Highland Brides 04 - Lion Heart

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  Jesu, but how could he sleep so peacefully when she was wide awake?

  Above her, slivers of moonlight stabbed through the roof like fine-edged knives. Tiny flying insects dove into the light and out again. Elizabet watched them with a sense of growing agitation.

  He’d promised to seek out her brother first thing in the morn. Likely he was anticipating a quick end to this ordeal. After all, this wasn’t his problem. It was hers.

  And she still didn’t know his name.

  She wasn’t certain why she hadn’t simply asked, except that somehow it seemed too personal. They were hardly friends.

  “Are you sleeping?” she whispered before she could stop herself.

  There was no answer.

  She said it louder. “Hey… are you sleeping?”

  Still no answer.

  “Well, of course you are!” she muttered to herself, and couldn’t explain the sudden sense of disappointment she felt at discovering it was so.

  “Jesu!”

  Why should she care if her presence wasn’t enough to keep him awake. Why did she feel so vexed that he was sleeping so contentedly in his little corner of the room when she could not?

  She kicked the too short blanket down over her feet. She just couldn’t sleep, and it was colder than she’d ever remembered it being in her life. And she couldn’t fathom how he could sleep so obliviously! He must be made of stone! Her fingers and toes had long since gone numb. And her teeth were chattering. She pulled the covers up and curled her legs more tightly beneath her, trying to ward off the chill.

  “You never troubled yourself to tell me your name!” she hissed into the darkness.

  “Ye never bothered to ask,” he replied at once.

  Her heart jolted at the sound of his voice. “I… uh… thought you were asleep.”

  Broc smiled to himself. That much was obvious. “So it seems.” God’s teeth, how the hell could he sleep when he knew she was lying so near? Without doubt, she was the most lovely woman he had ever set eyes on in his life, Sassenach or nay, and no matter that he tried not to see her as a woman, he could not suppress the images that had come to haunt his waking dreams.

  But he didn’t want her to know he was awake, because it was easier to deny his desire if he didn’t have to speak to her and hear her voice—if he didn’t have to look at her face by candlelight and wonder how many other men had gazed into those lovely green eyes. He was becoming obsessed with thoughts about her.

  “They call me Broc Ceannfhionn.”

  “Broc… Kyonin,” she repeated, and was silent a moment, as though considering his name.

  “It means Broc the Blond.”

  “Well, that makes sense.”

  Broc grimaced into the darkness. Was it a good thing to be fair? He wondered. Did she find him as beautiful as he found her? His face burned at the thought.

  “Tell me about yourself, Broc Kyonin.”

  Broc was unaccustomed to making idle chatter, particularly with highborn English lassies—and he was even less comfortable talking about himself.

  “Well, let’s see… I dinna have fleas anymore,” he told her, and hoped she appreciated that fact. Thanks to Page, he no longer walked about scratching his head like some mangy beast. He had loved his Merry fiercely, but fleas were certainly one thing he didn’t miss about her.

  He thought he heard her giggle, but it was so soft a sound he couldn’t be certain. He wouldn’t blame her for laughing. What an idiot he must sound like. Put him face to face with a woman he wanted to bed, and he suddenly became an imbecile.

  “Well… I don’t have fleas either,” she countered, her tone slightly amused, and he understood she was mocking him.

  He felt his cheeks grow warmer but grinned despite himself.

  Wench.

  He wanted to know everything about her. Who was her father? Who was her mother? How long was she to remain in Scotia? Was she in love with some fortunate man? Had she come to be wed? Had her father sent her to Piers to be bartered in marriage?

  Broc winced at that thought. He hoped not.

  Neither of them spoke for the longest time, and the hovel fell silent save for the chattering of the lass’ teeth.

  Broc lay there, yearning for the sound of her voice, his body taut with desire. No simple longing was this. Nay. The more he tried to deny it, the more he hungered for the taste of her flesh, the more he thirsted for the sweet nectar of her mouth. He was glad for the darkness that hid the evidence of his desire. Had he a blanket, he would have easily erected himself a tent large enough to fit both of them beneath.

  Her teeth continued to chatter.

  “Are ye cold, lass?” His voice was thick with lust, he knew, but he hoped she wouldn’t notice.

  “I never imagined a summer night could be so wintry!”

  He chuckled at her lighthearted complaint. “’Tis the Highland winds.”

  “I suppose.”

  Once again silence fell between them.

  Broc wondered what else to say. He didn’t really want her to go to sleep just yet. He wanted to know more. Where did she grow up? And what was her favorite color?

  She saved him the effort of finding suitable conversation. “How well do you know Piers?”

  “Not verra well at all.”

  “I see.”

  She went silent again, and Broc knit his brows, at a loss. Never had his palms sweated this much when Meghan spoke to him, lovely though she was. What was wrong with him? “So… then… have ye come to wed?” he asked far more bluntly than he’d intended.

  “Me?” He heard her turn toward him upon her pallet, and he tried to imagine what she looked like lying there in the dark. “Oh, nay!”

  He nearly sighed in relief.

  “My father thought we would fare better with Piers as my brothers and sisters are many. He couldn’t provide for us all.”

  Her disclosure left him feeling envious. He’d always wondered what it would be like to have siblings. In fact, he’d had a baby sister, but he barely remembered her. She’d died when the English had raped his village—in his mother’s arms—cut down by the murderous bastards. Erin had been her name. How old would she be now? It gave him a prickle of guilt that he couldn’t recall. He’d been seven when he’d come to the MacKinnons. His sister had been mayhap two at the time of her death. And it had been nearly twenty-three years since he’d come to Chreagach Mhor. He pushed the memories away and resolved not to let Elizabet down.

  Except that he already had.

  Her brother was dead.

  “We will discover who the bowman is, lass. Dinna fear. I willna allow him to harm ye.”

  This time her silence was fraught with worry. He could hear it in her voice when she spoke again. “I hope my brother isn’t in danger.”

  The lie weighed heavily upon him. “I’m certain he will be fine.” God help him for not telling her the truth. It would haunt him later, he knew, but it couldn’t be helped.

  For the longest time neither of them spoke. Night sounds filled his ears. The scent of her drifted to where he lay shivering—sweet and warm.

  “You must be cold,” she said after a time.

  His heart beat a little faster. “A bit.”

  “Would you… like the blanket?” she surprised him by asking. “I have the pallet, after all. ’Tis only fair you should have it.”

  Broc was speechless at her gesture.

  Not since his mother had anyone cared whether he’d eaten, whether he was cold, or whether he had a soft place to lay his head. Since he’d been a wee child, he’d fended for himself. That this Englishwoman would concern herself over his comfort—and more, that she would offer to ease his misery at her own expense—moved him more than he liked to admit.

  His throat grew thicker yet. “Nay.” His intentions weren’t entirely noble when he suggested, “We could share it?”

  He grimaced, waiting for her to become incensed by the proposition, but she surprised him by saying, “It is cold…”
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br />   Broc’s heart jolted.

  Mayhap, for her sake, he should have refused, but she promised to warm him in a way he hadn’t ever been warmed before and he could not deny himself the sweet pleasure of her warm body at his side.

  Chapter Ten

  Elizabet heard him rise and squeezed her eyes shut, listening to his footsteps as he approached. He stopped abruptly at her side, peering down at her and her heart beat wildly against her ribs. Her breath came labored as she waited for him to speak.

  In truth, she’d hoped he would lie down with her, comfort her with his presence, but she hadn’t really expected him to acquiesce. Not since his return from Montgomerie’s had he made the slightest advance toward her, and he’d planted himself to sleep as far from her as he possibly could without putting himself out the door.

  His actions confused her.

  One minute he was telling her she was beautiful, kissing her passionately, the next he seemed loath even to look at her. And now he was standing before her in the darkness, waiting… for what?

  “Are ye certain, lass?”

  Jesu, but she wasn’t certain of anything at all.

  Only now that he was standing before her, she couldn’t turn him away. Some little voice deep inside her sounded an alarm, but she strangled it. She swallowed and said, “Aye.”

  She lifted the blanket, and her throat became suddenly too thick to speak. Her heart pounding fiercely as he settled beside her, she remained silent. He took the covers from her, drawing them high about the both of them, and the shock of his touch was physical. She had never lain with any man, not even to ease the chill.

  He seemed so big, so solid, lying there. His heat permeated her entire body at once, and the chill of the night was forgotten as she lay shivering beside him.

  Without a word, he drew her close, enfolding her in his arms. “You’re trembling,” he said.

  Elizabet nodded in response. “C-Cold,” she lied.

  He nestled himself more snugly against her, lifting a hand to her nape in an attempt to weave his fingers into her hair. The tightness of her plait prevented it.

  “Och, lass, how can ye sleep wi’ your hair bound like that?”

  “I-I’m a-accustomed to it.”

  “I’d wager you would sleep more soundly, with your hair set free.”

  He didn’t ask permission to undo her plait, but his fingers skimmed the length of her hair and began to work the ribbons loose. Elizabet couldn’t find her voice to protest as his fingers worked deftly to remove the bindings. When the ribbons were free at last, his fingers began to undo her plait.

  Elizabet closed her eyes, trying to still the erratic beating of her heart. She could feel his heart pounding against her cheek, as fierce as her own.

  “So soft,” he whispered against her forehead, and the warmth of his lips increased her shivers. The memory of his kiss suffused her with heat.

  God help her, she wanted him to kiss her again. She wanted it more than anything she had ever desired.

  Elizabet buried her face against his chest, her cheeks burning as his fingers combed through her hair, smoothing through the curls. Her entire body came alive. Every inch of her flesh tingled with awareness.

  He enfolded her within his arms, squeezing gently. No one had ever touched her so tenderly. No man had ever embraced her so intimately. The warmth of his body made her flesh burn, and the gentleness of his touch sent prickles of pleasure down her spine.

  Kiss me, she silently begged.

  It was all Broc could do not to seduce her where she lay. He wanted to—Och, God, he wanted to. She was pressed so tightly against his body and she was trembling.

  Was she afeared?

  Was she merely cold?

  His body didn’t seem to care which. Blood surged through his nether regions, hardening him fully.

  He wanted to kiss her, craved her mouth. From the moment he’d kissed her this afternoon, the taste of her had clung to his senses.

  Like a drunkard seeking ale, he bent to drink of her mouth, fevered for the taste of her. His fingers closed about her nape, and he lowered his mouth to her lips, praying she would welcome him.

  The instant his mouth lit upon hers, he was filled with incredible bliss. She tasted of heaven itself. His hands combed her silken hair. His body throbbed with desire.

  When had he ever needed a woman so desperately?

  God himself couldn’t have lifted him from her in that instant, so intoxicated was he by the taste of her.

  Elizabet moaned, and he answered her soft cries with deeper groans of pleasure.

  Surely, she had died and gone to heaven. The shock of his kiss set her senses reeling. He kissed her gently, caressing her mouth with his moist, hot lips, and she moaned in pleasure and in protest. Some part of her warned her to object… now… before she gave too much—before he took it too far. But his kiss was too insistent, and her heart was pounding too fiercely.

  His arms wrapped more firmly about her, holding her for the onslaught of his mouth. His legs entwined with hers, pressing his hardness against her, and she lifted her body instinctively, seeking his arousal.

  She was playing a dangerous game, she knew, but she could scarce think to stop it.

  Her body betrayed her.

  Was she no different from her mother?

  Nay, she was not.

  No longer was she cold, but feverishly hot. His hands began to caress her body, lavishing such incredible tenderness upon her that she could only moan in ecstasy.

  And then, when she thought her heart could beat no faster, his tongue swept out to caress her lips, moistening them. “Open for me,” he begged.

  Elizabet swallowed and did as he bade her, allowing him entrance. His tongue delved within the instant she parted her lips.

  “Your taste is sweet,” he whispered into her mouth, and groaned. “So sweet…”

  Elizabet clung to him, undulating softly beneath him, her senses clouded in a fever of lust.

  He pressed himself against her, answering her every gentle thrust with one of his own. His hands swept down over her hip, down her thigh, clutched at her hem, lifted her dress. Elizabet’s heart flipped inside her breast.

  “Open for me,” he said once more, pressing gently against the inside of her thigh, and Elizabet did so, unable to resist.

  He lifted a hand to her most private place, thumbing the delicate bead of her womanhood. His finger slid over her moistness, as though he understood precisely how to tease her. And all the while he kissed her senseless, sharing her breath, giving it back. It was the most incredible moment of her life.

  And then suddenly he slipped a finger inside her body and froze. She felt his heart thunder against her breast, but the haze of pleasure had yet to clear enough for her to comprehend what he had done—what he was doing—what she had allowed.

  God help her, it wasn’t until that instant she found the will to resist.

  In panic, she pushed him away and he rolled off her. She tore herself out of his arms, scrambling away.

  He didn’t stir, merely lay there in stony silence, staring up at her in the darkness.

  God’s truth, she wasn’t certain who she was more angry with, Broc or herself. He was a man, after all, and she should have expected no less from him, but she should have known better than to invite him under her covers.

  What was wrong with her? She was, in truth, no better than her mother! What had she done?

  “You’re no different from the rest!” she said in anger and shame.

  When he still made no advance toward her, she backed herself into a corner and sat there, tears clouding her eyes. He had the blanket and the pallet now, but she didn’t care. It served her right for being such a silly fool. How close she had come! How easily she would have given him her most precious possession! She swallowed convulsively, shame washing over her.

  He said nothing more, nor did he move. And he must have fallen asleep shortly thereafter, because she heard his smooth, even breath from
where she sat. But sleep eluded her until deep into the night.

  Broc listened to her weeping and cursed himself.

  Somehow, she managed to sleep, despite the cold, despite her sorrow, and Broc returned the blanket to her, tucking it gently about her slender body. She slept on, oblivious to his ministrations. And in spite of his guilt, he managed to fall asleep too.

  In the morning, he left her slumbering and hurried to Chreagach Mhor. Iain would wonder where he’d been.

  Some part of him felt obliged to tell his laird everything. Iain had always stood behind him. But thereabouts lay the dilemma. How could he live with himself if he involved anyone else in this deception? He had no idea how to resolve this.

  He didn’t know what to do.

  The village below Chreagach Mhor’s soaring keep was just now awaking. He could hear his little cousin’s giggles somewhere in the distance and a dog barking, as well. The familiar sounds left him wistful, because he knew it wasn’t Merry that Constance was harassing this morn.

  “Where the hell ha’e ye been?” his cousin Cameron asked, rushing up to greet him. Cameron skipped backwards, facing Broc, and judging by the eager look upon his face, he was excited by something he was about to share.

  “I slept at Colin’s,” Broc lied, and his face warmed. He wasn’t a very good liar, but he didn’t seem to have a choice these days. He still hadn’t decided whether or not he would tell Iain, but Cameron was not the sort to keep confidences, and his cousin was the last person Broc would confide in.

  “At Colin’s! Och, man! On his wedding night, Broc?” He stopped for an instant, staring at Broc as though he thought him mad.

  Broc kept walking, eyeing his cousin with annoyance. “Christ! I didna say I slept in their bed, Cameron!”

  His rebuke didn’t begin to dampen Cameron’s good humor. He caught up to Broc once more and thrust a callow grin into Broc’s face. “Aye, well, then who kept ye warm?” He wiggled his brows.