribbled down the side of her mouth. He’d been a hair’s breadth from reaching down to swipe it away from her lips with his finger—or his tongue, he couldn’t decide which.

  Bloody hell. The lass was tormenting him, and didn’t even know it.

  She, on the other hand, treated him if not as a stranger, then with the polite formality due the intended of her cousin.

  That was exactly what he wanted. Which didn’t explain his irritation or the feeling that his armor was suddenly too tight every time he looked at her—which was too damned often!

  It was only his conscience bothering him, he told himself. He hadn’t meant to hurt her; he’d just wanted to make sure there was no… confusion.

  He’d seen that look in her eyes and knew what she was thinking. God knows he’d seen it enough times to recognize it. She’d thought something “special” was happening. That what they’d had was “different.” That she was falling in love with him. She’d probably been dreaming of castles in the skies, a handful of children around their feet with a few damned pups thrown in. He was hardly the type for sitting around the hearth; he liked excitement—and variety, for that matter.

  But it was just the passion confusing her. Hell, he ought to know. For a few minutes there even he’d
been feeling a little confused—and he wasn’t a twenty-two-year-old lass being touched for the first time, he was a twenty-nine-year-old experienced knight who should know better.

  Not for you. You gave your word.

  “Is something wrong with the collar of your mail?” Elizabeth asked. “You keep tugging at it.”

  Randolph dropped his hand, feeling oddly self-conscious as Isabel’s gaze landed on him for the first time in too-damned long. “My coif was a little stuck, that’s all,” he said, hoping the explanation didn’t sound as silly as he felt.

  “I’m afraid I am no help with that. I have little experience with a knight’s armor. Maybe Izzie can help? She has seven brothers, after all.”

  “Nay!”

  “No!”

  Randolph didn’t know whose protest came quicker—or louder. Elizabeth looked back and forth between him and Izzie questioningly, but thankfully, not suspiciously.

  She must not have noticed Izzie’s flush. But he had. It was the first crack in her facade; the first indication that she hadn’t completely forgotten what had happened yesterday. But it wasn’t the biggest. That had come with the bracelet.

  What the hell had possessed him to buy a bracelet for Lady Elizabeth with Izzie standing there? He knew very well what it signified. A man only bought jewelry for a woman he was married to or intended to marry.

  But he’d been feeling reckless, angry, pushed to the edge by her indifference and whatever the hell other emotion was eating at him relentlessly.

  She wasn’t even looking at him, but he felt like she was pulling at him, asking him to do something he didn’t want to do. He couldn’t do, damn it. She was putting too much stock in a little attraction. They barely knew one another. He was supposed to break his word and put aside a lucrative alliance because he couldn’t keep his hands off her? It was unrealistic—ridiculous even. This attraction would pass. It always did. Even if this was a little stronger than usual.