It had been so much more than he’d imagined—and what he’d imagined had been pretty damned spectacular. Instinctively he’d known it would be good between them—their attraction had been too charged from the start for it not to be—he just hadn’t anticipated the rest. The feelings of tenderness that had gripped him. The feelings that hadn’t come from anywhere close to the vicinity of his groin. They’d been much deeper and much more powerful. They’d come from a part of him he hadn’t been sure existed anymore.
But he didn’t know what it meant. Or, more important, what the hell he was going to do about it.
When Rosalin was a young girl, not long after her parents had died, she’d gone chasing after Cliff and some of his friends on a hunting trip. She ran after them for miles, over hills and through valleys, as quickly as her little legs would carry her.
By the time she’d caught up with them, she’d been exhausted. Every limb, every bone, every muscle in her body felt as if it had been strained and stretched to the breaking point. Cliff had been furious that she’d followed them, and she’d been sore for weeks, but the sense of accomplishment had made everything worth it.
It was the most physically exhausted she’d ever been. Until now. But like then, it had been worth it. Every minute of it.
Well, maybe not one particular minute of it.
As she lay strewn across his chest, trying to find the energy to breathe—let alone think—Rosalin winced at the memory. That minute had hurt quite a lot. But the sharp twinge had faded quickly—thankfully—and it had been replaced by a dull soreness and a wonderful sensation of being filled. Possessed. Claimed. Primitive words, perhaps, but it didn’t make them any less meaningful or significant. What they’d just done had bound them together in a way she never could have imagined. In a way that could not be undone.
If she’d thought she loved him before, she knew it now for certain with every fiber of her very sore, exhausted, and aching being. She didn’t need to worry about it being perfect. It was perfect.
She belonged to him not because he’d taken her maidenhead but because of the connection they’d forged together. She would never forget the look in his eyes as he’d held himself deep inside her and let himself go. The sharp poignancy of the moment would be burned in her heart forever. A man did not look like that at a woman whom he did not care about—care deeply about.
A woman whom he did not love.
For a moment, the hard mask had dropped and revealed the vulnerable man underneath. The man who wanted to love but didn’t know how. The man who’d had so much taken from him that he’d told himself he didn’t need it anymore. The man who needed her, even if he might not realize it yet.
Lost in her thoughts and caught up in the sense of euphoria that had overtaken her, it took a few minutes for Rosalin to realize how quiet it was. How quiet he was.
A prickle of unease tried to worm its way through her happiness, but she wouldn’t let it. Nothing was going to interfere with this moment. He was probably just as moved by what had happened as she. And probably just as tired.
With that thought, Rosalin snuggled in closer to the warm bare chest, let his spicy masculine scent wash over her, closed her eyes, and succumbed to the exhaustion.
Long after Rosalin fell asleep, Robbie lay awake in the darkness. Part of him wanted to savor every minute he had of holding her in his arms. The other part needed time to think. It wasn’t until he’d decided what to do that he allowed himself to rest.
Just before dawn he carefully crept out of bed, dressed, and made his way downstairs to put his plan into motion. When he was done, he returned to the room to wait for her to wake so he could tell her what he’d done.
Twenty-two
Rosalin was still asleep. Instead of being bundled up against him, she’d taken one of the pillows and was hugging it to her chest. She looked as sweet and contented as a child, her beautiful face soft in repose, her small fist resting near her strawberry-red mouth, and her golden-blond hair streaming out behind her in wavy, tumbled disarray. Robbie had covered her last night while she slept, but he knew that the half-naked skin beneath the coverlet was every bit as velvety and baby-soft.
Unable to resist—and admittedly feeling a bit put out over a damned pillow—he removed his boots, cotun, and shirt, and crawled back into bed beside her. Carefully extracting the pillow from her hold, he felt a satisfied swell in his chest when, after a kittenish mewl of displeasure, she slid back into his arms with a contented sigh.
God, he could get used to this. She was so warm and soft, and she smelled like a bed of roses—a bed of well-ravished roses. His chest ached from just the simple pleasure of holding her. He hadn’t felt at peace like this in years. Maybe ever.
Stroking her hair, he watched the gentle rise and fall of her chest on his for as long as he could—until the first rays of sunshine captured the strands of gold in their shimmery light. Then, he knew he could not wait any longer.
He gave her a gentle shake. “Rosalin.”
Her long lashes fluttered open. Still groggy with sleep, her gaze found his. Slowly the confusion cleared, and a broad smile curved her sensually bruised lips. “Good morning.”
His chest tugged. She looked so damned happy. He would do just about anything to keep her that way. But he feared “just about” might not be enough.
The lass was too perceptive. Before he could respond, her smile fell. She propped herself up a little on his chest. “Is something wrong?”
“You need to return to your room.”
She drew in her breath, her eyes widening as if his words had somehow hurt her. “You’re sending me away?”
There was something small and vulnerable in her voice that made him frown. Unintentionally, he’d struck a tender spot. She’d been sent away before, he realized. If the hurt in her eyes was any indication, perhaps quite a lot. He knew little of her childhood other than what he’d been able to piece together. She’d been orphaned young and sent to live with the Earl of Hereford. Clifford was the only sibling he knew about. Because of her rank and wealth, the esteem of her guardian, and her brother’s position, Robbie had assumed her life had been easy. But privilege and favor, it seemed, did not replace a family.
Any more than war did. But it was the only way he knew, the only way he could make the deaths of the people he’d loved mean something.
He squeezed her tighter. “Nay,” he said, wanting to ease her fears as quickly as possible with a kiss on her head. “Or at least only temporarily. It’s almost morning, and unless you want the entire castle to know what we’ve been doing, you should return to your own bed before someone comes to check on you.”
Her relief was visceral. He could feel it in the relaxing of her muscles as his thumb gently caressed her back while he held her.
She lay her cheek back down on his chest. “I don’t mind.”
“Well, I do.” He lifted her chin to look into her eyes. “I will not have you maligned or subject to slurs for what I have done.”
“For what we have done,” she corrected. “I knew full well the consequences, Robbie. You do not need to protect me from them. I am not ashamed of what we did. No promises, remember?”
His mouth hardened. Aye, he did. But that didn’t ease the frustration at being unable to make them—or assuage his guilt for taking her innocence. Guilt that for a man who purported not to worry about honor weighed surprisingly heavily. What a damned mess!
He told himself that at least he had not put the truce in jeopardy. Technically, he’d kept his word. He had not forced her. Although he doubted Clifford would appreciate the distinction. Nor would he if their roles were reversed.
Why the hell did he care? Clifford had wanted to kill him before. If Clifford kept his side of the bargain, Robbie would keep his: Rosalin would be returned to her brother unharmed. Nothing had changed. All this had done was make their parting more difficult.
Suddenly, her expression changed. She sat up, her eyes quickly darting from his chau
sses to the clothes that he’d discarded on the chair in his rush to climb back into bed with her. “You’ve been up.”
It was not a question, but he nodded anyway. “Aye.”
She waited, watching him silently, but he knew what she was asking.
“I sent Seton and Douglas with a message for your brother demanding an explanation.”
Given their divergent interests, by sending both of them, he hoped to get an accurate answer. It also meant neither of them would guess what had happened, and he would be free from their judgment for a few days. Seton would be enraged. Why did he dread his partner’s finding out so much? Since when did Seton’s opinion matter? They never agreed on anything. But maybe this time, it was justified.
Her eyes widened to fairly insulting proportions. “You did?”
One side of his mouth curved. He supposed he deserved her shock. “Aye, you will have your few days.”
She looked at him as if he’d just handed her the heavens. “You did this for me? For us? Does this mean…”
Robbie didn’t know what it meant. He’d done it partly for her, and partly to ease his guilt. Hell, what he’d done to her last night could be considered retaliation enough.
But he knew what she was asking, and he wouldn’t give her false hope.
She was already stretched out against him, but he drew her in tight and snug. Their eyes met. “It means we have a few days until they return, that is all. But beyond that…” He looked at her intently. “I have to do my job, Rosalin. No matter what that entails.”
She nodded. “I understand.”
Did she? He wasn’t sure she did. Too much was resting on this. His duty would always come first. And he had no idea how he could reconcile the feelings he had for her with the determination to win Scotland’s freedom and punish the oppressors that had driven him for years. For so long nothing had mattered in his life but war. He still wasn’t sure there was room for anything else. How could an Englishwoman—even one sympathetic to his cause—fit in with that? “I don’t know if I can give you what you want.”
She blinked up at him. “But you care for me.”
He wouldn’t deny it. But caring wasn’t what she wanted. She wanted a future.
“Then is this about my brother? About me being English?”
“Yes. No.” He raked his fingers back through his hair. “Christ, isn’t that enough?”
“It doesn’t have to be. This can work, Robbie. I know it can. Just give it a chance.”
When she looked at him like that, she could almost make him a believer. “I’ll try.”
She beamed up at him, and he felt something hot and tight catch in his throat. His chest swelled so hard it felt like it was going to explode. It had been so long since he felt anything like this, it took him a moment to realize it was happiness. Happiness that was so big and powerful it almost felt threatening.
All he could do was kiss her, which, as she was already halfway up his chest, simply required a little lifting of his arms to drag her up the other half.
He groaned at the warm, willing taste of her and at the sensation of having her stretched out on top of him.
Aye, he liked that. Liked it a whole hell of a lot.
His hand slid down her back, coming to rest on the gentle swell of her buttocks. He held her against him, letting her feel him thicken and lengthen as his tongue licked deeper and deeper into her mouth. She was like the sweetest ambrosia and he couldn’t get enough.
But when she moaned and started to squirm, he had to pull away. “Christ, sweetheart, there isn’t time.”
She gave him a mischievous grin, but it was the glint in her eye that alarmed him. The glint that was far too wicked for a lass who’d just lost her virginity. “Are you sure?” She was still draped on top of him, and he swore the little vixen circled her hips against him purposefully. “I was rather hoping you would make it up to me.”
His eyes narrowed. “What do you mean ‘make it up to me’?”
She gave a careless shrug. “You know, about the second time being better than the first.”
He flipped her on her back and came down on top of her to pin her with his body so quickly, all she could do was gasp in shock.
“How did you do that?” she demanded, half outraged and half awed.
He smiled slowly. “Practice.” His combat skills were being put to unexpectedly good use. He glared down into her eyes. “What do you mean ‘better’? I’m not sure what you were expecting, but that was bloody spectacular.”
She had the impudence to appear surprised. “Was it? How should I know when I have nothing to compare it to? But if you aren’t up for the challenge, I understand.”
She started to try to roll out from under him, but he wasn’t about to let her go anywhere. No self-respecting Scotsman would let a slur like that go unpunished.
Taking her wrists, he pinned them above her head and proceeded to kiss, lick, and rake his teeth gently against her neck until she started to shiver and shudder.
“Oh, I’m up for it,” he whispered huskily in her ear. “Very up for it.” He slid his length up and down between her legs until she wasn’t just shivering and shuddering, she was shaking. “Perhaps we have time for a lesson after all.”
“Very well, but don’t take too long.”
His gaze met hers with a wicked gleam of his own. “Aye, well in that case I suspect you are going to be disappointed.”
He intended to punish her with the torture of anticipation.
Only when he saw the amusement twinkling in her eyes did he realize he’d been maneuvered. But by that point he was already circling one very pink and very tight nipple with his thumb, she was making those breathy little gasps, and he no longer gave a shite.
Rosalin was close. The feel of him big and deep inside her—filling her—as she rode him like a stallion was unlike anything she’d ever imagined. It was wild, freeing, and strangely empowering, knowing that she was in control of the powerful warrior beneath her.
He held her hips, guiding her as she rode the thick club of his erection up and down, taking him deep and hard, finding the perfect rhythm for her pleasure.
It had started out slow. Languorously slow as she wanted to savor every sensation, every thick inch of his body stretching and filling hers. But then it had quickened, until she was moving over him at a frenzied gallop.
When her pace reached the breaking point, she arched her back and cried out as her body started to fly. She was shaking and shattering, chanting his name in a soft whimper as the flood of heat rushed free.
She thought the sensation couldn’t get any sweeter, but she should have known better. The hands that were gripping her hips brought her down hard on top of him. He held her there, grinding her against him until she shattered again. It was deeper this time, and even more powerful. “Yes, oh God, yes, Robbie…!” She was mindless with passion, consumed by the pleasure overtaking her.
He was, too. She could feel him straining beneath her, the big body fighting for control. “That’s it, mo ghrá. Christ, I can feel you squeezing me—”
He stopped, tensing right before he let out a roar and his pleasure shot deep inside her in hot, pulsing spasms.
She collapsed on top of his naked, hot, and slightly damp chest into a boneless, syrupy heap. She couldn’t have found the strength to move even if Hannibal himself were knocking at the gate. She smiled, thinking that Robbie would appreciate her analogy.
She lay there in complete and utter contentment, savoring the simple pleasure of the heavy rise and fall of his chest under her cheek.
The past two days had been some of the happiest in her life, but this was her favorite of all. This was what she would remember forever. Being curled up on top of him, every inch of her body weary and sated from his lovemaking, his steely arm wrapped around her as if he would never let her go, with the heavy beat of his heart reverberating like a drum through her. She felt utterly connected and utterly contented.
“Well?” T
he deep, powerful voice held a note of expectation, and something else that she treasured for the gift it was: teasing.
She schooled her features into blank repose and managed to find the strength to tilt her face to meet his gaze. “I stand corrected. It was possible.” When he’d rolled her into his lap and told her what she could do, she hadn’t been so sure.
“And?”
She nodded, seeming to consider. “Yes, definitely an improvement.”
He cocked a brow, challenging her assessment. Her stomach flipped. God, he was handsome. He looked every inch the brigand with his bed-rumpled hair, piercing blue eyes, dark stubble, and bruised right cheek, sustained in some kind of skirmish when he’d been riding out yesterday. There was a small cut, too, and she suspected he’d taken a blow to his still injured ribs as well, but he’d refused to let her “fuss” over him. Stubborn brute.
He told her little of what he’d done the past two days they had been at the castle. He rode out every day, she assumed to scout and do whatever it was he did to enforce the king’s authority in the Borders. In the afternoons, he and his men practiced in the yard. Only at night did he come to her.
She feigned ambivalence. “How many times is that now? Three? Four?” Five.
His eyes narrowed, but she saw the glint of amusement. “I guess it depends on how you want to look at it. By my last count, eight.”
Rosalin couldn’t prevent the heat from rushing to her cheeks. The rogue! He was counting how many times he’d made her shatter!
She harrumphed and pursed her mouth primly. “Ah yes, well, maybe by the time you get to ten it will be, what did you call it…enjoyable?”
“Spectacular, brat.” He gave her a playful swat on her backside. “You do wonders for a man’s confidence.”
Her mouth twisted to hold back a smile. “I wasn’t aware you needed an improvement in that area. From what I can see from the window when you are practicing, you have plenty of confidence boosting going on out there.”
The Raider (A Highland Guard Novel) Page 30
