by Caro LaFever
“Iain.” She looked straight into his eyes, a true, pure gaze that reminded him of the fairy tale girl who’d whispered through his memories for years. “Trust me. I want to help.”
He had no more words to ward her off. He couldn’t touch her, either. Jerking around, he headed for the old, oak armoire where his clothes were stashed.
A sigh came from behind him. “Okay. We’ll leave it for now.”
Yanking the wardrobe door open, he focused blurred eyes on the freshly folded jumpers and T-shirts and jeans.
“I’m going to take a shower.” The bathroom door thumped shut behind her.
His cock arrowed straight through his grief with another, inevitable, erection. The water turned on and he couldn’t help himself.
Her naked body in his shower.
The water splashing on her tumbled curls and soft shoulders and breasts. Down her lithe waist and round hips. Down those delicious legs to her pink toes.
Cursing, he pulled out a blue T-shirt and jeans. He focused on the feel of the clean clothes instead of the noise of the water.
A lazy, languid hum came from behind the bathroom’s stone door.
His hands stilled on the last button of his jeans.
The hum came again.
“Shut up!” he bellowed at the top of his lungs.
The humming abruptly stopped.
Stomping into the kitchen, he started the fire because the storm had chilled the castle’s walls, not because he worried she might get a cold. Then he decided to make a pot of porridge for himself, not because she might be hungry, too. Finally, he set the table like his mum had taught him, because that was the way it should be done, not because he intended to impress the donas or try and make up for his bellowing.
“Wow.”
Her soft exclamation made him turn his head from stirring the steel-cut oats. The kink in his neck howled, making his voice surly. “Sit down. Breakfast is almost ready.”
She wore her jeans, yet instead of wearing her other clothes, she’d stolen one of his tops once more. This time she’d chosen a black wool jumper he’d been sent by one of the Irish chaps he’d served with for several years. The black highlighted the blonde of her hair, even though the curls lay damp on her head.
“This is so pretty.” Flitting to the table, she touched the edge of one yellow linen napkin he’d placed on the table. “Nice and cheery.”
Iain snorted while he dished the porridge into two bowls. “Sit down.”
“I’m not going to let your snarling commands ruin this.” She eyed the glasses full of orange juice and the steaming cups of coffee. Then she took in the sterling silver he’d placed on the napkins. “Fancy.”
“Here.” He paced to the table and slapped the bowls down. “Eat.”
Her response was her usual husky chuckle. Before he could obey his cock and grab her, though, she slid onto the bench and inspected the food.
“Peaches. In oatmeal.”
“Aye.” He suddenly realized he’d made a grave mistake. Not only had he used the last of his peaches for a breakfast for this trespasser, he’d also have to spend the next few minutes eating food that reminded him of her.
With a snarl of disgust at himself, he sat.
She took her first taste. And did that damn humming sound again. Iain threw her a glare, but she was too focused on the porridge to take the hint.
“There’s something in here besides peaches.”
Digging into his own breakfast, he ignored her. Or tried to. The familiar taste of his favorite breakfast washed over his tongue and back into his memories. When he’d gone into the Marines, oatmeal had been like a taste of home. Mixed with his favorite fruit he’d bought in souks across the Middle East, he’d found comfort in the morning, if nowhere else during the day.
Now the hot warmth of the oats and the fruity richness of the peaches made him think of her. How warm she’d be in his arms. How fruity and rich her mouth would be when he kissed her.
“Cinnamon,” she declared as if she’d found the Stone of Scone under the bench. “I’m right, aren’t I?”
He shrugged, swirling his spoon in the bowl, trying to catch the last piece of peach. Trying to keep himself from thinking about catching the peach sitting across from him and biting into her.
“Come on.” Leaning over, she slapped his arm in a playful move. “Tell me I’m right.”
Her touch coursed through him like a hot, silky knife. “Butterscotch,” he contradicted her, giving her a sneer.
She cocked her head in the way that she did, the way that made him think of enchanting fairies. “But cinnamon, too?”
“Maybe.” Sucking down the last of his coffee, he gave her another sneer. “And maybe not.”
“You’re teasing again.” She shook her spoon at him before picking up her own coffee. “Why don’t you drink tea like most Scots do?”
“I got used to coffee.”
“When you were serving in the Marines.” It wasn’t a question and he could see her from a mile away. She was trying to edge the conversation into a talk.
Standing, he marched to the sink with his bowl and cup. As the sink filled with soapy water, he absently rubbed his aching neck.
“Okay,” she muttered at the table. “Be that way.”
Iain ignored her disgruntled ploy. Dammit. His neck was killing him. He shouldn’t have fed the wee lass. He should have wrung her neck for taking his bed, instead.
“What’s wrong with your neck?”
He swung around to give her a deserved scowl. “I’ve got a kink because I got kicked out of my own bed.”
“You did the kicking, not me,” she asserted, yet she gave him a frown of concern. “Does it hurt a lot?”
“Yes.” He went back to washing the dishes because he didn’t like the singing sensation welling inside when he looked at her face. The sensation that told him he liked her concern. “Go away and let me take care of this.”
“As you’ve pointed out before, you cooked, so I should probably do the dishes.” She came beside him to stand at the sink. “I’m willing to let you help, though.”
“Let.” He glowered at her. “Let me?”
Lovely Lilly gave him a sweet smile in response and a challenge of her own. “Then we’ll take care of that kink.”
Chapter 11
The man was adorable.
She’d let herself be angry at a young boy for too long. She’d let that one experience shade her entire view of this man. All the tales of his heroic feats had wafted right through her brain to be labeled as hogwash. All the stories of his bravery and honor had been regulated to the dustbin of wishful village thinking in her mind. All his dad’s boasting, all the photos lovingly passed, all the dreams for his boy lovingly shared, they’d been shadowed by the one time Iain McPherson had turned on her and drove her away.
But she’d been with him, up close and personal, for twenty-four hours, now. Hours where she’d figured out the truth. Or at least, one truth.
The guy had a heart of gold.
“We’ll take care of it?” He growled into her sunny smile. “We’ll?”
Yes, he growled. And grumbled. And yelled and bellowed and swore. He stomped around while issuing orders. He’d irritated her a time or two. Or three. Yet he’d also given her his bed. He’d cooked her dinner and breakfast. He’d made an effort to make everything fancy for her this morning—she highly doubted he’d do the same for himself.
Most of all, he’d blushed.
That one blush, when he’d been caught eyeing her when she’d been doing her yoga, that one reaction had made her heart melt right out of her chest and into his big hands.
Friends, Lilly. Don’t forget.
She wouldn’t forget. Friends could have their hearts melt, too.
“Actually, I’ll take care of that kink.” She turned to the sink and plopped her own dishes into the suds. “After we clean up breakfast.”
“I don’t want—”
“Are you washing o
r drying?” Flipping open the drawer where the two dozen linen towels were stacked, she grabbed one.
“Go away,” he grumbled. “I’ll take care of this.”
She ignored his mantra, her focus on the fine cloth in her hands. “These are handcrafted, aren’t they?”
“I don’t—”
“They have little peaches woven into the ends,” she exclaimed as she brushed her fingers across the line of vines and fruit. If it could possibly happen, her heart melted some more. How could a person not cherish a man who took the time to choose handcrafted linen with his favorite fruit on them? “You must really like peaches.”
He yanked the cloth from her hands. “I don’t care for peaches any more than any other fruit. They just happened to be on the towels I ordered.”
“Sure.” She gave him a sassy smile. “Whatever.”
Waving the hand towel at her, he scowled. “Go away.”
“Guess you’re doing the drying again.” She hopped back to the sink and sunk her hands into the warm water. “That’s fine. You know where everything goes.”
A surly male grunt was his only response.
“So where’d you learn to cook?” She wasn’t going to let him deter her with his grouchiness. She knew the real guy underneath, now. She only had to reach that good guy and connect.
A long silence fell, and Lilly let it. For once, she wasn’t going to bounce into a conversation and make everything right and everyone happy.
“Ye learn to value food when you’re in the Marines.”
She gave him a little hum to encourage more talk.
Grabbing the clean plate she held out, he dunked it into the rinsing water. His face wore his usual frown, but there was contemplation there too. “I don’t know. I just got good at adding in spices to make the miserable food better.”
“There had to be more than that.”
He glanced at her, his gaze clear as crystal. “You’re always so sure of yourself,” he accused.
Or teased. She’d go with thinking of it as a tease. “Come on. No guy puts on the feast you did last night without serious training.”
“No training.” He shrugged and went back to looking at the water. “Only picking up things here and there.”
“Did you sign on to work in the mess hall?” She went back to looking at the water, too, so he wouldn’t figure out how interested she really was. “Is that what they call it?”
“Chow hall.” He chuckled with evident reluctance. “And no, that wasn’t part of my duties.”
“But you wanted it to be.”
His big hands stilled in the water and for the first time, she noticed the nicks and scars covering his fingers. The last little piece of her heart trembled and fell. He had been a hero. A hero who’d suffered. “That wasn’t an option,” he finally said.
“Why not?” She finished the last dish and passed it over before pulling the plug in the sink. She couldn’t face him right now because she knew what was running through her head was likely plastered across her face.
Pity. Compassion. Curiosity.
Did he have other scars?
She’d seen the beauty of his ass and chest and back. There’d been no scars she could see. She’d thought his scars were all inside, yet his fingers told a different story. There was a sudden compulsion to inspect every inch of him to make sure he was okay.
Friends, not lovers. Friends.
Sighing with resolute regret, she grabbed a washcloth and walked to the table.
“My da wouldn’t have wanted that.” His voice grew muffled as the words trickled out.
Lilly swung around to stare at him, thinking she might have heard something important. When she saw the expression on his face, she knew for sure. He looked like he’d just sucked on a piece of bad fruit. “What did your dad have to do with it?”
“Everything,” he snarled. “And we’re done with this inquisition.”
Before she could stop him with a hand or word, he stomped past her and into his den. The creak of his leather chair told her where he’d landed. At least he hadn’t retreated to his precious shower.
That was progress of some sort.
She finished wiping up the remains of their breakfast, all the while trying to figure out if she should push here a bit or let it lie. Deciding on the latter, she rinsed the cloth, placed it in the sink, and then ambled into the den. “Time for your massage.”
His eyes immediately went half-mast and his wide mouth went sultry. “Should I strip right now or do ye want to take things slow?”
“Stop.” Glancing around, her gaze landed on exactly the right piece of furniture. “Your kink is in your neck so no shedding of clothes is needed.”
He grunted again, this time a sound of disgust.
“This is perfect.” She walked to the antique chair. It was wood and big and sat in the far corner from the fireplace. “It’s got arms so you can rest on them and a low back so I can reach your neck. Help me move it by the fire.”
“It’s an old chair that will likely crumble into dust if ye try and move it.”
“Doubtful.” Inspecting the thing, she nodded, sure of her choice. “It looks plenty sturdy to me.”
He didn’t budge from his lazy sprawl, and his eyes still held a wealth of sin in them.
“Come on.” She waved at him. “Don’t you want to get that kink out?”
“I’d love to get some kink—”
“Out of your neck.” She sliced in, heading him off the path of seduction. “I learned a bit of shiatsu in Japan. You’ll like it.”
“What the hell is shiatsu? Some kind of oriental shite?”
Holding onto her patience, she gave him a teasing glance. “What is this? Is Iain McPherson making a play on words?”
He gave her a growl. Still, she spotted the interest in his eyes.
“Come on,” she coaxed one more time.
Grumbling, he rose and marched to her side. With one heft, he lifted the huge chair.
She stifled the urge to comment on his strength and power because she knew exactly the response she’d get. Since she was going to touch him in a couple of seconds, she didn’t want him going that way right now.
Or ever, Lilly. Ever. Friends.
Right, friends. “Put it here.” She pointed at a spot on the red and black Persian rug lying in front of the fire.
He held the chair in his hands as if he were holding a picnic basket. With the kind of masculine ease that would make any female heart flutter.
No fluttering hearts, Lil.
Friends.
Eyeing her, he then looked at the rug. “I’m going to get too hot.”
What a play on words she could do with that, but she wasn’t going there. “You’ll be fine. Trust me.”
“I think we had a conversation on that subject before.” He snorted, yet obediently dropped the chair where she wanted. “Now what do ye want me to do?”
What she wanted him to do was pick her up in those brawny arms and make her feel like a woman. But what she wanted and he needed were two different things. “Just sit and relax.”
He slid into the chair, his gaze suddenly wary. “Now what?”
“Do you have any kind of oil or lotion?”
His dark brows furrowed. “I have cooking oil.”
Lilly almost chuckled. Such a man. “Never mind. We’ll do without.”
Stepping behind him, she rested her palms on his broad shoulders. He tensed and then, when she didn’t move, his muscles relaxed in a slow slide. She breathed in and out. And his scent came to her once more. All pine clean and cutting clear. Trying to distract herself, she murmured, “Breath in and out, Iain.”
“What the hell?” However, he did what she asked.
“Again.”
One big shoulder twitched, but he followed her orders.
“Okay. Now I’ll start.” Her hands had warmed on his body and she felt confident they wouldn’t shock him cold when she moved them to his neck. Focusing on the fold between neck
and shoulder, she pressed her palms down.
He tensed once more as if surprised.
“Relax,” she crooned.
His shoulders dropped and she murmured approval as she moved her pressing palms up the sides of his neck and then down. She felt him relax even more as the pressure built and his muscles eased. When she felt like he was warm enough, she pressed her thumbs along the line of his spine.
He groaned, a deep, delicious sound that vibrated along her own spine.
“Good?” She forced her focus back on his pain, not on the pleasure she felt touching him.
“Mmm.” His body slumped in the chair and a thrill ran through her. Such a big man, falling under her touch, turning to butter right before her eyes.
Spurred on by his response, she dug in. Literally. Her hands and fingers moved over his neck, down his cotton-covered shoulders and spine, across the bulges of his biceps. He grunted once, groaned another time. The simple human responses made her heart dance.
Along with her body.
Because her vicious, vivid imagination leapt to life again and she had to contend with the thoughts of doing this to him when he was naked, all this male power under her fingertips. A fantastic fantasy blasted through her, bringing pictures of her working down his spine to that fabulous ass and then onto his rangy legs. Exploring and pleasuring and making him cry out with passion.
“Crap,” she whispered.
His whole body tensed. “What?”
“Nothing.” She brushed her fingers along his broad shoulders. “Never mind.”
He didn’t relax. “What is it? Did you find something wrong?”
There was absolutely nothing wrong with this man, except for some things that needed fixing inside his head. He was male beauty personified. “Nothing’s wrong.”
Before he could question her again, she placed her heated palms on the sides of his neck. “Take a deep breath in.”
He grumbled, but followed her direction.
Placing her thumbs on the bottom of his neck, she carefully pressed. Then moved them a bit and pressed again. Then again.
And she found the sweet spot.
