The Warrior Bride

by Lois Greiman

  “Why else are you here?” she asked.

  He almost laughed, but the feel of her skin beneath his fingers made it difficult to breathe, so he merely encircled her ankle and leaned toward her.

  “Because despite your delusions to the contrary, lassie, you are a far cry from being a man.”

  Their gazes met with a jolt, and perhaps in his eyes she could see the hard edge of his desire, for in that instant, she jerked her foot away. Her toes brushed the burgeoning swell of his erection as she stumbled to her feet.

  He rose more leisurely, still watching her.

  “I am not the sort you spoke of, lass. In truth, I am the furthest thing from it, and I’ll not pretend to be otherwise, no matter how safe that pretense makes you feel.”

  “You think I need pretense to make me feel secure?”

  “Aye, lass, I do.”

  “Then you forget me abilities?”

  She stood nearly naked before him. Through the brushed gold of her hair, her breasts rose and fell with the depth of her emotion.

  “I forget nothing about you, lass.”

  For a moment he wasn’t sure if she would flee or fight, but finally she spoke, her tone cool. “You needn’t pretend to be what you are not, MacGowan. I care not either way.”

  He studied her carefully. For a moment while he touched her it had seemed that she too felt something. Had he imagined it or was that why she persisted with her foolish notions? To protect herself. To hold him at bay.

  “Indeed,” she said. “I do not think less of you because you prefer men.”

  He said nothing.

  “You are a warrior,” she continued. “Brave and strong. You have no need to prove your sexual prowess, for as I’ve said, I have no interest in you.” She lifted her chin and gave a single nod, like a punctuation of her decision.

  An odd mix of emotions churned in Lachlan ’s stomach, but damned if he could keep them straight.

  “So tell me, lass,” he said. “After all this, you still believe I see you as a man.”

  “‘Tis no great surprise,” she said. “Others have been believing that very thing for years.”

  “Which merely proves me theory.”

  “Which is?”

  “Most men are dolts.”

  She laughed. “Do not try to pretend you were unfooled by me disguise.”

  “Nay, I readily admit that at the beginning I thought you a man, for you make a bold warrior and a formidable enemy. Yet I cannot help but wonder what you would be like as a-”

  A dirk appeared like magic in her hand. In truth, he had no idea where it came from, but she held it waist high, where it could do a good deal of damage.

  He sighed. “Lass,” he said. “I tire of this drama.”

  “As do I!”

  He failed to do so much as glance down at the blade.

  Instead he met her eyes full on. “What are you so afeared of, lassie?”

  “Afeared!” she snarled. “You dare insult me again?” “Nay,” he said, and took a step closer as he skimmed his gaze down the ethereal length of her body. His chest swelled at the sight of her, squeezing in on his heart. “I could not see you thus and insult you. I but wonder if you lie.”

  She shifted the knife slightly in her hand. ”As if turns out, MacGowan, you are a bigger fool than I thought at the start.”

  “Truly?” he said and took a step closer still. The point of the knife pressed low on his abdomen, but he ignored it. “How so?”

  “Few would be daft enough to cry liar in your current situation.”

  He shrugged. The movement felt slow and heavy, as if he were swimming upstream. “I readily admit that there are few like me, lass. And perhaps that is why…” He paused, and reaching up, brushed the back of his fingers against her cheek.

  She didn’t move, but remained absolutely still. “Why what?” she breathed.

  “Why you must guard yourself against me,” he said. For a moment he thought she might actually stab him, might drive her blade into him without a second thought, but instead she threw back her head and laughed.

  He watched her and waited for the anger. After all, he was not a man known for his patience. And yet the fury did not come, not through the long moments as her laughter rolled on.

  “So you think yourself irresistible, do you, champion?” she asked at last.

  Nay, he was not angry, but perhaps a bit of heat warmed his cheeks, a bit of embarrassment for her mirth at his expense. He would be the first to admit he was no lady’s man-no coxcomb wont to draw the maids. And not one to put himself in a position to invite ridicule, but this once, perhaps for the first time in his life, it seemed worth the risk.

  “You say you are not the least attracted to me?” he asked.

  “I am not!” Her tone was scoffing. He remained absolutely still, and she backed away finally to indicate him with a wave of her dirk. “You are…” She skimmed him with her gaze, but for a moment he almost believed she hesitated, almost faltered. “You are hardly the sort to draw me own interest.”

  “Indeed?” He canted his head slightly. ”Then ‘tis you who is attracted to your own sex.”

  Her mouth opened and closed. He thought she would object, but she did not. “‘Tis none of your concern,” she said instead. “But this much I will tell you…” She leaned forward to point at him with her dirk. “I’ve no interest in you.”

  He forced himself to shrug. “‘Tis just as well,” he said, “for then you will not be overcome with desire when I bathe you.”

  Chapter 12

  Hunter held her ground. Her heart was beating like the hooves of a wild destrier, but she would not let him see her panic.

  “‘Tis kind of you to offer,” she said, making certain her tone was disdainful. “But I changed me mind. I need no help bathing.”

  He watched her. His eyes were dark and somber, his tremendous body still. “‘Tis no trouble. I have little else to do,” he said and in one fell motion, yanked his tunic from beneath his belt and over his head.

  Muscles bulged into view, capping his shoulders, rising from his chest, stretching from his throat to his waist in tight hard rows. She stumbled back a pace. “What the devil are you about?”

  He shrugged. Muscles shifted like magic beneath his skin. Indeed, every inch of him bulged and danced as if set to music. His arms were broad and corded, his chest was hard and honed, and beneath the pronounced rows of his ribs, muscles rippled across his abdomen like marching soldiers.

  Damn! she thought, and was completely uncertain whether she’d said the word aloud.

  “You needn’t be afraid.”

  His words spurred her gaze back to his. She was already shaking her head, though she couldn’t remember why exactly. “I am not-”

  “I’ll not harm you.”

  She lifted her chin. “I believe we’ve proven that already.”

  “So we have, laddie. Remove your loincloth.”

  He said it not as an order exactly, but more as an offhand statement. As if he didn’t particularly care if she obeyed, or rebelled, or ran screaming from the room like a deranged banshee.

  “I’ll not-” she began.

  “You can hardly take a proper bath until you do.”

  “I’ve been bathing long afore-”

  “Then you should know how it’s done,” he suggested, his tone mediational. “Remove your clothes.”

  She couldn’t move.

  “Tell me, lass, is it yourself or me that you fear the most?”

  “I fear no one.”

  He stared at her for a moment longer, and in the depths of his eyes it seemed she could see her own emotions reflected as clear as sunrise. She shifted her gaze away and for an instant, from the corner of her eye, it almost seemed that she saw him smile.

  “Disrobe now,” he said, “unless you need me own help again.”

  She knew she should refuse, but his logic, her desire, and her own foolish words had conspired against her. She put her hand to the lace tha
t held her undergarment in place, but her lungs felt compressed, her fingers unsteady. “Why do you just stand there, MacGowan? Have you nothing to do?”

  “Ahh, but I am doing something,” he countered. “I am watching you disrobe.” He paused. His nostrils flared. “In order to be of more assistance to you in the future.”

  Future! In the future! As though she could bear to do this again without admitting her own shameful weaknesses. As though… She gritted her teeth and forced her mind onto safer ground. Her hands shook. She tightened them to fists and tried to ascertain how to keep them out of trouble. “Fetch me soap and towels,” she ordered.

  “Presently,” he said. “As soon as you are safely in the tub.”

  “Now!” Her tone was brash and harsh, the command of a warrior.

  He smiled. Her knees weakened.

  “Nay,” he said, and took a step forward. “Mayhap you are in need of assistance.”

  “Don’t- ” The harsh tone had weakened considerably, but she sharpened it quickly. “Don’t come nearer.”

  “Tell me, me laird. Are you so aloof with all your servants?”

  “I do not have servants, as you very well know.”

  He scowled as if puzzled. “And why is that? Surely you are not afeared they will mistake you for a maid.”

  “Nay. ‘Tis because I oft find them troublesome.”

  He laughed and lifted a hand to indicate her loincloth.

  Muscles jumped like leaping steeds in his chest and arms. “Remove that ungodly thing. The water cools.”

  She swallowed hard. A million possibilities stormed through her head. Should she refuse, order him to turn around, challenge him to a duel? The options seemed limitless. Even swooning was a distinct possibility, though she’d rather die.

  “Come now, laddie, surely you have naught I haven’t seen a hundred times since. After all, we are both warriors, you and I. Unless…” He paused. “Unless you admit you are something more.”

  She lifted her chin and straightened her back. “Damn you, MacGowan,” she said and, tossing her dirk onto the bed, set her fingers to the string that held the last vestige of her modesty. It came away easily in her hand, then slid down her legs to the floor.

  They stared at each other from a few mere feet apart as Hunter chanted a soothing mantra. All was well. All was well. They were two warriors, just as he said. And even if he were not a womanish man, she was surely not the type to attract him. Men were wont to idolize another kind of maid. Not a scarred, steely warrior like herself, but the small and the dainty. Therefore, there was no reason for her to worry. She was not attracted to him. He was not attracted to her. She could step into the tub without fear of molestation. In fact, she ordered herself to do just that, but her legs refused to move.

  She was frozen in place, her gaze locked on his. But finally his attention shifted. It traveled downward as slow as pain, touching her breasts first. She held her breath and refused to wince, for she did not care if he found her unbecoming. But if he were repulsed, his emotions failed to show in his face. Indeed, his eyes seemed to be lit by a fire from within as he skimmed his gaze lower, over her waist and beyond to the tingling cap of hair trapped between her shivering thighs.

  She drew in her breath as if struck and he caught her gaze again.

  His nostrils flared momentarily. “Get into the tub,” he said.

  She planned to refuse. Indeed, she opened her mouth to do just that, for no man gave her orders, but there was something in his eyes. Something dark and deep and just barely controlled. She hesitated just an instant, and then, like one in a trance, she stepped over the metal rim and into the water. It rose up her legs like a balm, and she sunk eagerly into its concealing warmth.

  Their gazes never broke, but when she was beneath the surface, he exhaled softly and she wondered suddenly if he too had been holding his breath.

  Might he be telling the truth? Might his desires be normal? But nay. He had turned aside the maid at the inn and concentrated on her. She shifted her eyes fretfully away and stared into the water. It was a smallish tub, just large enough for a good sized man to fit inside with his knees bent up. Still, the heat was soothing. She cleared her throat and tried to concentrate on that sensation, but she could feel his gaze like a brand on her face.

  “What are you staring at?”

  “Anything that is visible.”

  She spurred her gaze to his. His eyes were ablaze, his body taut, but finally he drew a deep breath and unclenched his fists. “Where do I find the soap?”

  She found her equilibrium with some difficulty and finally managed to give him directions. Disappointment and relief swelled in her when he finally left. She closed her eyes and breathed heavily, then sank lower into the tub and let the wilding panic take her.

  Hell’s saints, what had she gotten herself into? What was she thinking? What-

  But before she’d finished the garbled thoughts, he had already returned.

  She hunched her shoulders, but refused to cover herself. After all, she was a warrior, and wholly without shame. Still, she had to force herself to meet his gaze as she cleared her throat.

  “You found it then?” she asked, though she knew he had for he held the soap, along with an earthenware jar, in his hand… just below the dark nub of his right nipple.

  She swallowed hard and raised her gaze to his face with a snap.

  Not a word was spoken. Not a molecule of air seemed left in the room. “Good,” she said, and nodded. “‘Tis good. ‘Tis… well…” She nodded. The movement felt strangely disjointed. “I’ve no further need of your services, MacGowan.”

  “Your uncle said to see to your needs.”

  “Aye, well…” She licked her lips, and he seemed to follow the motion with his eyes. “Me uncle is clearly not in his right mind, for ‘tis certain I do not need you.”

  The silence lay as heavy as sin around them. “Mayhap,” he said finally, and took a step toward her, his hard gaze raking her. “But I am here nevertheless.”

  Her ribs were constricting her lungs. She struggled to breathe, to draw in air, to refrain from any kind of foolish weakness. Instead, she gripped the smooth metal rim and raised her chin.

  “Find your bed, MacGowan.”

  “Bed.” His voice rumbled deep and quiet in the firelit room. “Nay. Not just yet. You are not ready.”

  “What?”

  He raised his gaze slowly to hers. His eyes burned like living amber. “I will see you bathed first,” he said.

  Her fingers hurt from her grip against the tub’s rim.

  “In truth, MacGowan…” she began, but the truth was not her ally. Nay, though she loved honesty, ‘twas lies that had kept her alive these many years. “I prefer my privacy.”

  Nevertheless, he came nearer. Beneath the water, her body coiled in on itself, feeling tight as a drum beneath the gentle waves.

  “How long has it been?” he asked.

  She steadied her breathing and hardened her glare.

  “What’s that?”

  ”How long has it been since someone saw you thus?”

  “Why do you wish to know?”

  He was near the tub now and in an instant he was seated on the rim, just beside her whitened knuckles.

  Her throat closed up.

  “How long has it been?” he asked and, dipping into the jar, scattered a handful of herbs over the water.

  The sweet smell of lavender spilled into the air, and suddenly she could think of no lies. “Some years,” she said, and even with those simple words, memories stormed her mind like evil birds of prey. She had been young when sent from Nettlepath. Young and scared and vulnerable, but there were those who did not care about a maid’s innocence. Those who would take it by force, who would ruin a wee lass and cause her to defend herself anyway she could. She had been a lad ever since, and never regretted it. Not until now.

  “‘Tis surely a sin,” he mused.

  “What?” Against her will, she covered her scar wit
h her arm, squeezing her breast against her silver shell, but he leaned slowly forward. Grasping her wrist in gentle fingers, he tugged it away.

  “Don’t,” he said simply. “‘Tis not right to hide such… ‘tis not right.”

  Did he mock her? She speared her gaze to his, but his eyes were somber, his expression the same. She could only stare.

  Reaching out, he brushed his knuckles along the path of the scar. Feelings darted through her like frightened harts, leaping for cover.

  He raised his gaze to hers. “You made the bastard pay?”

  It took a moment for her to find her voice. “The Munro?”

  “Aye.”

  “He is not your enemy any longer,” she murmured.

  “Not since Ramsay bested him in battle. Not since he gave up any hope of having Anora. And surely not since he met his own bride.”

  A muscle jumped in his jaw. “I’ll be the one to decide if he is me enemy,” Lachlan gritted. “Did he suffer?”

  “He bears a scar on his cheek.”

  “His cheek.” The words were softly scoffed. “It does not compare with the damage he has done.”

  She pulled her arm from his grasp, clamping it to her breast. “Do not look if you find it so hideous.”

  “Hideous,” he breathed. “Is that what you think I believe?”

  “I do not care what you believe.” She forced the words out on a whisper.

  He leaned toward her, his face sober. “But I will tell you nonetheless, for-”

  “MacGowan!” she interrupted rashly, but he didn’t listen.

  “I will pretend to be mute.” His voice was low. “I will feign servitude. But I will not pretend you are undesirable. And I will not pretend me own desire is unnatural. Not when you are what you-”

  “Nay,” she whispered, then, “nay,” she said more forcefully. “We are the same, you and I. The-”

  But in that moment, he grasped her hand and placed it against his chest. Beneath her palm, his flesh felt like living granite, as hard as stone yet soft as velvet.

  Air escaped her lungs in one hard rush. “The same?” he asked.

  “Aye,” she whispered and he pulled her hand lower.

  Her fingers bumped over his nipple. The faintest whimper escaped her throat, but he was already skimming her hand lower, over his ribs and down the rugged hills of his abdomen. He halted her fingers just above his belted plaid.