To his surprise, instead of resting her head on his shoulder again, she placed one hand on his chest, shifted, twisted, and somehow ended up curled up…with her head on his thigh.
Her head—her mouth—was just inches away from his hardening cock, and inside his head, he rattled off a string of curses.
Apparently, she wasn’t affected by the proximity, because she answered him with no problem.
“I dinnae ken.”
What in damnation had they been speaking of?
All of Duncan’s blood had apparently drained away from his brain.
“I guess I never really gave a thought to my future,” she continued.
Oh, aye, that’s what we were talking about.
“Now that Fiona is married, I suppose Stewart will do his best to get rid of me.”
Sitting there in the darkness, mayhap ‘twas easier for her to speak of these sorts of things.
Duncan’s hand fell to her shoulder, then ran down her arm, doing his best to warm her, and willing his cock to behave.
“He’ll sign a betrothal contract for ye?”
Her little half-shrug seemed almost defeated. “Or a convent.”
Well, hell.
“I suppose the life of a highwayman has its appeal, when faced with those two options,” he admitted quietly. “Does he no’ notice yer absences?”
“We’re never gone for more than a night, and nay, I doubt he—or anyone else back at home—notices me much at all,” she finished in a whisper.
“Then to hell with them,” Duncan blurted, with more passion than he’d intended. “They’d have to be blind no’ to notice ye, Skye.”
Duncan suspected he’d have to be dead and buried before he could ever stop noticing her.
The silence—broken only by the call of an owl off in the distance—stretched long enough, he wondered if she’d fallen asleep. He kept his hand moving slowly over her arm, offering what little comfort he could. Hoping not to jar her too much, he wriggled his way down the stump behind him and propped his head against it.
When she spoke, he tensed, startled.
“How about ye, Dunc? Have ye chosen a woman to marry?”
Back to speaking of Da’s decision, eh?
Duncan sighed. “Nay. I dinnae like the idea of him choosing my future for me, but I ken why he did it. If I do follow his directive and marry, I’m no’ sure who I’d choose.”
Suddenly, he was struck with the sure and certain knowledge those words were a lie.
He did know who he’d choose…may God have mercy on him.
“What kind of woman are ye looking for?” she murmured.
“A straightforward one, and one who’s no’ afraid of a challenge,” he began hesitantly, wondering if she’d recognize who he described. “No’ flighty, no’ concerned with fashion or afraid of hard work. I live in a smithy, by St. Simon’s beard!”
“Ye’ll still live there, once ye’re married?
He’d never thought of his future, beyond being a smithy that is, but as he tried to spin the idea, to paint the picture in his mind for Skye, an image began to solidify.
“I suppose I’ll need a cottage near the smithy.” As the possibilities came to him, his voice got surer. “My mother and her husband live near his smithy. My wife would have to be happy in a cottage like that, a life like that, because I’ll no’ be the laird if I can help it.”
She snorted softly, and he thought it was a snore, until she spoke. “ ’Tis no’ something ye can help, no’ if ye plan on sleeping with her.”
“Sleeping with her?”
“Sex, Dunc,” she corrected sleepily. “If ye fook her, ye’ll get her pregnant eventually.”
There were ways to ensure it didn’t happen, at least long enough to saddle one of his brothers with the responsibility of lairdship. But the very last thing he needed to do was talk about sex with this intriguing, beguiling, confusing woman.
“The point is, she’d have to be happy and content no’ to be the wife of a laird. She’d have to be content with me.”
“Ye?” she yawned.
“Me.” Duncan closed his eyes and rested his head back on the stump. He was surprised to find this vision of his possible future made him smile. “A simple man. No’ a warrior, but a man who works with his hands. A creator, no’ a destroyer.”
With a little sound, which might’ve been a purr, might’ve been a hum, Skye shifted and snuggled even closer to him, the crown of her head pressing against his bollocks. But rather than sending a spike of lust through him, this time, the position was almost comforting.
Duncan realized, more than anything, he wanted to be lying there on the cold, hard ground with her. He wanted to wrap himself around her to keep her warm, to keep her comfortable.
Skye was a stubborn, headstrong woman, and Duncan suddenly realized he wanted to be the one to take care of her, even though he knew she would insist she could take care of herself.
His hand dragged down her arm again. “I ken no’ all women want marriage and babies and housework, Skye,” he whispered. “But my wife would still have to be content with me. No’ gallivanting all over creation.”
Not robbing travelers. Not putting herself in danger.
In other words, he realized even more, as his eyes closed in sleep, not Skye.
Chapter 5
Skye was warm…and cozy. It reminded her of one of those cold winter mornings, when she’d wake to find Fiona plastered against her back.
In her half-awake state, she realized it was exactly like that, because only her back was warm. Whatever was beneath her stretched-out body was hard, and something heavy was atop her, hugging her stomach.
Disgruntled, she let out a little moan and began the torturous, ungainly process of rolling over. Her gown stuck beneath her, and Skye knew it wasn’t going to happen gracefully, but soon she’d be able to press her face against whatever heat source was—
Oh!
Her eyes flew open as soon as her cheek hit his chest and she inhaled his unique musk and—
How did he still manage to smell of wood ash and ale?
She was sleeping with Duncan.
He was keeping her warm.
More importantly, he was keeping her safe, having wrapped himself around her on the hard ground, one arm thrown over her hips now, but what had once been the heaviness she’d felt on her stomach. He’d moved it as she moved, and now his hand dangled against the small of her back.
Not holding her captive, but just resting there. As if it belonged.
Strangely, Skye hadn’t tensed at the realization she was cuddled up against him. Strangely, this felt…right.
Last night she’d laid her head in his lap, close enough she could brush her cheek against his manly parts—the ones she’d already seen and been fascinated by…and had hardly stopped thinking about since.
She remembered he’d been speaking when she began to doze off, so she closed her eyes, inhaling the scent of his chest, and tried to recall their conversation.
He’d been telling her about his ideal wife, hadn’t he?
Duncan had said he’d be content with a wife who was content with him. He’d understood not all women were the same—Skye couldn’t sew to save her life!—but he expected his wife to stay home and take care of him.
Isn’t that what he’d said?
It was hard to remember, because she’d been so close to sleep when he’d been speaking. But also, it was hard to think with him so close to her.
Carefully, she stretched her legs out, following his, until her slippered feet brushed against his calves, then she scooted her hips closer to his.
For warmth.
Although she was quite warm as it was. With the sun rising, the air was warming wonderfully.
Although…mayhap there was another reason she was warm; a reason which had to do with the way his hand flexed across her back, suddenly pulling her closer.
Or mayhap it had something to do with the way his breath hitched when her
s did.
Or mayhap it was the way the hard length of him pressed against her belly.
God help her, she knew what that was. She regretted her hands were trapped between their chests, because Skye itched to reach lower and pull up his kilt so she could hold and examine him. She’d seen his—his cock, but now she felt it.
And she wanted it.
Desperately.
Overcome by the sudden and overwhelming need, a whimper escaped her lips as she instinctively pressed her pelvis forward.
He jerked as if he’d been burned.
“Where the hell are yer men?” he muttered.
Well, for certes, she hadn’t expected that response!
“What?”
“Yer men,” he repeated, as he rolled away from her. “I left a trail even a three-legged donkey could follow.”
His words barely registered, as a burst of disappointment swept over her at his abandonment.
Duncan pushed himself to his feet and began brushing off his plaid as he retreated into the woods to take care of personal business. As she sat up and pulled her knees to her chest—surprised at how chilled she suddenly was—Skye couldn’t help noticing he hadn’t so much as looked her way.
Was he so anxious to get rid of her?
It was obvious, from his body’s reaction, he wasn’t completely disgusted by her presence.
Or had that simply been an involuntary thing?
Could it be he hadn’t forgiven her for the punch, back when she’d mistakenly, though understandably, thought he was his brother?
Skye wished she could so easily dismiss her body’s reaction to him.
As she watched, he emerged from the trees and crossed to where he’d pulled the horse’s saddle from its back the previous night, and began to dig around in one of the bags.
It was clear by his slow movements and lackadaisical attitude, Duncan intended for her men to catch up with them.
Why?
“Want an apple?” he called out, still not looking at her.
Clearing her throat, she pushed herself upright, the tatters of her red gown getting in her way. “In a moment,” she replied, in as much of a controlled voice as she could manage, refusing to let him see how much his indifference hurt her.
This time, he didn’t make her sing when she went into the woods to see to her needs. Whereas last night she’d been thinking about ways to escape, now she only wanted to hurry and get back.
Back to him.
Even though it was clear he wanted nothing to do with her.
She forced herself to take her time, to brush the dirt from her gown, to breathe deeply.
I can do this. I can walk back over to him and no’ show him how disgustingly attracted I am to him. Here I am, taking another deep breath. Here I am, pretending naught is wrong. I can do this.
She couldn’t do this.
As soon as he looked up and met her eyes, her knees went weak and she stumbled.
And despite the fact she knew he wanted naught to do with her, he lunged forward, stopping the motion only when he saw her right herself.
They met, not in the middle of the clearing, but beside a large tree trunk, halfway between where the horse stood and where they’d woken.
Duncan was holding an apple at chest-height, a few bites taken from it.
Well, he did offer it to me.
With a mischievous grin, Skye reached up and placed her hand around his. He didn’t flinch, and she took that as a good sign.
Ye’ve seen naught yet.
Holding his gaze, knowing she was playing with fire, she tugged his hand—and the apple—toward her mouth.
His dark eyes went wide as she bit into the apple, the juice running down his fingers. When his lips parted, and his gaze dropped to her mouth, she knew he wasn’t unaffected.
But was he as aroused as she was?
Emboldened, she took another bite, hardly tasting the crisp fruit. Then she pushed his hand toward his own mouth, leading the apple to his lips, and urging him with her eyes to take a bite.
And when his lips pulled back, baring his teeth to clamp down around the faded red skin of the apple, she felt the jolt all the way down to the junction of her thighs.
Holding her gaze, he chewed, and—Blessed Virgin—but she could see the challenge in his gaze.
And she wanted to meet it.
Lifting her other hand, she wrapped it around his thick wrist, both hands now tugging the fruit to her.
But when she licked her lips, savoring the taste of the juice, he growled something which might’ve been a curse, and jerked forward, tossing the apple aside and twisting his arm in her hold, until he was cupping her cheek.
He was going to kiss her! She knew it!
But then…he didn’t.
He halted, his lips just inches away, as his eyes darted back and forth between hers.
“What are ye waiting for?” she whispered.
His gaze dropped to her lips, so she licked them again for good measure.
He groaned. “Ye ken what I think?”
Knowing she was taunting him, she took a breath, parting her lips slightly and thrusting her breasts toward him. “Nay.”
“I think ye’re impulsive and wild.”
“Ye think I dinnae ken what I’m doing?”
“By St. Simon’s heart, lass, I think ye ken exactly what ye’re doing.” His gaze snapped back up to hers. “And so do I.”
Before she could question him, he’d dropped his hands to hers, his callused fingers closing around her wrists and tugging her sideways. A startled gasp escaped her, but not as much as the breath which whooshed out of her, as he pushed her against the tree and locked her hands together above her head.
Instinctively, she tugged, trying to get loose, but he held both of her wrists easily in one of his own, and stepped closer.
And she realized she wasn’t scared. Not even a little bit. She was this man’s captive, but the reason her blood was suddenly pounding in her ears was more due to anticipation than fear.
So she lifted her chin, and didn’t bother to hide the way she was panting, when she met his eyes.
“I’m no’ afraid of ye.”
“Ye should be,” he growled.
This was Duncan Oliphant. They might not be on the best of terms, but her heart knew his. He would not hurt her.
And besides, she found she was aroused as hell by this side of him.
Skye tugged at her hands again. “Let me go.” She tried to make the command sound seductive and failed, but at least she didn’t sound scared.
“Nay, lass. I cannae afford to have ye hit me again.” His gaze caressed her face, mostly her lips. “Of course,” he murmured, “I cannae afford to kiss ye either.”
But then…he did.
When his lips lowered to hers—finally!—Skye surged to meet him. This kiss was like the ones they’d shared in the stables at Oliphant Castle; hot and desperate, knowing their time together would be over at any moment.
But God help her, she loved it.
She loved the taste of him, the apple still crisp on his tongue. She loved the way his tongue teased her as he pulled her deeper into his embrace. She loved the way he only touched her at the wrists and the lips, until his other hand dropped to her hip, as if to hold her in place. She loved the way her little whimper of need drove him against her.
She loved everything about this kiss.
With her hands pinned above her head, she couldn’t pull him closer, but she thrust herself against him, the want—the need—pulling another moan from the back of her throat.
He was a smith; a master of fire and molten metal.
And he’d turned her into both of those things; made her so very desperate for his touch.
The liquid heat pooling between her thighs reminded her of the way she’d touched herself, thinking of him. Then, she’d only had the memory of his kisses, but now...!
Blessed Virgin, she wanted him. Wanted all of him.
And his th
ick member pressing against her hip told her he wanted her too.
She pushed against him again, gyrating her pelvis, in a poor approximation of what she needed from him.
But he pulled away, breaking their kiss with a gasp.
She followed, leaning forward as if she could hold onto the kiss, the confusion breaking through the arousal. As the haze cleared from her vision, her chest heaved, and she met his eyes.
But instead of the disgust she was afraid she’d see there, all she saw in those dark depths was…
Pain?
Why?
Why didn’t he want her?
Her wrists were still held in an iron-strong grip above her head, the bark from the tree scraping at the backs of her hands in the most delicious sensation.
Testing him, she pushed against his chest to see if he’d release her. His grip only tightened, and her heart jumped.
He wanted her.
His hard cock was pressed against her, and he wanted her. He didn’t want to let her go.
She swallowed, trying to find the words to get what she needed. “I want—” She swallowed again and forced the words out. “I want ye to kiss me again,” she whispered.
His gaze held her as captive as his hands did. “I want that too.”
Then why didn’t he?
“Do ye want me to beg?” As desperate as she was at that moment, she would.
Now he was staring at her lips. “God,” he whispered harshly, “ye’re too proud to beg.”
She was just drawing breath to refute that claim, when, with a groan, he slammed his lips down atop hers once again.
This time, she tasted his need as he pressed against her. This kiss was frantic; the pulsing in her temples matched the throbbing between her thighs.
Was he as desperate as she was?
From the way he groaned, Skye hoped so.
Duncan shifted, and his hard length nestled against her, right where she needed the pressure.
The sensation shot straight from her skin to her brain, and she broke away with a gasp.
They were both panting heavily, even as she thrust her pelvis against him, again and again, mimicking what she really wanted.
“Duncan!” she moaned. “I need… I need…!”
Scot on Her Trail Page 6
