Darra surveyed the curve of his strong jaw structure, and noticed that it was covered with crimson stubble. For some bizarre reason she wanted to skim her fingers along his jaw, and feel the bristly roughness there.
He was so different from any other man that she had known. In fact he was the polar opposite to Sir Dudley, her suitor. First of all, Rory was younger and more fair than the other knight. When Rory spoke to her, it was as if he saw her as a person and not chattel. And when he looked at her, she felt as desirable as one of the exquisite ladies at King Harold’s court.
Sir Dudley, on the other hand, saw her as a sole means to breed his offspring. This wasn’t an unusual concept. A woman of her stature could only hope to marry a kind, respectable lord. Except that when she became acquainted with Sir Dudley, she discovered that while he was respectable, he was not kind. He had proved his unpleasantness when he demanded that she honor an agreement that he had forged with her father.
“We had a pact,” the old knight said. “A year ago, Sir Arthur pledged your daughter to me in marriage. I am now ready to marry her.”
“Darra is not ready to marry yet,” Lady Venora said, her face turning white.
“I understand that she is almost eighteen years old — an age that is ripe for marriage.”
“My husband has recently died, sire,” she said, blinking rapidly. She laced her fingers together and folded them on the trestle table. “I cannot allow Lady Darra to marry while we still grieve.”
Darra caught her mother’s eye and sent her a grateful look.
“Nevertheless the maiden will need a man to support her,” he said, ignoring the exchange between mother and daughter. He sent Darra a leering smile. “And what better man to provide for her than an established lord like myself?”
A streak of fear ran through Darra, negating the relief that she experienced earlier. “We will need to consider my other marriage prospects as well, sire,” she said, daring to voice the first thing that came to her mind.
Sir Dudley fingered the sleeve of his tunic as his eyes swept over her figure. She suppressed a shudder.
“My sources tell me that you have no other marriage prospects, my dear.” Suddenly he thrust out his chest. “Fine, I owe that you are both grieving over the loss of a good knight. I will allow one year for you to overcome your grief. And milady,” he said, giving Lady Venora a long measured look, “after this mourning period, I mean to take Lady Darra as wife.”
His words sounded like a threat, and Darra glanced at her mother in alarm.
The knight pivoted and exited the great hall with his guards following in his wake.
But of course that situation occurred almost a year ago. They had gone back to their routine where Sir Dudley called upon her on occasion. Darra bore those visits with restrained civility, and was glad when he left her in peace.
In the meantime, she had thrown herself into her work, healing the castle inhabitants and the peasants that came to seek her help. Any free time she had, she spent in the solar brewing, and experimenting with new herbal formulations.
Darra sighed, forcibly dragging her mind back to the present. Rory’s warmth seeped into her chilled body, and she relaxed against his firm trunk.
Why couldn’t her suitor be more like this Highlander? A sudden inherent desire awakened in her, and her heart began to flutter at the thought of having his firm lips pressed against hers. What would it feel like? Tender. Passionate. Delicious. It would be all those things, she realized. And most of all it, would be different from the sloppy kisses that she received from Sir Dud —
“Ye are safe now,” Rory said, his deep brogue interrupting her thoughts.
“Aye,” she said, his words reminding her that she nearly drowned in the rapids. If he hadn’t searched for her when she plummeted into the watercourse, she would likely be dead now. That notion caused a lump to form at the back of her throat.
“The current,” she cleared her throat, and tried again, “The current was fierce, and it kept pulling me under, and — and I thought for certain that…”
“Dinnae think about it,” he said softly. He placed his callused thumb and forefinger under her chin, tilting it up. “Ye are here with me now, do ye understand?”
She nodded and closed her eyes. The smooth cadence of his voice glided over her skin, soothing her nerves, comforting her. He dropped his hand and placed it lightly at her hip. She heard the concern in his voice, and it surprised her. Her own mother, who was a Scotswoman, raised her to believe that the Highlanders were nothing more than duplicitous barbarians. Was her mother mistaken?
Sensing his regard on her, she opened her eyes only to discover that his eyelids were hooded and his expression unreadable. As their gazes connected, her pulse increased as if something triggered its tempo. She was so close that she felt enthralled by the heady male scent of him. Words failed her, and she fumbled for something to say.
“Thank you for saving me,” she said quickly. Her eyes dropped to his chiseled mouth, and she noticed a small crease at the bottom lip, slightly marring its male perfection. Before she dissuaded herself, she placed her hands on his shoulders, raising herself a bit before brushing a chaste kiss on his lips.
Shock appeared in his green depths.
Darra felt a blush rise to her cheeks, almost immediately regretting her rash behavior. Her bold conduct could only be attributed to her close brush with death. Pulling away, she started to apologize, but he stayed her movements. Raising a finger, he lightly traced along the curve of her bottom lip, prompting the words to suddenly die in her throat.
The expression on his striking face softened while his pupils dilated. There was a raw intensity reflected in the heavy lidded gaze, an intensity that he didn’t pretend to hide. She held her breath, disbelieving that a man could be so dangerous and exciting all at once. Never had she met any man that possessed such untamed power.
With a glint in his emerald eyes, he said, “I desire a more enthusiastic thanking.”
Her breath hitched in her throat, and her heart thrummed as if it threatened to burst out from her ribcage at any second. Did he want her to kiss him again?
As if he was aware of the frantic thoughts swirling in her mind, he fixed his gaze on her lips. If she was standing, her knees would have buckled under the magnitude of his wicked inspection. But even though they were seated, his steady regard still caused tingles to flow down her body in thrilling waves.
“Thank me again, lass,” he commanded softly.
Her hand reached out and tentatively touched the side of his whiskered face, exploring the rugged contours. All the while, she was intensely aware of the solid muscular frame beneath her, and the strong corded strength that encircled her hips. He stared at her, his eyes narrowed, and his body still.
As if her fingers belonged to another woman, she watched them trail slowly along his rigid jaw. She became more emboldened when he made no protest. Darra flattened one hand on his warm cheek, and slid it around to curve at his nape. With the other palm, she slid it downward, slowly exploring his sinewy neck, down his broad shoulder until it came to rest on his bicep. The muscle flexed instinctively at her touch, and she squeezed it lightly. The strength and brawn here were born from combative training and laborious work.
She tilted her face up, and with only a small urging, she tugged his head downward to press her lips against his.
His chest expanded with a sharp inhalation, and he released a low growl. His hand reached up and cupped the back of her head as if her offering wasn’t enough, and he demanded more. Much more. He increased the pressure, melding their lips together, devouring her. A wanton, mindless pleasure overwhelmed her, and she surrendered to the exquisite onslaught. So this was how lovers kissed.
Rory broke away for half a second, and before she could stop it, a sound of protest escaped from her lips. She looked longingly at his sensual mouth, desiring more of it.
But he took pity on her and lowered his head to possess her lips again. One
large, callused hand framed the side of her face, while the other hand slid up and down her back, causing flames to spread wherever he touched.
His hot, sensual tongue ran across the seam of her lips, coaxing them apart. And when they parted under his gentle persuasion, he slipped his tongue inside her mouth. A small gasp escaped from her. Taking advantage of her surprise, his skilled tongue delved deeper into her crevice, as if starved to taste more of her honeyed essence. An inexplicable wetness formed between her legs, and a yearning so powerful rocked her.
He pivoted her smaller frame around so that she faced him. The skirt of her gown bunched up, and she attempted to tug it down.
“Nay, lass.” He gently brushed her hand aside and pushed the material up higher, exposing her thighs. She felt the cool air skim against her bare skin, and she was all too aware that the only barrier between them was his great kilt and air.
He pulled her closer so that she could feel the thick ridge of his erection through the plaid.
To preserve her maidenly instincts, Darra should have jumped off Rory’s lap long ago, demanding an apology. But instead, a part of her wanted to stay, wanted to learn what the fair Highlander had to offer, wanted to know why the sensations he stirred in her was so heady, so wickedly exciting.
His heated lips moved to her neck, hitting a sensitive spot, and causing her to arch her back. But the motion served to allow him better access to the tender area, and he thoroughly exploited it. She whimpered.
Rory groaned, responding to her evident pleasure. And his searing mouth moved south, finding its way to the exposed skin above the bodice of her gown. He dragged his scorching tongue along the delicate skin, licking at the area above the slopes of her breasts. The sweet torture of his erotic heat caused her nipples to pucker against the fabric of her gown. All the while a heavy ache thrummed between her thighs. And suddenly it seemed that there was too much clothing between them.
She closed her eyes and leaned into him, deeply breathing in his manly scent. The desire to taste him consumed her, and her hands went around to his steely forearms, holding onto them as if they were anchors.
Rory’s large hands moved to her buttocks, tugging her abruptly forward. She was flushed against the outline of his rigid cock, and as if nothing existed between them, he circled her hips so that he rubbed her sex on his arousal.
Their kiss intensified, deepened, and ragged, fevered panting filled her ears, although she was uncertain whether the noises came from herself or from Rory.
Suddenly he tore his lips away, his breathing coming out in deep, jagged spurts.
Her eyes opened at feeling the abrupt loss of his heat, and she looked at him, confusion coiling in her head.
“I’m sorry, lass,” he rasped, his chest heaving as he struggled for control. He rested his chin on the top of her head. “I didnae mean for things tae get out of hand.”
Darra pushed away from him and stood up. She placed her fingers to her lips, still feeling the tingling there. But reality was flooding back to her, and she began to realize what happened, what could have happened.
“Do not worry over it. It will not occur again,” she said.
He stood and studied her for a long moment, as if he was trying to discern her thoughts. Her fingers clenched at her skirt. What was he thinking? She felt the blood rising to her cheeks, and she braced herself for what he was going to say next. But then he surprised her by saying, “Ye must be tired. I’ll carry ye back tae camp.”
“Nay,” she said, putting out a hand, stopping him. She couldn’t risk having temptation seize her again, and rob her of her wits. His body intoxicated her, and with one touch she knew that she would soften helplessly in his arms. She might even do something that a maiden should never consider. “I will walk.”
Darra began to move, to prove her resolve, but she found that her legs wobbled and she staggered slightly.
“Ye need tae conserve your strength,” he said, his lips curling almost into a snarl. He bent down and easily scooped her up from the ground. “We still have a long journey ahead of us.”
With her securely in his arms, he found his boots and slipped them on. Then with long, powerful strides, he made his way back toward the camp.
All that Darra could do was to circle her arms around his neck. She really had no choice, she told herself. She took a deep breath, enjoying the delicious sensation of weightlessness, of being cradled so closely, so protectively against his hard frame. And for a fleeting moment, she could even pretend that her English blood meant nothing to him, and that he truly cared for her…
Chapter 8
Rory assessed the sleeping lass in his arms. Presently wrapped in his plaid and nestled against his chest, he felt a strange sense that this was where she belonged — with him, donning his plaid. Her skin was as smooth as satin, and he was tempted to brush his fingers against it, to feel its incredible softness. She had regained her color, a hint of rose staining her cheeks. When he first fished her out of the water, her face was pale and her lips blue. Her terror and fear had diminished, and her countenance now seemed peaceful, angelic.
She snuggled up to him, seeking his heat. Her innocent, trusting gesture made his heart lurch, and his grip on her tightened slightly. In such a short time, this lass managed to make him care, and he couldn’t attribute it entirely to the fact that she was going to heal his father.
He shook his head, not certain where these impressions were coming from. She was from a world entirely different from his own, and would likely object if she ever knew of his thoughts. He was also well aware that she wanted to return to her home, knew that she had planned to escape from him. But after he saved her from the rushing river, she was indebted to him. He was convinced that she wouldn’t run off again and would go willingly with him to the highlands.
She murmured something inaudible in her sleep. A smile suddenly formed on her pink lips, a smile suggesting that she was experiencing something pleasant in her dreams. He released a frustrated breath of air. For some reason he was attracted to Darra. She was fierce and somehow possessed an inner strength that rivaled the men he had fought with in battle. Yet she was pure feminine charm — from the soft curves of her body to her delicate, enchanting features. And her distinctive womanly scent coiled through his senses, making him dizzily aware of her. Had she been awake, he would have given in to the instinctual need to kiss her again, to recapture that peculiar sensation that she aroused in him. It was a kiss like no other, and it rocked him to his core. If they had met under different circumstances, and if she wasn’t an English lass, he would have pursued her. He was long overdue to take a wife anyhow.
“I must be mad with fatigue,” he muttered to himself.
Up ahead, he caught sight of her slippers near the trunk of the damaged tree. There was no point in leaving the items for the enemy to find. He shifted Darra on to one arm, and bent down to pick up the articles. Repositioning her against his shoulder, he continued on his way.
As he stepped into the campsite, he saw his brothers. They were working together to prepare oatcakes. Or rather it was Griogair who prepared the flat cakes, and Duncan, as usual, was doing the talking. While Rory didn’t believe Duncan would encounter opposition in trying to leave Lancullin Castle, he was nevertheless relieved to see him relaxing by the fire.
His brothers had stacked two neat pillars of rocks on either side of the fire. They topped the structures with a stone slab, and used it as a cooking surface. At the moment, Griogair held a stick, and was about to flip a hot oatcake on to the plate when he looked up.
“Rory,” he said, and then his eyes fell to the bundle in his arms. “What happened to her?”
Rory flipped the surplus portion of his kilt away from his shoulders, and set the lass down by the tree, which sat directly across from the small cookfire.
“She was fetching water from the river, and fell in,” Rory explained.
Even as he said it, he could feel the ball of guilt churning in his gut. If he ha
dn’t dragged her from her home, she would never have fallen into the dangerous waters.
He dusted the hem of his great kilt with the back of his hand, applying a little more force than necessary. He was determined to shake off not only the dirt but all sympathy he had for her. She was English, and it was best that he didn’t forget this fact.
Glancing over at his siblings, he saw the conflicting emotions displayed on their faces. Duncan appeared suspicious while Griogair was ever watchful. None of them really wanted to be here. Hell, Rory didn’t want to be here either. But they couldn’t allow their father to die without making any attempt to save him.
So they required her services — at least for a short while. As soon as she healed Eanruing, Rory would compensate her for her time and trouble, and she could leave.
“We dinnae need any more water,” Griogair flipped the rest of the oatcakes onto the metal plate. “I had enough in my flask tae make the meal. And I already gutted the fish I caught.” He set the plate aside and went to retrieve his catch.
A soft murmur sounded, and Rory glanced over at Darra’s. She stirred and stretched her arms before her eyes fluttered open. Sitting up abruptly, she looked around her, her brows pulled down in confusion.
Griogair placed the fish he had caught on the hot rock slab. The fish sizzled as it hit the scorching surface.
“Ye are at camp now,” Rory told her.
She eyed the fire, but made no move to go closer to it. Instead, she pulled her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms tightly around them.
He walked over to his horse to retrieve an extra plaid from the sack. On his way back, he grabbed an oatcake and took the items over to her. Tossing her the covering, he said, “Ye can use this if ye are chilled.”
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