She took a deep breath as she forced her gaze to his thigh. “It has turned septic,” she said, forcing the words out. He had suffered on her account. He had suffered, and she would tend his wounds. But nothing more. She was not interested in him as a person. The width of his shoulders did not impress her. The bulky curve of his chest held no appeal. And his eyes, green as a summer meadow, did not make her heart race and her soul long for intimacy.
“Lass, are ye well?” he asked.
She all but slapped herself, for she realized suddenly that she was staring at him like a dazed lambkin. “Aye,” she said, and, hurrying to the fire, retrieved the kettle of hot water. The wound was puckered and oozing. She grimaced. “I fear it should be lanced.”
“How do ye ken that?”
She shrugged, distracted by the duty ahead of her. “When I was a child, there was an old woman who taught me a bit about the art of healing. But not enough.”
“Fiona could teach ye more,” Roman said softly.
“Fiona?”
“The lady of the Forbes. There is none, as of yet, who can match her skill. Roderic’s wife is … well, she is the Flame, and wee Elizabeth is still a bairn.” His gaze was far off and his expression rueful. “At least ta me own eyes she is still a babe.”
“Your family?” Tara asked softly.
“Aye, they be mine, if na by blood, then by kindness.”
“They are not your kin?”
“My parents died when I was but a lad. Me uncle took me in.” He was silent for a moment, his face taut. “Fiona … seemed ta think I needed a mother.”
“And Dermid?” she asked.
“How do ye know his name?”
“Ya’ve mentioned your uncle before,” she said.
“Ye’ve a good memory.”
“It’s served me well. What happened to Dermid?”
A muscle jumped in his lean jaw. “He died on me laird’s blade.”
“Your laird?”
“Fiona’s husband.” He looked away. “Laird Leith.”
“Your foster father?” she asked softly.
“He calls me son.”
His emotions were so clear it seemed she could read every thought. “But ya do not deserve that name?”
He turned slowly back to her, his eyes flat. “I dunna.”
Tara skimmed her gaze down his massive body. “For a man fully grown, you know little of yourself, Scotsman.”
Something shone in his eyes. Was it gratitude for the words she spoke?
“Mayhap ye can teach me of meself then, lass,” he said softly.
Mayhap, she thought. And mayhap she could tell him of herself, share that which she had never shared before.
But no! She was being foolish, and foolish she could not afford to be. Turning quickly away, she hurried back to the fire to retrieve a knife that lay upon the stone ledge. Picking up a small rock, she absently sharpened the blade against it as she returned more slowly to him.
Long ago there had been a woman named Mary in the village of Killcairn, a kind woman with a doting family and a gift for healing. Long ago, Tara had imagined herself assuming that role. But fate had not opened that path to a small Irish girl with flaxen hair.
“I can lance the wound meself.”
Roman’s words startled her. She drew herself from the past. “What?”
“Ye look pale, lass. There’s no need for ye ta do this.”
“Nay, I can …” She glanced at the wound again. It was an ugly thing, far worse than his others. And if it did not mend ‘twould be her fault. “I can see to it.”
“‘Tis yer choice. But we’d best have bandages close ta hand. And Fiona would pack dry bread into the wound to draw out the poison, methinks.”
“Bread.” She nodded. The floor seemed to have tilted slightly, and her stomach felt strange. “I’ll fetch some.”
“Mayhap ye should sit for a bit, lass.”
“Nay.” She shook her head. The movement did nothing to set the room to rights. “I am fine.”
“At least give me the blade,” he said. “I’ll sharpen it whilst ye retrieve what ye must.”
She nodded, handing him the knife and rock, but she could not turn away, for she could not help staring at his wound.
“Lass.”
She drew a deep breath and found his gaze.
“The linens.”
“Oh.” The word sounded strangely breathy. “Aye,” she said, and turned away.
To her relief, she found that the jug of ale was not empty. She took a swig straight from the bottle, gathered up bread and linens, and turned back.
Roman’s hiss of pain made her stop in her tracks. But his hand didn’t delay a moment. Instead, it moved again, slicing a cross into his oozing leg wound. Blood flowed in earnest now, soaking the tattered shirt he’d shoved beneath his knee.
“I…” the world tilted more dramatically. “I could have done that,” Tara said.
“Ye’d best sit down, lass.”
“Nay, I…” She paused. Her stomach lurched. “I’d best sit,” she said, stumbling toward the mattress.
He reached for her. Encircling her arm in his large hand, he guided her onto the pallet, took the items from her hands, and set them on the floor.
“Lie down.”
“Nay, I’m …”
“Lie down,” he ordered, and she did so.
He cleaned and wrapped his own wound while she felt foolish and dizzy beside him.
Finally, he lay down beside her.
“Are ye well, lass?”
“Aye,” she said, then added facetiously, “the lancing barely hurt atall.”
He grinned. Her world tilted again, but she feared it was no longer from nausea but from the beauty of his smile.
He stroked her hair back from her face, skimming it behind her ear before running his hand down her arm and finally resting it on her waist.
Touch. How long had it been since she’d been touched with tenderness? Memories of her childhood welled up again. Her father’s laughter, her mother’s song. There had been love there, as deep as forever. But it was nearly forgotten, nearly out of reach, drowned by a thousand dark incidents since. The realization frightened her. There had been a time when she had vowed never to forget. Needing to feel, she reached out and touched Roman’s chest. There was power there, but there was more—tenderness, caring. No matter what he said, he had been raised to love, and he had not forgotten, not like she.
But perhaps self-preservation had made her forget. Perhaps it was necessary to put tenderness behind her if she were to remain alive. She closed her eyes and steadied her mind.
Aye, she did not need this tenderness.
“I’m…” She tried to push away, but his arm was heavy across her waist. “I’m fine now. I’ll see to your other wounds.”
“Rest for a bit, lass. Dunna fret; I willna bite.”
Bite? It was hardly his teeth that worried her. “I’m not… fretting.”
“Nay?” Raising his hand, he skimmed his fingers through her hair again, touching her ear, her throat. “Ye nearly fainted.”
“Well, I…” She shivered. His touch felt shivery warm, like an errant sunbeam breaking through a winter sky. “I should have eaten, I suppose.”
He smiled, just a glimpse of humor that she thought too seldom found his face. “And here I hoped ye were overwhelmed by the sight of me masculinity.”
Betty the barmaid would have come up with a saucy rejoinder. Tara the lass blushed. She lowered her eyes and turned her face away. But Roman gently caught her chin and urged it upward.
“Who are ye?” he whispered.
For a moment she couldn’t speak, but finally she forced the single word from between her lips. “Bet—” she began, but at that moment, he kissed her. Sunshine flooded Tara’s life in a torrent of light, warming her system, heating her blood. His hand cupped her neck. His heart raced against hers. His mouth slipped away, kissing her jaw, her throat.
Rays of hot pleasur
e seared her skin, threatening her with its heat. The woman named Betty would be lost in the inferno. The Shadow would be no more. All that remained was Tara, alone and terrified.
She pushed against him, panicked, trying to break free.
He eased back. “I have frightened ye?”
She was Betty—the barmaid, the whore. She did not frighten. “Nay. I simply … Too much activity ‘tis bad for your leg.”
“Too much activity?” He grinned again, just the corner of a smile. “How much activity were ye planning, lass?”
Her chest hurt, for her heart was racing along like a runaway cart horse. “None at all,” she breathed, but seeing him thus, smiling, seductive, alluring, made her mouth go dry and her wits drown.
“Remove your clothes.”
“What?” she gasped.
Their faces were inches apart, but their bodies were much closer, pressed against each other. “Off with ‘em,” he whispered.
She tried to form some sort of denial, but Betty the barmaid had abandoned her completely, leaving her to mouth incoherent mutterings.
“I saved yer life, lass,” he whispered, and suddenly his lips were against her ear, kissing it with butterfly tenderness.
She shivered. Her eyes fell closed.
“I thought…” She battled with her own weaknesses, trying to remember her reasons for celibacy. “I thought you were a gentleman.”
“I told ye I was na ta be trusted, lass. I warned ye. ‘Twas ye that denied me words,” he said, and kissed the tender dell behind her lobe.
“But I…” She couldn’t think, couldn’t talk. “But I…” His fingers skimmed down the shallow furrow in the center of her back. Her breathing became erratic. “I…”
“Shh,” he murmured again, and suddenly his hands were beneath her simple, boy’s tunic. They were warm and strong against her skin. He was kissing her with such sweet, aching tenderness that there was little she could do but let the shirt skim upward. She lifted her arms, allowing it to ease over her head.
But now there was a new impediment, for she had bound her breasts with long strips of white cloth.
“‘Twould seem I forgot that ye are a lad today,” he whispered. His hands skimmed down her back, smoothing away her hose, caressing every inch of her as he scooped her closer still. Her legs seemed to open of their own accord, and suddenly his hips were clasped between them. She could feel the hard length of him, hot and eager against her sensitized softness.
Somehow, he had rolled to his back. She rode him astride, pressing her desire against his. His hands kneaded her buttocks. Letting her head drop back and allowing nothing but the hot, wild feelings to permeate her senses, she moaned.
Her skin tingled at his touch, and her head spun. She had lived in the underbelly of Firthport long enough to know the consequences of her actions, but she had been starved for human touch for too many years. The floodgates of desire burst open. There seemed nothing she could do but press against the rising tide and hope to stay afloat.
His hands eased up her back. She arched toward him, feeling his fingers pause on the bindings that covered her chest. Not for an instant did the rhythm of their bodies slow. They rocked against each other like enchanted beings, not finding copulation, but not able to draw apart, sipping at the forbidden nectar of desire. Her bindings loosened. The clothes eased from her torso, dropping away.
She heard Roman catch his breath as one nipple peeked from its confinement. The rocking pace of his movements slowed. One hand slipped forward to scoop the fabric away and cup her breast.
Her gasp sounded much like his, but higher-pitched and breathy.
“Lass…” His tone was husky, deep as midnight, quiet as gentle waters. “Ye are beautiful.”
Her hair had tumbled over her shoulders. It caressed his scared chest, brushed against his amulet.
“Ye are bonny beyond words,” he whispered, and, urging her toward him, gently kissed her lips.
Desire erupted anew, but now the position had changed. Instead of having him trapped beneath her, his penis pressed hot and turgid against the entrance of her being.
She was so close to heaven, just inches away. He pressed gently inward. Her breathing stopped. Her heart raced on.
He eased into her tender portal a fraction of an inch. But with that invasion, good sense flooded in.
The consequences of such an act were enormous, too lethal to ignore any longer. She ended the kiss, placed a shaky hand to his chest, and pushed away, breathing hard.
“Lass…” He opened his eyes and ceased the rhythm of his hips. His jaw was clenched as if it pained him to stop, and for a moment, the rock hard strength of his arms shivered.
“‘Arry!” She said the name suddenly. She’d wholly forgotten she was supposed to be mourning Harry’s passing. Sweet Mary! Tara pressed in earnest now against his chest, trying to retreat, but he moved with her. “I… I cannot. I am in mourning!” In mourning! The words sounded foolish even to her own ears, for she was naked and trembling with desire. Still, she clung to her story.
He tried to draw her nearer. She scrambled off the bed, but he held her wrist. Scraps of cloth hung from her shoulders like a mummy’s ghoulish garb.
“I didna mean ta frighten ye,” he said, wincing as his feet touched the floor. But despite the pain, he stood and moved closer, entrapping her with his arm about her bare waist.
“Forgive me for me haste, lass. It seemed ye have possessed me senses. But I will move more slowly now.”
It didn’t matter how slowly he moved. The results would still be the same. She must escape.
But she had been captured again. It was time to think. Betty! She was Betty, she told herself. With a supreme effort, she steadied her breathing and relaxed in his arms.
He hugged her more tightly.
“There is little enough joy ta be found in this life,” he said. “Let us take it where we can.” He smoothed her hair against her back.
She closed her eyes. What kind of magic did he weave that he had but to touch her and she would lose her senses, forget her plight?
“But ‘Arry. ‘E … ‘e just…”
He placed a finger gently to her lips. “Na more lies, lass. Na tonight,” he said then leaned against her for a moment, as if shaken by weakness.
“Lies!” She tried to sound indignant, to hold to her role. “Ya think I lie?” She was Betty. Quick of wit, indomitable. She only needed to hold out a bit longer, for he was weakening. “‘Arry is dead,” she said.
His eyes spoke of his doubt as his hand glided up her back, under her hair, cradling her neck. “Then let him go, and let us live,” he whispered as he kissed her.
She wrapped her arms about his back. “Aye,” she rasped. She was the lonely woman, yearning to be consoled. “Yer right. He would want me to live.” ‘Twas all an act, part of her role, but he felt wonderfully hard against her, and she trembled. “Touch me. Help me forget all, if just for a small piece of time.”
Their gazes met, but in a moment his head dropped back slightly, and he scowled as if puzzled.
Guilt gnawed at her. But she could not afford that emotion. “Roman?” she said, putting just the proper bit of worry in her tone. “Are you well?”
“Aye.” He straightened and met her eyes. “‘Tis merely yer presence that makes me weak.”
“Here. Lie down,” she said, urging him back onto the pallet.
He sat, but his arms remained about her, pulling her to her knees between his powerful thighs.
The intimacy of this new position nearly overwhelmed her. She willed herself not to blush, but the great length of him throbbed against her abdomen, promising pleasures she had never scaled. Pleasures she suddenly wished to. But she would have to leave, and very soon. She would not see him again—ever. The thought burned her mind. Her hand skimmed his chest. It was brawny and broad and breathtakingly alluring, adorned with that strange amulet that would forever remind her of him. She smoothed her hand upward along the leather strip.
“Lie down,” she urged again, drawing her fingers away.
“Only if ye do, lass.”
She managed a nod.
He pulled her gently onto the pallet. They stretched out, facing each other. Every inch of him was hot and hard and eager. He shifted his wounded thigh, and she bent her leg, resting it over his to avoid direct contact.
But this new position was more stimulating yet, for she was nestled against him warm and safe, held in his arms like a precious gift. And she was wet, achingly wet, like nothing she had experienced before.
He kissed her then, and suddenly, as simply as breathing, his manhood was between her thighs and gliding inward.
Ecstasy called. She curled her fingers around his amulet as she closed her eyes and ever so carefully rocked against him.
But suddenly his hands fell away and his head lolled back against the pillow, seeming to weigh him down.
“Roman?” she breathed, wanting more, wanting satiation.
“Lass, I feel almost as if…” He opened his eyes, and suddenly his gaze was not warm and gentle, but sharp and accusatory.
Reality snapped back into place. Sweet Mary, she must think, she must escape. “What… what is it?” she asked, managing to sound bewildered.
“Ye’ve drugged me,” he rasped.
“What?” She opened her eyes wide. Where were her clothes? Could she make it to the door? “What are ya talking about?” she asked. She slipped from the pallet. Her feet touched the floor.
“Hell fire!” he growled, grabbing her wrist and rising with her. “Ye drugged me!”
“Nay!” she shrieked, and, twisting with all her might, broke free.
He charged after her.
She screamed, but he stumbled, and in that moment, she grabbed her tunic and fled.
Chapter 13
Roman sat in silent darkness, watching. He was a wiser man now, colder, leaner, but wiser.
He had examined the situation from every angle, considered every word she had spoken.
He would find her, and when he did, she would pay dearly.
Highland Wolf (Highland Brides) Page 14
