Sword Dance

by Marie Laval

  She didn’t say a word as he undressed. She didn’t need to. Her eyes widened, her face paled when he turned to her. She recoiled against the bed head and pulled the snowy white sheet to cover herself. She was afraid – not half as afraid as he was, surely. Would he know how to make love to her, would he know not to hurt her? She hadn’t said it, but he’d understood her night with McRae in Algiers had been brutal and painful.

  His mouth dry, his heart jumping and every nerve-ending in his body raw and tingling, he sat next to her and reached out to stroke the side of her face, her neck, her shoulder.

  His throat was so tight he was surprised he could speak at all.

  ‘Rose, sweetheart, sit up and come closer. I won’t hurt you.’

  Still holding the sheet in front of her like a shield, she did as he said and he began seducing her all over again. Even though it was sweet torture, he kissed her slowly and deeply but didn’t touch her. He gave her softness, tenderness. And time. Eventually, the tension inside her ebbed away and she lifted one hand to grip his shoulder, the other to his chest.

  It was what he’d been waiting for. His arms encircled her waist, encountered bare, silky skin. She hadn’t thought about covering her back and his fingers trailed up and down her spine, and lower still.

  When she threw her head back, he leaned over to nuzzle her throat, feeling the need increase and take over. Her scent, her taste threatened to make him lose control. The sheet slid down and he shuddered when his chest made contact with her breasts, skin to skin. Casting the sheet aside, his hands cupped her breasts, his thumbs stroked, his lips teased and aroused. And when she was full of sighs and murmurs and moans, he slipped his fingers between her legs and applied a little pressure, then a little more, all over again.

  Soon she moved with him, against him, for him. The sound of his blood pumping hard, of his heart drumming filled his ears. He saw nothing but the dark red haze descending on the room, engulfing everything.

  ‘Lie down.’

  Did that gruff, hoarse, urgent command really come from him?

  Without a word, her lips swollen, her body warm, damp and mellow, she reclined on the pillow and he bent down to cover her body with his. None to gently, his knee parted her legs, he pushed into her, and filled her. She gasped, dug her nails into his arms. Damn. He was too rough. He was hurting her. Straining to hold back, a thin layer of sweat covering his body, he paused to kiss her faced, her mouth.

  When he felt her yield again, he slipped his hands under her hips to lift her, grind her closer to him, open her to him. He started moving inside her, thrust deeper and deeper, faster and faster. She tightened around him and cried out. Pleasure swelled, and soared.

  The last thing he saw before it annihilated him was a flash of deep blue. The colour of Loch Meadie’s water irises in the summertime. The colour of Loch Meadie itself, of life and hope. The colour of his woman’s eyes.

  How quiet it was outside… Only the occasional call of a night bird and the creaking of the inn’s wooden sign in the breeze broke the stillness. Inside the room, the fire had died down to glowing embers, the flame in the oil lamp flickered and dimmed, letting the shadows creep closer to the bed. Soon it would be dawn and Bruce would leave.

  Even though he hadn’t said a word for a long while, she knew he wasn’t asleep. His heart thumped loud and fast. His arms were wrapped closely around her, and every so often, his fingers stroked her back and the side of her waist, brushed her hair to one side to tickle her neck. She let out a contented sigh.

  Could she ever want more than this, or wish for a more perfect night and a more beautiful love? She was exactly where she wanted to be, where she was meant to be. Oh, she wasn’t completely deluded. He didn’t love her, but at least he liked her well enough. He had showed her, with his touch, with his kisses and his loving, if not with words. And it was enough for now.

  She shifted on top of him and kissed the tattoo just above his heart. Now it was her turn to show him. Her tongue followed the outline of the words stencilled in dark blue ink – the words he called his curse. His arms tensed. his body shuddered, hardened against her. He drew in a sharp breath, let it out slowly. Desire rose like a flame inside her, grew hotter, bigger, bolder. She placed her hands flat on his chest and carried on kissing him, right there near his heart.

  ‘Rose, graigheag. Don’t.’ His voice was a low growl.

  She ignored him. He tensed under her, the steely muscles of his arms strained and quivered around her.

  ‘We mustn’t… Not just yet. I don’t want to hurt you again.’ He tugged on her hair to tilt her face up and looked at her, deadly serious.

  ‘You didn’t hurt me at all,’ she protested with a smile.

  The stinging between her legs was nothing compared to the desire to be his again. His lovemaking was nothing like Cameron's brutal, senseless assault. Cameron had been wrong. She didn’t need to be taught anything, she only needed to be loved by the right man. By Bruce…

  Her fingers lingered over his chest, ventured over the hard ridges of his stomach. His body responded to her touch. It made her feel strong, powerful, glorious. Like before, when she had danced for him, shamelessly – to tempt him.

  ‘Rose. I told you, it’s not a good idea.’

  Grabbing hold of her wrists, he rolled on top of her and pinned her hands on the pillow above her head.

  ‘This reminds me of my first night at Wrath Lodge,’ she said with a smile. ‘The night I followed the Dark Lady to your room. You know, the more I think about her, the more I believe that she wanted me to find you – she wanted us to be… like this.’

  He frowned, darted his serious grey gaze into her eyes.

  ‘The Dark Lady doesn’t exist, Rose. She’s a story, a legend. Every other keep in Scotland has a ghost just like her.’

  She shook her head. ‘You don’t believe that for a second.’

  ‘Don’t I? And what makes you say that?’

  ‘Because you know she is your past, and somehow your present too. She is the reminder that McRaes and McGunns are linked…’

  A cloud passed over his face.

  ‘Aye, you’re right there,’ he replied at last, ‘and in more ways than one.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  He did not answer but gave her a kiss so tender her body burned and melted. When she arched upwards, he linked his fingers with hers, pressed her hands down hard on the pillow and slowly, inexorably, drove into her.

  All she saw was the stormy grey of his eyes, intense and dark as he increased the pace. And when he kissed her again, the pleasure was so sharp, so extreme, she got lost in the black, turbulent heat. She heard her own cries from far, far away. His fingers gripped hers more tightly, his heart thundered against her, and he took complete possession of her again, body, heart and soul.

  Chapter Four

  He closed the door softly behind him and tiptoed to the washstand. He didn’t want to wake Rose, not yet. She’d had a couple of hours’ sleep, if that… He poured the hot water he had fetched from the kitchen into the washing bowl, searched his pocket for the bar of soap the kitchen maid had sold him and peeled off his shirt.

  He should have asked for cold water, or better still, he should have gone out and rolled naked in the snow, he thought, as he caught tantalising glimpses of Rose’s body entangled in the crumpled bedsheets in front of him. Never mind that he’d spent most of the night making love to her, he couldn’t get her out of his mind. He had to get his priorities right and focus on what lay ahead, not lust after a woman – however beautiful she was, and whatever new and bewildering feelings she aroused inside him.

  He slapped soapy water on his face and chest, raked his fingers into his hair, then, feeling slightly fresher and more presentable, reached out for his shirt.

  ‘Is it morning already?’ Rose called with a sleepy voice as he pulled the curtains half open and the first glimmers of daylight bathed the room.

  ‘Just about.’ He fastened his shirt, put his
waistcoat on.

  She stifled a yawn, sat up against the bedhead and pulled the sheet over her chest.

  ‘Oh… you’re leaving.’

  ‘I was going to wake you.’ He unhooked his jacket from the back of the chair and slipped it on. ‘Listen, Rose, it’s important. I want you to stay in here until I come back.’

  ‘When will that be?’

  ‘I’m not sure. It depends on how my interview with McRae and his lawyers turns out.’

  She looked at him expectantly, but when she realised he wasn’t going to say any more, she heaved a sigh, tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and tilted her chin up.

  ‘Actually, there was something I wanted to discuss with you – something very important you and I have to do.’

  He crossed his arms on his chest and smiled.

  ‘Really, graigheag? And what would that be? I do have something in mind you and I could be doing right now, but somehow I don’t think it’s what you mean.’

  She swung her feet to the side of the bed, stood up and wrapped the sheet loosely around her in the manner of a Roman toga. Her hair covered her bare shoulders, tumbled down to the small of her back, the tips softly caressing her hips. Aye, he did have something in mind all right…

  ‘We must get the Ouled Nail dancers and musicians out of the hunting lodge and find somewhere safe for them to stay, somewhere where they’ll be out of Cameron’s reach.’

  Deadly serious, she walked towards him.

  Taken aback, he stared at her. ‘Are you asking me to organise the clandestine removal of a dozen or so exotic performers from Westmore Manor?’

  ‘There are eight of them, actually,’ she corrected with slight frown. ‘I am sure you will find a way. It has to be done now, before the girls come to any more harm.’

  He shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, Rose. I don’t have time to think about that right now. There are things I need to do today, important things concerning Wrath, and… other matters.’

  ‘But I told you how Cameron and his friends treat the girls, and you saw for yourself how he behaved last night. You must help them!’ She tossed her head back. She wasn’t smiling any longer. ‘Unless you think the Ouled Nails are so beneath you they aren’t worthy of your help.’

  Annoyed with her for suggesting he didn’t care, and with himself for disappointing her, he closed his hands around her arms and pulled her to him.

  ‘That’s not what I meant at all. I just don’t see what I can do on my own when Westmore is teeming with guards, gamekeepers, household staff, not to mention Morven who is bound to make an appearance sooner or later.’

  ‘You’re not on your own, Bruce, I’m here. I’ll help.’

  ‘You? And what exactly can you do? Remember that big brute of a guard last night. Do you think you could take him down, knock him out? Or maybe you are planning to dance for him too?’

  The colour on her cheeks deepened, she bit her lip.

  ‘I could create a diversion, make a fire in the wood or…’

  ‘You’re talking nonsense.’

  Her blue eyes filled with tears at his sharp rebuke. Cursing himself, he took a long, deep, steadying breath.

  ‘All right… If you really want me to, I will help the Ouled Nails, but I will do it my way and when my business with McRae is concluded.’

  Anger now coloured her cheeks, ignited sparks in her eyes.

  ‘Nothing matters more than your business, does it? All you care about, all you’ve ever cared about, is Wrath and, of course, scoring points against the McRaes.’ She shook free of his grasp and stepped back. ‘And what exactly is your way? Is it kidnapping poor Doctor Kilroy after getting him drunk instead of appointing a physician the normal way? Keeping me and the Sea Eagle hostage like your ancestor used to do, back in the dark ages, instead of trying to reach an agreement with Cameron and the bankers? Or working yourself to a premature death because you insist on overseeing everything on your estate and refuse any offer of help? Asking for help isn’t a sign of weakness, you know – quite the opposite, in fact.’

  How the hell had the conversation slipped from the exotic dancers to an examination of his life and character flaws?

  She paused to catch her breath, but he was too stunned by her outburst to speak.

  ‘You know what your problem is? You believe that you are responsible for everything. It isn’t your fault your father was a villain, or that your mother died when you were a baby. It’s not your fault your grandfather was a harsh, bitter old man who riddled the estate with debts. And it wasn’t your fault your men died at Ferozeshah either.’

  ‘Rose…’ he warned between clenched teeth.

  Ignoring him, she gestured to his chest.

  ‘You think everything is down to you. Perhaps the tattoo artist was right after all. You are too proud. Too proud to accept help… and love.’

  They stood facing each other in silence. Her words struck home. Never had anyone spoken to him in this way, but then again never had anyone sought to understand him – or claimed they loved him. He just couldn’t deal with it right now.

  ‘I’ll think about a way of helping the dancers out of Westmore,’ he said at last in a hard, cold voice. ‘In the meantime, do not move from this room. I have enough to do today without worrying about you running off somewhere and putting yourself in danger. Am I making myself clear?’

  She nodded and let out a bitter ‘Yes, my lord.’

  ‘Very well. I will see you later.’ He walked to the door, and was about to open it when her voice stopped him.

  ‘Bruce, please wait.’

  He turned, narrowed his eyes. ‘What is it now?’

  Her lips quivered and stretched into a tentative smile. ‘I don’t want us to argue and part in this way.’

  She started to run, but her feet caught in the sheet and she stumbled forward, straight into his arms. He held her tight, cradled her against him. Her heart beat fast, fluttering like the wings of a bird caught in a net. And his own all but melted into a squishy mess.

  ‘Sweetheart, tripping into my arms is fast becoming a habit of yours,’ he said, burying his face in her hair. His anger, his hurt, his wounded pride, everything vanished.

  ‘I’m sorry, so sorry. Please forgive me. I shouldn’t have said that… about…’ Her voice wavered. She sighed and lifted a hand to his heart.

  The contact gave him a jolt and he bent down to kiss her.

  ‘I’m the one who should apologise,’ he murmured against her mouth. ‘I am a grumpy fool and I wouldn’t blame you one bit if you called me McGorilla or any other monkey name of your choosing. You are right, my love – about everything.’

  He raked his fingers into her hair, stroked the length of it along her spine, trailed kisses along her throat, her jawline, her mouth. She held onto his shoulders, moulded her body against his. The sheet slid down to the floor and she stood naked in his arms.

  He looked down and they locked eyes. The silence between them stretched, swelled and filled with the sounds of their breathing, of fast, thudding heartbeats and unspoken words.

  ‘I really should go,’ he said at last, his voice hoarse.

  ‘If you say so,’ she replied. Her finger traced a path down his chest, slid into his jacket and circled over his heart on the fine linen fabric of his shirt.

  His body tensed, tightened. With a deep, almost desperate growl, he cupped her hips, lifted her off the ground and parted her legs to hook them around him. She held on to his shoulders and threw her head back. Her breasts jutted out, her nipples already flushed and taut. Tantalising.

  Was it possible that he wanted her again?

  The feel of her naked body moving against him drove him wild. Time stopped. There was no more Westmore, no more McRae. No more Wrath even. There was just him and the woman he loved.

  He carried her to the bed and let her down gently on the counterpane. Her eyes dark, her breathing short, she helped him shrug his jacket and waistcoat off. Somehow he managed to unfasten his shirt, pul
l it off and cast it aside. He wanted to feel her skin against his, her breasts against his bare chest.

  Then one knee resting on the bed between her thighs, he leaned over her and kissed her mouth. He kissed her as if it was the first and the last time, his heart drumming so hard it felt it was bursting.

  She arched upward and murmured his name. He lifted her arms over her head, pinned them down on the bed, left them there. Still leaning over her, his hands slid down the length of her body, from the tip of her fingers, along her arms, to the sides of her breasts and waist, and lower, between her thighs. And back up again. She shivered and moved against his touch. Her lips parted onto breathless sighs and delicious moans.

  Taking care of the rest of his clothing only took a minute. When he was ready he stood over her in a moment of intense, confident and silent male domination. He took in the perfection of her female curves, the way her hair glimmered like a halo of sunshine, the deep blue of her eyes.

  And when he couldn’t wait any longer, he bent down, covered her body with his and claimed her.

  The day dragged on with excruciating slowness.

  After nibbling on a slice of bread and sipping a mug of strong tea, Rose asked for a bath, hoping that soaking in hot water would give her something to do and help soothe her nerves.

  It didn’t, not in the slightest. As she dipped a cloth in the water and rubbed it hard over her skin, her thoughts kept returning to Bruce. Could it only be a few hours since he last kissed her and held her in his arms? Only thinking of the way their bodies slid against each other, their hearts beat in unison, and the hot shivery sensations his hands and mouth awakened inside her was enough to make her tremble with longing.

  She gripped the cloth and wrung it hard. Was it possible to love a man with such intensity – to love him so much it hurt? And yet she was under no illusion. Bruce may enjoy making love to her but he didn’t love her. He found her stupid, too stupid to confide in her what was troubling him.