The Recruit

by Monica McCarty

  Jesus.

  It was the most intelligent thought he could muster. His mind was gone. All that was left was pleasure. The most incredible pleasure he’d ever experienced.

  When the last spasms of release had ebbed from his body, he collapsed on top of her, every muscle, every ounce of his body spent. Even his bones felt like jelly.

  After a minute, the heavy sounds of their breathing began to quiet. Realizing he was probably crushing her, he found the strength to roll to the side.

  He couldn’t ever remembering feeling so weak. It was a damned good thing the contest wasn’t today. He’d barely be able to stand, let alone defeat whoever would stand against him tomorrow.

  He didn’t know quite what to make of what had just happened. He was having a hard time ordering his thoughts. But the lass had surprised him. The sweetness of her passion went far beyond the sensual promise he’d noticed in the barn. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d enjoyed a liaison more. Hell, he doubted he’d ever enjoyed a liaison more. He frowned, remembering another oddity. Even when he was a lad, he’d always withdrawn before spilling his seed. But he was too bloody sated and contented to give it more than a passing thought. All he knew was that the strange ennui that had been dogging him was apparently gone, and he wasn’t ready to let go of her. Not yet.

  What had she done?

  Mary’s heart pounded in her chest as she stared at the ceiling. It was made of stone. The small library had been built into the thick walls like the vaulted storerooms below.

  But it was gray and colorless, with little to distract her, so her thoughts returned to what had happened. To the cataclysmic event that had devastated her just as harshly and ruthlessly as a raging wildfire, leaving only ashes in its wake. It had been amazing. Wonderful. More beautiful than anything she could have imagined. And that was the problem. How was she ever to put this behind her? How was she to go on with her life in England and forget about the passion she’d found in his arms?

  How was she going to forget about him?

  He wasn’t supposed to be like this. She’d wanted a too-handsome, too-arrogant man built for sin. She’d wanted lust, nothing more.

  He rolled to his side, leaning up on one elbow to look at her. She felt his eyes rake her face and held her breath as his hand reached out and brushed aside a few strands of hair that she hadn’t even noticed were tangled in her lashes. The touch was so intimate—so sweet—her chest squeezed with longing.

  His fingers lingered on the side of her face, turning her gaze to his. “You’re full of surprises, aren’t you, little one?”

  The way he was looking at her made her chest ache. She stared up at him wordlessly, not knowing what to say. She felt exposed. Raw. Vulnerable. What had just happened had stripped the last years of hard-wrought independence from her as if it were no more substantial than a thin chemise, revealing the lonely, heartbroken girl underneath who’d so much wanted her husband to love her. And Kenneth Sutherland, the soon-to-be champion, the handsome knight, the hero with an adoring throng of admirers, was cut from the same cloth.

  At least she thought he was. Had she been unfair? Was there perhaps more to him than she’d thought?

  It surprised her how much she wanted to be wrong.

  Her heart slammed against her ribs when he leaned down and kissed her. It was a soft, lazy kiss. A tender kiss. Everything she shouldn’t want, yet craved like a greedy child.

  Lifting his mouth from hers, he smiled. “When can I see you again?”

  Her heart stopped. One night. “I-I’m leaving soon,” she hedged.

  His eyes narrowed. “I hope not too soon. You’ll stay at least until after the Games? My sister is getting married on Saturday. There will be a few days of celebration.”

  Did he want her to go to his sister’s wedding? She tried to hold back her racing heart but it was sprinting away from her. “I don’t know.”

  “Of course—it depends on Lady Margaret. Would it help if I talked to her for you?” He slid the back of his finger down her cheek, down her throat, and over the firm slope of her breasts, drawing a feathery circle around the tip. “I’m not done with you yet,” he said in that dark, husky voice of his that seeped right through her good sense. “I don’t think I’m going to be done with you for quite a while.”

  Her skin prickled. Her nipples beaded. Her breath quickened. Her entire body responded to the sensual promise in his words. Was it just words, or did it mean something? She had to find out. “Lady Margaret told me you are to be betrothed.”

  He frowned, as if he were surprised she’d heard about that. “What does that have to do with us?”

  She looked away so he wouldn’t see the stone of disappointment he’d just cast carelessly at her heart. He said it with such honest befuddlement she couldn’t even be angry with him. She was angry with herself. “Nothing,” she said softly. “It has nothing to do with us.”

  Why should he think there was anything wrong with making love to another woman while his betrothed or his wife waited for him at whatever castle he put her in? There was nothing wrong with it. It was the accepted—expected—thing for noblemen in a political marriage. She was the one who had unrealistic expectations, not he.

  One night was all she’d wanted, so why was she disappointed that it was all she was going to have? His response had just ensured it.

  “Good,” he said, rolling back over and tucking her against him. She rested her cheek against his chest, listening to the beat of his heart and trying not to cry.

  “We should go,” he said, though his voice gave no indication of any hurry. “But I’m just so damned tired. I can’t seem to make myself get up.”

  His voice trailed off. She wasn’t surprised when a few minutes later she heard the even sounds of his breathing. He’d drifted off.

  Grateful for the reprieve, she was careful not to wake him as she slid away from the warmth of his body, stood, and straightened her clothes. All she could think about was getting out of there. She didn’t want to face him again. Not here, and not at the feast.

  This had been a mistake.

  Kenneth Sutherland wasn’t like her husband at all. He was far more dangerous. Atholl had never bothered to try to seduce her. Kenneth Sutherland seduced with every long look, every gentle touch, and every heart-pounding kiss.

  Would she ever learn?

  She needed to leave. Not just this room, but Scotland. Before she forgot how to be content with what she had and yearned for things that would only make her miserable. Again.

  Seven

  Kenneth woke slowly, trying to clear the fog from his mind. But his head felt as if someone had sheared a sheep inside it. Opening his eyes, he shot upright, startled by his surroundings. By the shards of light streaming through the planks of the door.

  He winced at the knife of pain in his side.

  Hell. Covering the offending area with his hand, he braced himself as he stood. Whatever dulling effects last night had worked on his pain, they were gone.

  Last night. He realized three things at once: it was morning, he’d missed the feast, and he was alone.

  He swore, not knowing what angered him the most.

  What the hell had happened to him? It felt as though he’d been knocked out. The moment he’d closed his eyes, he’d slipped into a deep sleep. He hadn’t slept that solidly in years.

  His mouth fell in a grim line when he reached down to pick up his tunic and saw a swatch of dark green silk. He knew what had happened to him. She had happened to him.

  Why in Hades had she run off without waking him?

  In many cases he would be relieved to wake up and find himself alone after a night of lovemaking, but damn it, this wasn’t one of them. He vowed to go back to uncomplicated and eager-to-please just as soon as he was done with her.

  He jerked on his tunic, wrapped the plaid back around his shoulders—the fire in the brazier had gone out hours ago, and it was bloody cold in here—and picked up the offending veil.

>   He and Lady Mary were going to have a nice long talk about what he was going to expect from her—a little common courtesy, for one thing. And she wasn’t going to run off like that again. He would decide when it was time to leave, damn it.

  He stalked out of the library, slamming the door behind him, and headed toward the Hall to look for her. But it seemed the morning meal had ended some time ago. There were only a few people milling about, and none was the one he wanted to see.

  Just what the hell time was it?

  He swore again. The morning was quickly going from bad to worse. If the morning meal was over, that meant he didn’t have much time until the wrestling competition got under way. One of the most important days of his life, and he’d nearly slept through it. His anger at his wee nun was growing. She’d distracted him. And had done a bloody efficient job of it, damn it.

  He grabbed a piece of bread and cheese from a tray as one of the servants passed by and washed it down with a swig of wine. As he exited the Hall, he winced, shrinking back from the head-piercing rays of sunlight that blasted him. Damn, his head felt like he’d drunk far more than a tankard of whisky. Squinting, he scanned the courtyard, and then winced again. It wasn’t because of the sun this time, but who he saw striding toward him.

  “Where the hell have you been?” MacKay demanded. “I hope you have a good explanation for disappearing last night. The king was furious.”

  Kenneth ignored MacKay and greeted his sister, who had come up next to him.

  “Are you all right, Kenneth? You don’t look well,” Helen said.

  His side hurt like hell, but he wasn’t going to tell her that with MacKay standing there. “What did you give me?” he asked. “I fell asleep and just woke up.”

  “Nothing that should have—” She stopped, biting her lip. “Did you drink any wine or whisky last night by chance?”

  “I drink wine or whisky every night. What difference does that make?”

  She looked up at him guiltily. “I must have forgotten to mention that mixing the draught with wine or whisky might make you a tad sleepy.”

  Kenneth’s mouth tightened. “Aye, you seem to have forgotten that part.”

  Well, at least he knew why he’d slept so hard. Although he suspected there was another cause that had affected him as much as the whisky. He’d slept the dead sleep of a man who’d been well satisfied. Too well satisfied. Instead of worrying about what had happened to his wee wanton, he should be preparing for the Games.

  “I will explain what happened to the king after the competition,” he said to MacKay, who was still glaring at him from Helen’s side. “And apologize to Lady Mary.”

  McKay gave him a hard look. “Aye, well in that you were fortunate. Lady Mary sent word late that she was not feeling well.”

  Kenneth frowned, thinking it fortunate indeed. Almost too fortunate. A prickle of unease teased his consciousness.

  “What’s that?” MacKay said, pointing to the veil.

  Damn. “Nothing,” he said, scrunching the silk in his hand and tucking it more firmly against his side.

  But MacKay wasn’t having it. His eyes narrowed on the swathe of fabric at his side. The very feminine swathe of fabric. “Don’t tell me you ignored the king’s invitation for a woman? What were you thinking? It seems you have as much discipline over your co—” He stopped, giving Helen an apologetic look. “Over your desire as you do over your temper.” He shook his head. “I bloody well hope she was worth it.”

  Kenneth’s teeth clenched. Surprisingly, he realized, she was, but he wasn’t about to explain himself to MacKay. And he sure as hell didn’t like being scolded as if he were a wet-behind-the-ears squire.

  Damn it, he was tired of this. He was tired of his boyhood nemesis lauding it over him as if he were his superior. He wasn’t. And today Kenneth was going to prove it.

  “I need to get ready,” he said, refusing to let MacKay bait him. He needed to have his sister wrap his ribs. “Helen, if you would meet me in the barracks—”

  “There you are,” Gregor MacGregor said, walking toward them from the loch. From the damp hair and drying cloth wrapped around his neck, Kenneth assumed he’d been bathing. Half the castle’s population—the female half—was probably still at the beach right now. “I thought you said you were going to escort Lady Mary to the feast?” His eyes were laughing. “I bet the king is wondering what happened to you both. I thought she wasn’t interested in a betrothal. But maybe you convinced her?”

  Kenneth froze. The blood drained from his face. “Who?”

  MacGregor’s brow creased with his confusion. “Lady Mary. I assumed after you saw us in the corridor that—”

  “Mary of Mar,” Kenneth said tonelessly, feeling as if a stone had just dropped in his gut. She’d deceived him. The wee nun wasn’t a lady’s attendant at all, she was the widowed Countess of Atholl. The woman the king had picked out for him as a bride.

  Why hadn’t she told him?

  His mouth fell in a hard line, anticipating that he wasn’t going to like the explanation.

  “You didn’t,” MacKay said under his breath, looking at the veil.

  Kenneth stiffened. The tic in his cheek jumped. He glared at him, daring him to say a bloody word.

  But like him, MacKay never backed down from a challenge. That was probably one of the reasons they were always at one another’s throats.

  The bastard laughed. “My God, you didn’t even know who she was! I knew you’d find a way to screw this up. When the king finds out, your being champion isn’t going to matter.”

  Kenneth clenched his fists, the laughter grating like nails under his skin. Worse, he knew MacKay was right. The king wasn’t going to take kindly to him seducing his former sister-in-law. So much for avoiding the gauntlet of dangerous women! He couldn’t have picked a more inappropriate bedmate if he’d tried.

  MacGregor wasn’t any better. He let out a low whistle. “I doubt that was what the king had in mind to convince her.”

  “There will be no reason for the king to find out,” he warned them.

  Neither man disagreed, but neither did they agree.

  Helen gazed up at him with a worried look on her face. She knew how much this meant to him and feared he might have just done something he could not undo. “You’d better do something to make it right,” she said. “And I’d do it quickly. Lady Anna told me Lady Mary is leaving soon.”

  His blood spiked. Lady Mary wasn’t going anywhere, damn it. Kenneth turned on his heel and stormed toward the donjon, rage surging through his veins. He couldn’t ever remember feeling this much anger toward a woman. Women were easy. They didn’t give him trouble. He had no reason to get angry with them. But it seemed Lady Mary possessed a singular ability to elicit any number of strange reactions from him.

  “Don’t take too long,” McKay taunted. “The Games are about to begin. You wouldn’t want to be late and forfeit your place in the competition.”

  Kenneth shot him a black look. “Don’t worry. This won’t take long.”

  He and his soon-to-be betrothed were going to have a very short conversation.

  The flurry of activity going on around them didn’t stop Margaret from trying to question her.

  “But why must you go now? I thought you planned to stay until after the feast tomorrow. There will be a great celebration to close the Games.”

  Mary turned to give instructions to one of the maidservants on in which trunk to place the limited jewels she had left, before answering. “As I said, King Edward has given the bishop leave to stay in Scotland for a few more months to try to effect a truce, but he is eager for a report, and the bishop thought it best if I give it to him personally.” At her suggestion, of course.

  Margaret didn’t look convinced. “Are you sure that is all? You never did say what happened to you last night. I sent one of your ladies to see what was wrong, but she didn’t find you in the room.” Margaret paused meaningfully. “It’s strange. I noticed Sir Kenneth was missi
ng as well. The king was quite vexed by his absence.”

  Mary hid her blush by turning to give another instruction. Margaret suspected what had happened, but for some reason Mary couldn’t bring herself to confide in her. She didn’t want to talk about it. She didn’t want to think about it. Being wicked no longer seemed like something she wanted to laugh about.

  By the time she finished speaking with the servant, she’d managed to compose herself. “It was probably when I was at the beach. I needed some fresh air.” She knew she needed to give her sister-in-law more, so she added, “David will be at Alnwick Castle soon, and I should like to be there when he arrives. It’s been nearly a year since I’ve seen him.”

  The longing in her voice left no doubt of the truth of that, and Margaret was instantly contrite. “Of course you do! I’m sorry, I can see why you are anxious to go. I can’t imagine what it would be like to have one of my babies taken away from me.” She shivered as if the mere thought had sent a chill through her blood.

  How could Mary tell her it was so much worse than that? You couldn’t imagine the pain until you experienced it. It was one of the worst things any mother could ever go through.

  “You are still young, Mary. Have you ever thought about having another child?”

  The dull ache in her chest turned into a hard stab. A merciless stab. Even if she let herself admit that she yearned for another child, the price of having one was too high. Independence. Control over her own fate. “I believe you need a husband for that,” she said wryly.

  Her words were punctuated by a crash, as the door slammed open.

  A half-dozen faces turned as Sir Kenneth Sutherland strode into the room like some conquering barbarian.

  Mary froze, feeling the blood drain from her face. He was looking right at her. Nay, “looking” was too benign for the fierce, all-consuming black glare that seemed to reach across the room and capture her in a steely grip.

  Instinctively, she took a few steps back.

  Despite the fury emanating from him, he cocked a lazy brow. “Going somewhere, Lady Mary?” The emphasis he put on her name sent chills racing up and down her spine. “I hope you weren’t planning to leave without saying goodbye.”