Cull’s chest warmed with satisfaction when Derryth willingly took the hand he offered. A moment later, after saying a round of good-byes, he led her toward the door.
In the blink of an eye, Sorcha was there. “I have so enjoyed meeting you, Derryth. I do hope we will see each other again soon.”
“Thank you, Sorcha,” Derryth answered, before looking down at the kirtle she wore. “Your dress. I will return it.”
“Keep it,” the woman replied. “As my gift. The color looks better on you than me, as I knew it would. I will send a servant in the morning with your other garments.”
Buchan moved toward him then. “A moment alone, Cull, before you go.”
Cull allowed himself to be drawn aside, and after a sideways glance toward Derryth, turned his attention fully to the earl.
Buchan grasped his arm, and spoke in a quiet tone. “I will not go with you to Inverhaven tomorrow, but rather will withdraw to Lord Nester’s castle at Carven.” Lord Nester being a longtime ally of the earl. “As you know ’tis but a day’s ride from here, so please, send couriers and keep me informed as to how the siege unfolds, and your estimation on when we can expect a surrender or … battle—at which time I will come.”
The words surprised Cull. “I had thought you would be coming with us?”
Buchan nodded. “Unfortunately, there are … other matters that require my attention.” His eyes darkened. “Cull, tell no one of this, but I have received word that my father is ill and not expected to survive. There is no time to go to him. I simply await word.”
Cull’s heartbeat stalled, hearing this. The king, on his deathbed. “My prayers are with you and your brothers, sir.”
And yet he knew this was no mere matter of grief.
The earl murmured gravely. “I must make plans to protect my interests in the time of … uncertainty that will most certainly follow.”
Cull realized that he too must prepare himself.
Buchan’s father, Robert II, had not ruled for years as he suffered from a frailer constitution of mind and physicality. Instead the country had been largely governed by his two eldest sons along with Parliament, but had never been without infighting, betrayals, and intrigue. Even the three Stewart brothers were rarely of one mind, at times turning against one another to further their own ambitions. It was only with care that Cull had managed to keep the respect of all three men.
“What do you expect will occur?” Cull inquired carefully.
Buchan exhaled, as if already weary of the future to come. “I do not doubt that Carrick will be named king, despite his physical ailments. He is eldest after all, and birth order has its rewards in our imperfect society.” The earl let out a low growl of annoyance. Cull knew the Wolf had always considered himself a greater man than either of his brothers, and competed fiercely against them to prove himself. Without a doubt, he would continue to do so, even now, as gray threaded their hair.
Cull remained silent. He would not speak against one Stewart or the other. Despite his connection to Buchan, he considered them all very much one and the same.
Buchan crossed his arms over his chest. “No doubt Fife will continue on as he has since Carrick’s accident, as Guardian of the Realm. Where will I, the third and youngest brother, fit into this new order? Only time will tell.” He grinned, but without warmth.
As for himself? Cull could only follow the path he’d followed for so long. He forever owed a debt to Buchan, but as a King’s Guard, he would serve the King of Scotland, and do so honorably. He would not stray from that path. In that way, he hoped he would somehow carve out a place for himself—a place that he could for the rest of his life call home, and a sanctuary away from this life. That dream was within his grasp. He had only to fulfill his sworn duty to achieve it.
“Then one final matter,” said Cull.
“Aye, commander.” Buchan rested a hand on Cull’s shoulder. “Whatever you need.”
“Have you the official edict issued by the king and Parliament against the Laird Kincaid? I should like to have possession of it when I meet with him to demand the surrender of Inverhaven.”
“Of course.” Buchan nodded. “’Tis at Carven awaiting me, with the rest of my important documents. I’m a fool not to have brought it with me. It’s just with this news of my father, my thoughts have been a bit … disarrayed.”
“Understandably, my lord.”
“I shall have it couriered to you straightaway.”
“Thank you, Earl. Then good-bye, until we are victorious.”
He turned back to Derryth—
Only to find Duncan standing very close to her … his hand spread on her lower back as he bent to speak intimately into her ear.
Jealousy flared up inside Cull, so suddenly the intensity of it stole his breath.
But he saw then that their closeness was not mutually desired. Derryth grimaced and leaned away, clearly seeking to escape. However, Duncan gripped her arm, his eyes dark and his teeth clenched behind a predatory smile.
Cull’s vision went black.
“Duncan,” he barked. His voice silenced the room.
Duncan’s head snapped up, and their gazes locked. Tension reverberated between them.
“Come here, Derryth,” Cull said evenly.
A sly smile spread across Duncan’s lips.
“Go, peasant,” he said, releasing Derryth, and backing away. “Your master summons you.”
Derryth turned. Color stained her cheeks, and she did not meet Cull’s gaze as she hurriedly joined him.
“Duncan.” Buchan scowled, rebuking his son.
But Duncan was already gone, disappearing into the deeper shadows of the tent.
Side by side, Cull passed with Derryth into the night, he draping her cloak over her shoulders, but she stepped away, putting several paces between them as she fastened the garment at her throat.
“What did he say to you?” he demanded in a low voice.
“Why does it matter?” she answered tightly, crossing her arms over her chest as she walked.
She looked so small, fragile and alone. And was she not alone? He had done little to protect her inside, and though he could not think of what he should have done differently, he could not help but feel regret.
A strong gust of wind moved through the trees, sending her hair sweeping back, to gleam in the night. She caught it, and with a quick turn of her wrist, twisted it upon her shoulder, and pulled her hood up to cover her head. A moment later, the sky sprinkled them with drops of rain. She walked faster, through the trees. With long strides, he easily kept up, his blood warming just from being alone with her again.
“It does matter what he said to you,” he said.
“Because you and he hate each other?”
Hate Duncan? He hadn’t until he’d seen him touching Derryth like that, but perhaps now, at last, it was true.
“Nay, Derryth, because whatever he said offended you, and I would not have you offended. Tell me what he said.”
Had Duncan made her some sordid offer? Had he declared some intention to seduce her? Duncan would do that. No doubt he would. Seduce Derryth, just to provoke him. And then when she was used up … destroyed, he would cast her off.
“Aye, his words did offend me,” she answered softly, staring ahead. “But do you know what offends me more?”
“What?” He caught her by the shoulders, and gently pressed her against a tree, in an instant craving the intimacy they’d shared just hours before. Wanting to kiss her again. Was that all it took? A moment alone with her, for him to be drawn back in?
In the shadow of her cowl, her eyes widened, and he thought he saw the gleam of tears.
Damn him to hell. She was afraid and he was aroused. What sort of beast did that make him?
“It doesn’t matter.” She moved as if to push past him but he held her still, by her arms. Tension rose between them, something he found almost painful, and yet infinitely sweet. He was not accustomed to being so caught up in someone else
. Never before had he ached to touch a woman. Why her? The feeling both unsettled and intrigued him.
“Tell me,” he repeated. “What offends you more than Duncan?”
Him. She would say that he did. He needed to hear it. Then, he could break free. Then, he could forget her.
Rain fell in earnest now, pattering increasingly hard, all around.
Her eyes widened. “That you are one of them, and I wish you weren’t—” she choked, and a tear fell over her cheek. “Because you are so much finer than that. Finer than any one of them.”
Him … fine? Her words struck through his heart. How could she say something like that about him, a former slave? A warrior with no true possessions but his horse, armor, weapons, and pride.
“But I’m not,” he said, his voice gone hollow.
If only she knew from whence he had come. From nowhere. From darkness. From the pit of a slaver’s ship.
“Aye, but you are,” she said. “You pay an old man wages, when he is far too old to work. Because he has nowhere else to go, and because you are kind. You allowed me to see my kinsmen, calming my fears and theirs. Because your heart is good and honorable. I know there is more within you. So much more, because I can see that man when I look in your eyes.”
Her praises ignored the violence of his past and the blood he had spilled. They had nothing to do with his ability to hold a sword, or clear a field of the enemy. They were words he had never in his life realized he wanted to hear.
Until now.
She pushed past him, into the rain, but lunging, he caught her and brought her into his arms, against his chest. “You’re crying for me?”
He still couldn’t believe. Still didn’t understand.
“Aye, Cull, I cry for you,” she exclaimed hoarsely. “And everyone else who will be hurt by you after tomorrow.”
With a sudden wrenching of her shoulders, she broke free from him then, and ran again into the rain, away from him, away from the camp. Away from Buchan’s tent.
He followed at a distance, striding over the uneven earth, and found her stopped at the edge of a clearing, her arms at her sides, drenched. She turned to him, her eyes wide, her expression stricken.
“I don’t know where to go,” she said.
Something powerful rose up inside him then, a warmth that defied the chill of the rain on his skin. A soul-deep need he had never felt for any other living thing. How could she have done this to him, in the mere passing of a day? When for so long he had existed and fought and survived, needing no one. Trusting no one.
He strode toward her, rain striking the planes of his cheeks, and soaking through his garments. She made a sound when he touched her arms … a low sob. He lifted her up into his arms, just as he had, one day before, like a child. But it was no child who looked up at him in the night, her face pale, her eyes wide and encircled with dark lashes. Derryth was a woman, and he kissed her like one then, tasting rain and passion on her lips. He knew bliss when her hands came up to frame his face.
“Oh, Cull,” she whispered.
His every muscle contracted tight, and he was consumed by an urgency that set his heart beating faster. He carried her through the quiet camp, through a torrent of rain that would make the next day a misery for his army and the move they would make, but that did not concern him now. Most men had crowded into their tents. He’d given orders because they were so near the location of their intended attack, that there would be no large fires, no music. No shouting or laughter, which could draw attention.
Effric did not greet them, and no doubt slept in the shelter of his covered wagon. For that, Cull was grateful, for he did not want the old man to see the look of blatant desire on his face, plain evidence of his need for the woman in his arms.
Inside, it was warm and dry, and for the first time he did not give a damn that his boots muddied his carpet. He set Derryth on her feet beside the brazier, inside its circle of warmth. Water dripped from the hem of her cloak and from his face. He did not hesitate. Standing so near that their garments touched, he reached over her shoulders for the fastening of her sodden cloak, removing it and discarding it to the chair.
“Cull…” she said.
“Yes,” he murmured in her ear.
She breathed heavily as with impatient hands he divested her of the sinful blue gown that hung damp and heavy as it slid from her arms, and with a silken hiss, fell to the floor, leaving her standing in a deep red undertunic.
She stood silent, still taking deep breaths, still turned from him, and he sensed she did not know what to do. That despite their attraction … the powerful connection they shared, he was still her captor, an enemy of Highlanders, and therefore an enemy to her. All that was true, and perhaps made the moment feel all the more forbidden. He could not recall ever having wanted a woman so badly. Need tightened his groin, and his sex lengthened against his thigh. But he knew his desire went deeper than lust, and he wanted to claim her heart just as equally as he wanted her body. He knew if he was to have her, that he must take extra care.
Slowly … he touched her hair, which was damp from the sodden hood he’d just removed from it. The silken, white-gold tresses that had fascinated him from the first moment. Gathering the softly curling mass in his hands, he bared the nape of her neck—God, her beautiful neck—and bent to press an open-mouthed kiss there, tasting her with his tongue.
“Cull … please.” She shivered and sighed, emitting an uneven, broken breath.
He kissed her neck once more before releasing her hair to cascade again down her back. Grasping her slender shoulders, he rubbed her there with the flats of his palms, before enveloping her in his arms, and gathering her tight against his chest.
“Don’t be afraid,” he murmured against her temple.
Wind and rain lashed the tent, as there, in the light of the brazier, he held her for a long moment, simply standing, his heart beating heavily in his chest, before turning her in his arms.
“Put your arms around me, Derryth,” he said quietly.
She did so, and her hands flattened against his back. He touched her cheek, cupped her chin, tilting her face upward so that her eyes looked into his. She trembled … and closed her eyes, but did not pull away.
Bending, he kissed her. Gently … his lips grazing hers, teasing himself with their unbelievable softness. She moaned, leaning against him. That was all it took for his wall of restraint to come crashing down. Desire surged through him, strong and wild, and he tilted his head, losing himself in her.
Open mouthed and commanding, he seduced her with his lips … tasting her … delving deeper with each thrust of his tongue, until she responded with equal fervor, her hands grasping at his arms … and sliding up around his neck. Aye, he knew how to kiss a woman, how to make her crave more, but he was no less intoxicated by Derryth.
“You feel so good in my arms…” he murmured, his mouth never leaving hers. “You’re so lovely.”
Without thought, he lifted her, and carried her to his bed, and lay her on the furs. Quickly, he divested himself of his boots … his wet jerkin and the tunic beneath, before returning to her arms. The night was so dark, and the shadows so deep, there was only their mouths joining, and their hands touching. His hands moved over her waist, sweeping up over her ribs—at last—to her breasts, which he cupped and caressed through the linen that covered her. She was so slight, he was startled by their fullness. She arched, and gave a soft cry. He pulled at her léine where it gathered at her hips, pulling the linen higher.
Chapter 11
“Wait…” she cried.
Her body suddenly rigid, she caught his wrist, even as the rapid breaths that emitted from her parted lips told him she was still as aroused as he.
His need for her was so powerful, and the instinct that they should be together so true, it took all his strength to pull himself back from the edge—but draw back he did.
“Derryth, I want you,” he murmured, the weight of his body on his hip, as he sprawled half
atop her. “But I would never force you. Will you share my bed? Will you share my night?”
More words gathered on his lips. Promises to protect her. Sworn vows to never let her go. Oaths his heart demanded of him, and yet—
He dared not make.
“Cull—”
“Answer me,” he replied, lowering his head to kiss her, but she turned her face away. Instead he lowered soft kisses along her collarbone, and then her neck … until her lips found his again. The passion between them rose up hotter than before. His tongue delved deep into her mouth, and she buried her hands in his hair.
Only for her to break away again, gasping … half crawling away.
“What do you expect me to say?” she said, agonized.
Aye, he was in agony too, his sex hard and aching for satisfaction.
“You don’t have to say anything, Derryth,” he replied, exhaling through his teeth. “Just don’t say no.”
* * *
Derryth stared at him, wanting him … her heart near breaking. But losing herself to this passion would be a betrayal to all she loved. No matter how strongly their souls connected. No matter how honorable a man he might be.
“No,” she whispered, hating the word, even as she spoke it, for Cull was everything she wanted in a man. And yet she could not have him.
“I … understand,” he said, his eyes black in the night. He eased away from her, and rolled onto his back to stare straight above, his arms extended over his head.
How magnificent he looked, lying beside her. His muscles delineated by the firelight. His face stark with passion. He still breathed hard, but swallowed, as if he sought to assert control over himself.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, her heart clenching. Wanting him still.
“You mustn’t be,” he murmured, his voice deep. “It is I who lost control.”
She closed her eyes. She wanted more than anything to lose control.
He was silent for a long time. At last, his shoulders eased and he breathed out through his nose. “Tell me … is there someone who waits for you, at the end of this journey?” he asked. “Are you married … or betrothed?”
The Warrior of Clan Kincaid Page 12
