Except he did like it. Too damned much.
Slow.
But she wasn’t making it easy, the way her fingers were digging into his shoulders as she gripped him harder and harder, and he felt her own pleasure building.
He cradled her face in his hand, stroking his thumb over the soft curve of her cheek, feeling his chest squeezing tighter and tighter with each caress. Her lips were like velvet, her breath like honey, and she smelled … God, she smelled like a fistful of bluebells that had been sitting in the sun. He wanted to sink into her and let that scent swallow him up.
His fingers slid around her neck, plunging through the soft waves of her hair. She’d been wearing a hooded cloak, but the hood had slid back to reveal the magnificent golden mane, loose, no doubt, because of the haste of her departure.
He didn’t want to think about that now—but it was a good thing tracking her had been so appallingly easy. All he wanted to think about was how incredible her lips felt on his, how good it felt to have her breasts crushed against his chest and her hips nestled to his groin, how silky soft her hair was on his fingers as he gripped the back of her head and held her mouth to his, and how much longer could he stand to take it slow when every fiber, every instinct, every drop of blood and bone in his body wanted to slide his tongue into her mouth and taste her deeper.
He groaned, anticipating the feeling of her tongue circling his. It was going to feel so good …
His head, his heart, every part of his body was pounding. He couldn’t wait any longer.
He brushed his mouth over hers again and urged her lips apart. Then he filled her mouth with his, swallowing her gasp of surprise when his tongue licked into the honey-sweet cavern.
Oh God, that was good! Even better than he’d anticipated. Hotter. Sweeter. Darker and more erotic.
He pulled her closer, needing to feel the friction of her body against his as his tongue plunged deeper and deeper in her mouth. He bent her to him, feeling himself drowning, feeling his body being dragged into a vortex of pleasure so acute he wasn’t going to be able to pull himself out.
He could feel her heart hammering against his, feel her shock, and then her discovery as her body awakened to the passion that ignited like wildfire between them—hot, devastating, and uncontrollable. He’d never felt anything like it. But it was nothing to the sensations that exploded inside him when he felt the first circle of her tongue against his. It sent a wave of heat to his groin so strong that it nearly made his knees buckle.
She might be innocent, but there was nothing innocent about her response or the sensations it incited. Going slow was forgotten as he pushed her back against a tree, wrapped her leg around his waist, and descended into the madness of passion, their tongues gliding and sparring in a wicked dance.
His cock was throbbing, positioned at the sweet juncture between her legs. He couldn’t resist. He started to rock, needing the friction of her body moving against his.
He wasn’t thinking now—had he ever been?—instinct had set in. He was kissing her harder, dragging his hands over her body with a possessiveness that said they were meant to be there. He cupped her incredible breasts, and then her bottom as he lifted her more tightly against him.
Oh God, right there. That was it. He clenched, his buttocks tight against the pressure. It felt so good, he had to fight the urge to come.
He couldn’t wait to be inside her.
He dragged his mouth from her lips to her neck, covering the frantic pulse beneath her jaw with his mouth and sucking until she squirmed and moaned against him.
Hot. It was so damned hot he couldn’t breathe.
He could hear the quickness of her breath, and the soft little gasping sounds she was making were driving him wild. He felt her body shudder with surrender and knew she was his.
Mine. The knowledge pounded through him like the hammer of a drum. He tore his mouth away and looked down at her. Her face was flushed, her lips swollen and her eyes half-lidded with passion. He didn’t think he’d ever seen anything more beautiful.
Something strange stirred in his chest. A feeling—an emotion—he’d never felt before. It was more than lust and more than possessiveness, it was softer … sweeter … more significant.
But then his gaze dropped and all the desire, all the passion, all the strange emotions he was feeling tore out of him in one horrified breath. Dangling across the breast that he’d just held in his hand was a wooden cross.
Shame rose inside him, as bitter and nauseating as bile.
What the hell was he doing? She was a nun, for Christ’s sake! The immensity of his sin took him aback.
He released her so suddenly, she swayed, and he had to reach out to catch her before she fell to the ground.
One moment Janet was climbing the gates of heaven toward a beautiful sea of light, and the next she was flailing in darkness, trying to catch herself from falling on the cold, hard ground of reality.
The swift curtailment of the most incredible sensations she’d ever experienced left her yearning, aching, and confused. When the arms that had been holding her so tightly suddenly closed around her again, she gasped with relief and clutched him like a lifeline.
Don’t stop, she wanted to say. Please don’t stop. It feels so good.
But then she looked into his eyes and the coldness—the disgust—was like a drench of icy water, shocking her back to reality.
She jerked away from him, but she couldn’t seem to tear her gaze away from his. Why was he looking at her like that? What had she done?
And then she remembered. The look wasn’t directed at her.
They stared at each other in a moment of mute horror. Hers for how easily she’d succumbed, and his with the shame and guilt of what he’d done. Or rather, what he thought he’d done.
Were she really a nun, kissing her would be a grave sin indeed, and from the sickened look on his face, the realization was hitting him hard. Seeing the depth of his torment, Janet felt something in her chest grow tight and hot.
She wanted to tell him the truth—and for one moment she almost did—but then sanity returned. Right now, her habit was the only thing that was keeping them apart. Were she to remove it—figuratively—it could very well lead to having it removed literally.
After that kiss, she didn’t trust herself.
She’d never imagined …
Never thought …
Never realized it could be like that.
She’d never thought she could be capable of such madness. For surely it was madness when the feeling of his mouth moving over hers, the wicked sensation of his tongue flicking against hers, the heat of his hands on her body, could obliterate all rational thought and make her forget everything that was important to her?
She didn’t want anything to interfere with her work for Bruce and Lamberton, and instinctively she realized that this man could threaten that.
Her gaze slid to his mouth. For lips that were often thinned and pulled in a rather grim line, they were certainly soft and smooth as honey when he wanted them to be. For that matter, she would never have expected such a rough and uncouth warrior to kiss with such skill and tenderness.
Obviously, those “hundreds” had not been without effect.
Why did that realization make her chest ache?
It wasn’t that she cared who he’d been with, she told herself, it was just that she didn’t like surprises. Especially ones that were so devastating. And that kiss certainly qualified.
Mother Mary, she’d nearly let him take her innocence! Indeed, she’d practically handed it to him with no more inducement than a skilled kiss and a few heated caresses.
Her cheeks burned. Well, maybe more than a few. She had to force herself not to drop her gaze further, remembering the incredible sensation of the thick column of his manhood riding against her. She’d wanted him even closer. She’d wanted him—her cheeks burned—inside her. Wanted it so intensely that she would have thrown away everything—her virtue, her morals, he
r honor. She’d been brought up a lady, never allowed either of her betrotheds even a chaste kiss, but with one press of his lips he’d turned her into a wanton.
The charged silence stretched on until finally, he broke it. “That should never have happened.”
For once they were in agreement.
His gaze had shuttered, and once again she found herself looking at the hard, implacable warrior.
“I hope you will accept my apology, but”—he should have stopped there—“you made me angry.”
Janet was aghast. “So this is my fault for not meekly following along and doing your bidding?”
His eyes narrowed at her sarcasm. “Meek and biddable might help to remind me that you are a nun. And pious and serene, for that matter. You don’t act like any woman of the cloth I’ve ever met.”
“And have you had ‘hundreds’ of them with whom to compare me as well?”
He stilled, his gaze turning as hard and penetrating as a steel dagger. “What happened to your accent?”
Janet hoped she hadn’t gone as pale as it felt like she had. “What are you talking about?” she replied in her Italian accented French, careful not to overdo it.
But he was like a hunter who’d just trapped a hare and wasn’t about to let go. He took her by the elbow. “What are you hiding, Sister? Who the hell are you?”
Fear rose inside her as those penetrating steel-blue eyes locked on hers. She felt exposed and wanted to run, but had no place to hide. Her heart fluttered wildly in her chest as the veil she’d erected between them threatened to dissolve. She just wanted him to let her go.
“I’m an innocent maid in the service of the Bishop of St. Andrews whom you almost seduced. That’s all you need to know, and all that matters. Do not attempt to absolve your own guilt by seeing things that aren’t there and making excuses for your own actions.”
Her dagger had drawn blood. He dropped her arm and stepped back. “You are right.”
Janet felt a twist of guilt in her chest, seeing the shame once again on his face, and wanted to reach for him. But she kept her hand firmly planted at her side. It’s better this way, she told herself.
“There is no excuse, and I will not attempt to make one. You have every right to blame me for what happened. You can be assured I will confess my sins at the next opportunity.” His mouth fell in that grim line that she was beginning to find strangely attractive. He gave her a pleading look, which she suspected was rare and didn’t appear to sit very comfortably on his face.
He reached his hand to his head as if he meant to rake his fingers through his hair, but then let it drop. “Look, can’t we just try to forget about this and pretend it never happened? I don’t want there to be any difficulties when we reach Berwick.”
She would like nothing better. But Janet suspected forgetting about it and pretending it had never happened was going to be impossible. Even now, just looking at him, her skin flushed with a new awareness. Passion, desire … lust. Like Pandora, she’d opened the lid and was now tasked with finding a way to put away all those feelings again. But once released, would they ever go back?
She had to try.
Difficulties, he’d said. He was obviously concerned that she’d tell Lamberton what had happened. Janet was about to assure him that she’d rather swallow nails than speak of what had occurred here, when she stopped, considering what else he’d said: Berwick. She hated using his torment against him, but in this case, she told herself it was warranted. She had a job to do.
She nodded. “Confession will ease my mind a great deal. There is a small church in Roxburgh where you can go while I attend to my business in the castle.”
“We aren’t going to Roxburgh. Berwick will be soon enough.”
“Not for me. Besides, if I return to Berwick having failed to bring back those sugared nuts, the bishop might wonder why, and I will have to give him an explanation.” They both knew she wasn’t talking about nuts. “It is no more than a half-mile away. Please, I will be careful, and there is no cause to think there will be any danger. I’ve done this hundreds of times.”
Her gentle teasing and attempt to ease the tension between them elicited nary a flicker of a smile. Ewen wasn’t in the mood for teasing.
He knew what she was trying to do—use his guilt against him—but was too damned angry with himself and wracked with shame to find the energy to put up a fight. Or maybe he just didn’t trust himself to have another argument with her. He was still reeling after what had just happened. By how thoroughly he’d lost control, and how quickly a kiss had dissolved into so much more.
How could he have forgotten himself like that? His father was the one who took what he wanted. Ewen had much more discipline than that—usually.
It had been easy, he realized. She’d responded with an openness and eagerness that made it easy to forget she was untouchable.
He wasn’t the only one who’d sinned. She might not want to admit it—and he was (just) gallant enough not to point it out—but she’d wanted him as badly as he’d wanted her.
“Please,” she repeated. “It won’t take any more than an hour, and then we can be on our way.”
Ewen stared down at that pale upturned face, at the wide blue-green eyes, the pink lips still swollen from his kiss, and the classically arranged delicate features, and felt something shift in his chest.
He was going to give in, damn her. They would go to Roxburgh. It was his guilt, he told himself. It wasn’t that he would give her anything she wanted when she looked at him like that.
“I think you missed your calling, Sister.”
She blinked at him in confusion, her long, feathery lashes fluttering like a raven’s wing. He had to steel himself against the sudden gripping in his chest, but she was so damned beautiful it hurt. “What do you mean?”
“You should have been a lawman.”
He watched as understanding that she’d won dawned on her features, and thought that no morning, no glint of sun upon the land, could have been as beautiful. “Thank you.”
Ewen held her gaze for a moment, but then forced himself to turn away with a gruff nod.
Guilt might have given her what she wanted this time, but he wasn’t going to let her manipulate him again. He needed to finish this and get back to the business of winning this war and seeing to his clan’s future. Getting as far away as possible from Sister Genna had become his first priority. To Ewen’s mind, they couldn’t reach Berwick soon enough.
Seven
Janet had been right. The quick detour into Roxburgh had been easy. No hue and cry had been raised, no one had noticed them; indeed, it had all been accomplished with little risk to either of them.
She’d slipped in and out of the castle, making contact with a potentially war-changing source of information, and returned to Ewen at the church in less than an hour. The importance of this contact could not be understated; and Janet would be right in the thick of it.
Yet it was hard to be excited. She may have won the battle in getting him to agree to take her, but victory was proving cold and lonely.
They rode in virtual silence the rest of the way from Roxburgh to Berwick-upon-Tweed. The ease of conversation they’d shared had disappeared. His curt, blunt responses returned tenfold, making him seem almost chatty in comparison before. He rode so stiffly behind her, she couldn’t relax. After hours of riding together, her body ached with the effort to keep distance between them. Snuggling against the comfortable shield of his chest was a distant memory.
During their brief stops to eat or water the horse, he barely looked at her.
Something had changed between them, and Janet knew it was her fault. She felt guilty for what she’d done but didn’t know what to say. Worse, she knew it was better this way. She had a job to do and so did he. Apologizing, telling him the truth, would only make things more complicated.
But every time she looked, his implacable features set in such cold repose that something inside her cried out. She wanted to re
ach for him, to draw him back from the remote place to which he’d removed himself. But what purpose would it serve?
Though she told herself over and over that she was doing the right thing, it didn’t help to calm the restlessness and anxiety teeming inside her. It wasn’t until they stood outside the gates of Coldingham Priory, however, that Janet felt the first stirrings of what could only be described as panic.
“We’re here to see the bishop,” Ewen said to the monk who answered the bell. “Tell him it is Sister Genna and her escort.”
He dismounted and helped her down while they waited for the man to return.
It wasn’t quite dark yet, leaving plenty of light for her to see the rigid set of his jaw. She bit her lower lip, her hands twisting in the folds of her gown, as she contemplated what to say. “Ewen, I …”
He turned his face to hers, his expression a mask of indifference. “Yes?”
Her heart fluttered wildly as she searched for … what? “I … Thank you.”
Why she was thanking him, she didn’t know. She hadn’t wanted his protection or his company, indeed she’d fought against it. But he’d given it, and that demanded something, didn’t it?
He nodded, and for one minute she saw some of the warmth in his eyes that she hadn’t realized had been missing until it was gone. Whatever he intended to say, however, was lost when the monk returned and opened the gate to take them to the bishop.
They were led across the courtyard and into the small chapter house that was attached to the priory. As it was dark inside, the monk lit a few candles before leaving them alone again.
While they waited for the bishop to appear, Janet suddenly found herself wondering what Ewen might say. As happy as Lamberton would be about the contact she’d made in Berwick, she didn’t think he’d be pleased to learn what had happened with the English soldiers near Melrose. She knew better than to think that Ewen would agree not to tell him, but there was no telling how he would make it sound if she let him be the one to relate it.
The Hunter Page 9
