Delicate and beautiful, like the lily she was, but sturdy, too, coming back each spring after weathering the bitterest of snows.
Her gaze flew to his, and she blinked, then turned abruptly away. “I am no beast to be named at your pleasure!” she hissed.
Iain didn’t know what to say. It was true. Leading the rest of the way in silence, he drew her into the thickest part of the forest, and then reined in and dismounted.
“No, you’re no’,” he acknowledged finally.
Page remained stiff in the saddle. Iain went to her side, intending to help her dismount, but he made the mistake of peering up at her in that instant.
There were tears in her eyes.
He could see them though she wouldn’t meet his gaze, and his heart wrenched. Had he acted wrongly? he wondered, and then knew he had, for when she turned to look down at him again, there was anger in her eyes, an anger so filled with pain that Iain’s heart bled at the sight of it.
Damn, but why should he care what she felt? He didn’t know this woman. Didn’t owe her a bloody damned thing! Hadn’t wanted to bring her...
And yet he had.
It occurred to him suddenly that if he truly hadn’t wished to bring her, he simply wouldn’t have. He cared what she felt, because she’d reached some part of his soul that had lain untouched for too many years. Somehow, she’d pierced that shadowy realm with that first heart-stirring glance.
Mounted before him, towering above him as she did, her long plait unraveling down her back, her dark eyes flashing and luminous, and her stance proud, she seemed almost a wild thing in that instant. Wild and unapproachable, like the deer of the forests, those wide brown eyes both forbidding and heedful at once.
For an instant Iain was wholly mesmerized by those fathomless dark pools, some part of him yearning to leap into their misty depths, discover the hidden mysteries... and pleasures.
He knew she thought he pitied her, that much was apparent. He could spy it in her eyes, but God... it was so far from the truth. If anything, he admired her. Not many men could have taken the abuse he sensed she’d received at her father’s hands, and still come through unscathed as she had.
Though wounded she might be, she was far from conquered.
He envied her, too, he realized. Envied her for the freedom she was unafraid to embrace.
He thought about the moment he’d first spied her, soaked from a midnight swim no true lady would have dared even fancy. Her eyes had flashed with defiance, though she’d been cast at his feet.
Christ, he wanted, in that moment, not to conquer, but to join her.
Too many years he’d lived in this dark room that was his life—always doing what was right, what was just, never pursuing the candlelight that beckoned just beyond his chamber threshold.
He’d been his father’s only son, and for all intents and purposes had been born into the world a man. His father, though Iain was certain had loved him well, had never truly been a father at all, but a teacher, instead, always fearful that his only heir would somehow depart this life before him and that his sovereign bloodline would end. He had both protected Iain interminably and trained him fiercely so that he might fend for himself and his clan when at last the old laird closed his eyes. And Christ, he’d closed them all too soon, his final time during Iain’s seventeenth winter.
His father would have been proud of him, he thought, for he had given everything to his clan. Every moment of every waking hour of his life.
He’d spared them naught.
And still some part of him was not his own to give, for it eluded even him.
And then he’d been alone.
He’d never known his mother, had never ceased to mourn that fact. Though sometimes... sometimes... he thought he spied her kindly face shrouded amidst his deeper memories.
Nothing more than fancy, he knew, for she’d never even held him within her arms. He’d never had the chance to look into soothing eyes— didn’t even know what color they were, though he had the vaguest impression of blue—to suckle as a babe at her breast, to spy her watching him as he played with other children.
Mairi, too, had been his duty to his clan.
He’d wanted so much from her, so much—mayhap too much. He was willing to take that much responsibility for her death. Hell, he’d taken it all—as ever was his duty. Her rejection of him, and the infernal ends to which she had gone to escape him, had finally extinguished the lone guttering taper he had tended so zealously all of his life. In the space of a heartbeat, in the wake of her flight from his high tower window, the candle had flickered and died.
The woman sitting so proudly before him was like that light shining just beyond his threshold, beckoning him out from the darkness he knew so well.
God... and he wanted to follow it.
Those brief moments of reflection were Iain’s undoing, for she seemed to recover herself from the stupor they had shared, and reacted suddenly with all the vengeance her eyes foreboded.
Too late, he seized the reins from her hands. She spurred Ranald’s mount furiously. The horse reared, surging forward. Iain lost hold of the reins with all but one finger, and with that tentative hold, he tried to force her to stop.
Ranald’s mount, addled now, seemed to hesitate, and Iain at once tried to regain his hold upon the reins, but she spurred the horse again, more furiously this time, and he was flung forward. The leather sliced the flesh of his hand, searing it with the force of its pull. His arm twisted within the rein, and he was dragged with her.
He howled in pain, trying to find a foothold, but the horse tore away too swiftly. Realizing in that moment that she was bloody well going to kill him, that she wasn’t going to stop, that he would need pursue her with his own mount, he tried to free himself at once. He succeeded, though not before managing to drag himself under the horse’s hooves. His answering curse was a cry of pain.
His arm untangled and he was flung to the ground.
His head impacted with a crack that reverberated clear into his unconscious mind.
It took Page an instant too long to free herself from the angry fog that had enveloped her. Realizing suddenly what she’d done, she whirled her mount about, and sat, horseflesh rippling impatiently beneath her as she stared at the body lying so still upon the ground.
Sweet Mary, what had she done to him?
Some part of her wanted to go to him.
Her heart twisted painfully.
She turned to stare in horror and panic at the path that led to freedom, and for an instant was anguished and torn.
There would never be a greater opportunity for escape.
And some part of her wanted to go—to her father—some part of her truly did, but the greater part of her could not leave with him lying there as he was.
So still.
Her father’s enemy, she reminded herself.
A liar and a faithless cheat.
The man who had treated her with nothing less than kindness. The man whose worst crime against her had been to give her a name her father had never stirred himself to bestow.
Suisan.
Her heart wrenched. She wondered what it meant.
The sound of it upon his lips, like a lover’s whisper, had made her heart leap, had filled her eyes with tears she’d never dared to shed.
Aye, and she’d dared in that moment to love him, this fierce stranger, whom she dared not even like.
Her heart hammered as she stared at the body lying so still before her.
The realization that he pitied her had turned her heart to stone, her thoughts to fury.
She came aware of tears streaming down her cheeks.
Sobs rang in her ears—her own?
Jesu, but why should she weep for this man?
How could she not go? She’d waited all her life for her father to want her, and now that he did, she must go to him! She must!
Jesu, but this man had betrayed him, had broken faith. Why should she care that he lay there?
/> Possibly dying.
Possibly dead.
Her stomach twisted.
He didn’t so much as move as she watched. He lay there upon the forest floor, his big body crushing the bracken beneath. She gauged the light frantically through the sparse-limbed trees; it was fast growing dark.
What if they couldn’t find him before the sun made its final descent? She recalled what Broc had told her about Ranald—in what condition his body had been found—and fear squeezed her heart.
Sweet Jesu, she couldn’t bear for that fate to be Iain MacKinnon’s, no matter that she wanted to loathe him still.
She couldn’t go, God help her, but she couldn’t!
Spurring her mount back, she reined in beside him, dismounting quickly, kneeling at once at his side.
He lay so still, so still that Page’s heart thumped and fear deluged her.
Desperate to hear his breath, some evidence that he yet lived, she placed her cheek against his lips, warm still with the sweet elixir of life. Her eyes closed with relief when she felt his breath, so light and airy against her face.
Thank God!
She couldn’t have borne it.
Thank God, thank God, thank God!
For the longest instant she couldn’t move, so benumbed was she with giddy relief.
Of a sudden, a hand caught her at her nape, and then his eyes flew open. She felt his lashes flutter against her cheek but couldn’t move for the clasp he had upon her neck. She filled her lungs with a gulping breath as his grip held her more firmly against him. His nostrils flared, as though scenting her, and then he groaned and clenched his jaw.
Her heart began to hammer fiercely. It pounded erratically, the sound of it echoing like savage drums in her ears. She tried to draw away, alarmed by the currents that jolted through her at the intimate position of their bodies.
“Nay,” he rasped.
The single word was a plea, a tormented whisper that bore more desperation, even, than did the depths of her very soul. And God help her, that more than the force of his grip held her quiescent against him.
For an instant, neither of them spoke; he simply held her to his face, his lips pressed against her cheek, with a desperation that Page had thought only she knew.
She stirred, and his grasp tightened.
“Don’t go,” he pleaded, and she could feel his heartbeat quicken against the palm she had braced at his chest.
“I...” Page swallowed convulsively. Unreasonable as it seemed, she took fierce pleasure in the simple request. It choked the breath from her lungs. “I... I feared to have killed you,” she confessed softly, and closed her eyes, allowing him to move his lips against her face.
Sweet Mary... soft, warm, and sweet... his lips were... making her daft. She trembled with keen pleasure.
His breath came labored, as did her own, and his whisper was hot and sweet against her face, and still he did not release her. Page tried to writhe away, before her body could betray her, but somehow, his lips found their way to her ear, and he murmured, “Stay, lass...”
Sweet Christ... Page thought she would die from the sensations that swept through her at his plea, at the warmth of his breath against her lobe... the way that he seemed to be savoring her face... like a blind lover seeking knowledge of the one he loved... though Iain’s fingers were his lips... and he was making her insane.
“Are... are you hurt?” she found the wits to ask. Her fingers slid into his hair, searching, secretly reveling in the thick healthy texture of his hair.
“Nay.”
She breathed a sigh of relief at his answer, and then he whispered in her ear. “Why did you come back?”
“I... I don’t know,” she answered, and truly she didn’t.
“I’m verra glad you did, lass.”
“I shouldn’t have,” she acknowledged softly.
“But you did.”
“Aye.” Page swallowed convulsively, for his lips began to move tentatively against her cheek once more. She didn’t stop him. Couldn’t. She closed her eyes to savor the feel of them caressing her face. Sweet Heaven above, she had never known a heart could feel so taxed and still continue to beat.
That her flesh could feel so sensitive to the touch.
That her body could yearn so... desperately.
Her body, not her heart, she reminded herself, for her heart was entombed in stone—stone walls she had erected herself with blood and mortar, and painful precision. Only her father had the power to bring them down, and instead he had helped to build them, handing her the bricks, one by one, that she might lay them firmly upon the foundation that was her life.
Ah, but her soul... her soul had yearned and soared, flying from its confines within the prison of her heart, like a specter walking through solid walls.
Her body yearned now, too, and God help her, she had not the will to deny it.
Her fingers unknowingly tangled within his hair, and she was unaware that he eased his grip.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “Forgive me, lass.” He kissed her cheek while his arms urged her down upon him. “I didna mean to hurt you...”
“I know,” Page cried, and somehow knew that it was so. And then she couldn’t think at all, for his hands had somehow found their way to her face. He cupped her cheek as he had that first night... with a tenderness that stole her breath and heart away, and tears sprang to her eyes.
Chapter Seventeen
The desire she revealed to him so unabashedly made Iain’s heart trip painfully. It sluiced through his soul like a hallowed stream of light, banishing shadows from the darkest cobwebbed reaches.
“I shouldn’t,” she whispered. “Shouldn’t want...” And the desperation he heard in her voice tore at his soul. He shouldn’t want her either, but he did. God help him, but he did.
He turned her face to meet his .gaze. “But you do?”
She closed her eyes and rested her forehead upon his. “Nay.”
He drew away a fraction, staring into her eyes. Deeper shadows descended upon the forest, bathing them in gloaming light, but still he could see the bewilderment in her eyes.
The truth.
“I spy it in your gaze, lass,” he said.
She denied it once more, a quick jerk of her head that convinced him not at all.
“I shouldn’t,” she persisted.
He cupped her chin, drawing it up so that he might better see her lips when she spoke. “That look tells me otherwise. It speaks to my lips...”
He drew himself up and placed his lips to her beautiful chin. “It begs for this...” Instinctively she tilted her head low, of her own accord, and he covered her mouth with his own, tasting her lips, tentatively at first.
Page felt every sweet caress deep into her soul. Every soft foray across her lips sent her heart into a wild skitter.
Sweet Mary, how she wanted this...
How she wanted him.
Never in her life had she craved anything more...
What could possibly be wrong with taking what little he would give her? What did it matter that she would leave him? It wasn’t... and didn’t, she told herself.
What if this one instant in time were to be her fleeting moment of happiness? Her one chance at this sense... of belonging... of feeling... wanted...
Would she regret never taking it?
She knew he couldn’t possibly love her, nor could she love him, for they were strangers. And yet... he did want her. She knew it by the way he touched her... so gently, and yet with so much ardor that it made her heart cry out with joy.
His tongue swept across her lips with a relish that made her heart squeeze painfully. Page opened her mouth to his gentle prodding, his erotic, demanding caresses, and her body quivered as his tongue swept inside, boldly, plundering her mouth... teasing her tongue, until she moaned with delight and joined him in the gentle play.
It was the sweetest taste of bliss.
Everything she had ever dreamed.
“Tell me no
w ye dinna want me, lass,” he challenged her, tearing his lips away from her mouth.
He left her with her eyes closed, unable to open them to the tangible world. Lord, she wanted to go back... experience every delicious shudder all over again.
“Aye,” she whispered breathlessly, never opening her eyes. If she didn’t open them, it didn’t have to be real...
She could pretend...
“I do—God in Heaven help me, but I do...”
At her honest admission, pleasure so keen it was almost pain shot through Iain. And then he groaned as an entirely different sort of pain dizzied him. It burst through his limbs when he tried to lift himself from the ground to better kiss her senseless. “Ah... Christ...” He closed his eyes against it.
He heard her gasp of alarm. “Are you hurt?” she asked once more, and he could see the concern in her eyes, hear it in her voice. It was like a balm for his soul.
Christ, he bloody well didn’t know if he was hurt. He grimaced, for he’d come to, surprised to find her warm, soft face nestled so intimately against his own, and was at once ensorcelled by her scent, her nearness, so much so that he’d somehow forgotten why the bloody hell he was sprawled in the middle of the soggy forest floor to begin with.
He lay back down for an instant, and then tried to move his legs. They moved well enough, he thought, though they ached like the devil. He met her worried gaze, and felt the need to reassure her, “Naught broken so far.” He smiled, not wholly convinced himself.
Neither did she seem overly assured, and her lovely brows drew together into a barely discernible frown.
“Truly?”
Iain moved his legs again to show her, grimacing, and then tried to rise. He fell back upon his rear, his brows drawing together in discomfiture. “No’ broken mayhap, but a wee unsteady.” He winked at her. “Och, but ye weave a wicked spell, lass.” He grinned then, to be certain she understood he was jesting with her. “I’ll be fine,” he assured, when she failed to smile.
He sat there upon his rump a long instant, watching her as the sun continued its descent, and wished to bloody hell that the moment’s spell hadn’t broken. In the dimming light, her blush faded to shadows, but the delicate contours of her face remained to bewitch him.
Five Unforgettable Knights (5 Medieval Romance Novels) Page 128
