by Tanya Wilde
“After we deal with your brother then.”
“We will not do anything. You will stay as far away from my brother as you possibly can. I mean it, Honoria.”
“I—”
“No excuses,” he said sharply. “If you ever put yourself in the same path as my brother again, I will take you over my knee and beat sense into you.”
“You wouldn’t dare!”
“I would if it meant putting a stop to you launching yourself at danger.”
“I only meant to help you.”
“You can help me by staying safe.” He dropped the brush and stalked over to her. “Do you have any idea how powerless I felt when you confronted my brother? He could have hurt you.”
“You were close by, and apparently so was Hugh.”
“And we would still have been outnumbered.” He dragged a hand over his face. “This is no light matter. Danior and his men are dangerous.”
“Why can’t your brother leave you be?”
Lash sighed. “Even I cannot begin to explain his reasoning.”
“You must suspect some reasoning on his part,” she insisted.
Evil required no reasoning.
Lash knew that better than anyone. He did not want to tarnish Honoria’s view of the world. She appeared so innocent, fragile—very much untainted by the hardships that had colored his life.
“Did he not say anything after he attacked you?” she pressed.
Breathing in a heavy sigh, he shook his head. “Nothing that made any sense.” He called his brother’s words to mind. “He told me I did not deserve to live, that I was a curse upon this world, and he would be the one to end it.”
“Lawd, what a rotter!”
Lash nodded in agreement. “Then the bastard stabbed me. I did not linger to demand an explanation after that.”
“Once you catch him, be sure to demand answers.”
“I will.” Without seeming to move, they were suddenly much closer. “And I will find my sister, even if I must spend my entire life searching for her.”
“I shall help you find her,” she declared. “I promise.”
She was doing it again—unraveling his heart. He wanted to touch her. He wanted to lower his head and brush his lips against the softness of hers. Instead, he forced himself to turn back to the horse. “You should go.”
“I don’t want to leave.”
Lash shut his eyes. An instant later a small hand settled against his rigid back. The same spark that leaped to life whenever she touched him flared up. He whirled around.
“Go.”
She shook her head. “Nay.”
“Honoria, if you do not leave, I won’t be able to stop myself.”
“I’m not leaving.”
So be it.
He reached out and yanked her against him, winding his arms around her waist. Staring down into her eyes, so expressive, so hungry for adventure, he bent his head to capture her lips with his. This time there was no fever threatening to interrupt their embrace. This time, another kind of fever raged through his blood, scorching his veins, licking at his skin.
He pushed her up against a stall door, his fingers threading into her hair. Lash was powerless to resist her. He deepened the kiss and lifted her legs to better accommodate him, his knee pushing between her thighs. She tasted like honey. Sweet, provocative and entirely too good for the likes of him. Still, he devoured her like a slave consuming a stolen morsel of bread. His tongue darted between her lips, savoring every last drop of her taste.
She was an addiction. Intoxicating. His past melted away at her touch. And for those heartbeats, where their bodies connected, he allowed himself the fantasy of staying with her forever.
Behind them, Bach snickered.
Reluctantly, while he still possessed the strength, Lash unlocked his lips from hers and lifted his head. Words failed him. With an unsteady exhalation, he bowed his head and rested it against her temple. “Honoria.”
“The way you say my name sounds dangerous.”
“That’s because you are dangerous.”
“Me?” Her light laughter drew his insides tight. “I am no more than a wee lass, nothing dangerous about me at all.”
“That’s where you are wrong, woman.”
A throat cleared from the stable doors.
Lash’s gaze whipped to the sound. A man, unfamiliar to him, stood staring at them with hard, unfathomable eyes.
“Mr. Ross,” Honoria croaked out. “We did not see you there.”
“Aye, I imagine you did not.”
Lash cursed. He still had Honoria pushed up against the stall. With the grace of a tiger, he unwrapped his limbs from her, setting her back on her feet. “You should go back to the castle,” he urged.
“We should both return to the castle,” she insisted, eyes settling on Ross.
Lash cast her an exasperated look. From the set of her chin, he could tell she was not moving an inch without him. Something unfurled in his chest. Humor. It took root in his jaw and sprouted into an unrepentant grin.
“She has nine brothers,” Ross said as they passed him.
Honoria groaned.
“I’ve heard.” Lash halted before the head groom, bracing for the inevitable sneer to curve the man’s mouth. To his surprise, none was forthcoming. “Is there going to be a problem?”
“Only if you hurt her.”
“Then I reckon there will be no problem.”
Chapter 14
Lawd, but he was handsome.
The ripple of his muscles beneath his shirt, the tight fit of his breeches, the jut of his hips, the smooth control of every movement, all mesmerized her. There was something magical about observing Lash dance. Quite simply, it was the stuff of dreams. Beautiful. Wild. Masterful. Passion poured out of every gesture. Freedom governed his rhythm.
It was unlike any dance she’d ever learned.
Of course, Scottish reels and jigs were lively too, but not as intimate as this one. The Flamenco. This Spanish dance felt seductive, flirtatious, and downright carnal. Honoria practically burned with heat as she watched Lash demonstrate his mastery. He reminded her of a peacock advertising his prime physical fitness by strutting back and forth and shaking his feathers to attract a mate.
“The most important thing to master when learning this dance is patience.”
Master.
He could be her master.
Honoria angled her head to the side, pinching her chin to stop from fanning her face with her hand as she studied the perfection of Lash’s thighs. How unfair for a man to be this handsome. She was starting to believe she’d grown fully and wholly smitten.
“But most of all, focus,” he was saying, the emphasis on the word drawing her attention back to the actual dance.
Honoria dragged her gaze up to his. His eyes seemed to laugh at her, but she couldn’t be sure. She was, however, certain they were glowing, all but alive with amusement. The beast.
Perspiration beaded down her breast as she fought to concentrate on his words and not on his anatomy, the memory of that hard body pressed up against her, his tongue dancing between her lips.
Merciful heavens.
“I am focused,” she muttered, clearing her throat, “and I am mastered.”
“Mastered?” Isla queried. “You mean you have mastered patience, which I’m not sure you have.”
“I am patient,” Honoria denied, having completely forgotten they were not alone. “The dance is a lot to take in.”
A lot of male.
Hugh snorted from where he reclined on the sofa. “I suppose it’s not your fault your ability to focus resembles an arrow shooting from a bow.”
“Why don’t you come and try, Hugh?” Honoria challenged. If she had her way, she’d not have included him and his pompous remarks in the first place, but the moment Hugh learned she’d been in the stables, he’d all but sewed the four of them together.
“Aye, I’d love to see that,” Isla said, laughing in turn.
“I’m sure you are,” Honoria remarked dryly.
“Stop distracting us then,” Isla added, attempting a stern look. “Your offhanded comments are the reason we cannot focus.”
“And I’ll have you know, I’ve just the right amount of attention to master this dance,” Honoria muttered. She could master just about anything she set her mind to—like convincing Isla to join her in learning this dance, for one.
Lash cleared his throat, drawing all their attention back to him. “I’m adding discipline to the list.”
“I have loads of that,” Hugh drawled.
Honoria rolled her eyes.
“Never trust females, Ruthven,” Hugh continued with the wave of his hand. “They are deceptive when it suits them.”
“Ignore him,” Isla told Lash. “Do we not require a partner for this dance?”
Lash shook his head. “For this dance you are without a partner.”
“I like the sound of that,” Honoria said. “It expresses independence.”
From the sofa, Hugh snorted.
“And a certain amount of passion,” Lash remarked, a smile accompanying the words.
“We MacCallans have loads of that,” Isla rejoined, her tone light.
Hugh made a gurgling sound at the back of his throat. “Kill me, I beg you.”
Honoria could have cheerfully obliged and strangled her brother.
“Do not tempt us,” Isla muttered.
“You don’t have to watch,” Honoria agreed. “Go pester someone else if you are bored, Hugh.”
“I would not miss this pleasantry for the world, little twin sister.”
“I’m two seconds older than you.”
“A complete fabrication meant to rile me.”
Honoria harrumphed and motioned for Lash to continue.
He shook his head, lips curved upward. “The skill is to commutate your innermost emotions to the musician or singer, as well as your audience. Being women, that shouldn’t be too hard.”
“There is an insult in that sentence, I think,” Isla murmured.
“Aye, I think he means to imply we are emotional creatures who wear our hearts on our sleeves.”
“We shall have to work on your concentration, ladies,” Lash drawled, emphasizing the last with a stamp of his foot. “Foot percussion is most important.”
“We shall be at our most diligent,” Honoria responded with a mock bow.
Isla followed suit, bowing with a small grin.
Lash shook his head, lips twitching. “Tap your toe to the floor, and then your heel. Tap your heel again and repeat toe and flat.” He demonstrated. “Raise and stamp.”
Honoria and Isla shared a look. Was that all?
“You try.” Lash motioned to them.
Honoria looked down at her feet and mimicked the actions. To her delight, both she and Isla got it right on their first try.
“Good, remember the sequence of toe – heel – heel – toe – flat. Practice that until you have perfected the flow. Once you are comfortable, add arm movements.”
He carried on demonstrating, creating a continuous flow of motion with his arms, snapping his fingers for effect, which pulled a chortle from Hugh.
“You look like a bloody rooster.”
They ignored him.
Honoria suddenly understood what Lash meant with most dances being tedious. This was much more fun. “What comes next?” she asked, eager to learn more.
“The best part,” Lash said, his grin infectious. “Spontaneity.”
“Such as?” Honoria asked, intrigued.
“Any form of expression that touches you in the moment. Sway your hips, bat your eyes, swivel your head, anything that portrays your emotion.”
“How romantic,” Isla murmured, her cheeks flushed with color.
“Romantic?” Hugh quipped. “Strikes me as downright nightmarish. As does the factuality of giving dance lessons while there are men out there seeking you harm.”
Honoria jerked her head around, her gaze slamming into her brother’s. “And what do you expect us to do, Hugh? Sit in a circle and pray? Roam the castle walls aimlessly until our brothers’ return? There’s nothing we can do but take our minds off the matter, or devise a plan to do something about it.”
“I prefer the safety of our fortress,” Hugh remarked, his face sour.
“Then dance, we shall,” Honoria snapped, turning back to Lash.
She was a wee bit antsy, still staggered Mr. Ross had caught them in a compromising position—and done nothing. She wondered if it had anything to do with Isla, who frequented the stables a lot lately.
“Proceeding further,” Lash murmured with the clear of his throat. “We must increase the speed motion. I will clap my hands and you will dance to that rhythm.”
Honoria and Isla gave eager nods. It seemed easy enough. So far they had been exemplary pupils. Had made no mistakes. The beat of Lash’s hands clapping together, however, proved remarkably deceptive.
Honoria could not hold the beat. She shut her eyes, attempting to focus.
And failed.
Spectacularly.
She missed steps, her arms jerking in wild gestures, her hips mechanically jutting sideways instead of swaying sensuously. She tried harder—one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve—toe – heel – heel – toe – flat. And harder—one, two, three, four, thigh, kiss, seven, eight, nine, chest, eleven, twelve, thirteen. No, that was wrong. One—
Hugh’s laughter peeled off the walls.
Growling, Honoria shot her brother a fuming look before sparing a sidelong glance at Isla, whose lips were pinched in concentration. Her sister appeared to have a better time of it.
She hadn’t thought they would excel from the start, it took hours of practice to learn any dance, but this was beyond frustrating. She wanted to look as sensual and exotic as their instruction had, not flail about like a fish out of water.
“You are not focusing,” Lash murmured, appearing at her side. “Here, draw from my beat.”
Honoria observed as Lash began to dance while counting the steps in his deep, foreign baritone, doing her best to follow his beat. He made it seem effortless, confident of his place, of his ability with each step. The man was a dream.
After a few tries, she discovered it far more painless with him counting, freeing her mind to focus on the dance. Och, and freeing her imagination to envision his powerful arms holding her, along with all sorts of other indecent touches.
The heat of his proximity caressed her skin. His scent enveloped her, making her dizzy. Honoria found she suddenly had a profusion of embers igniting inside her, and it was all for him.
Their eyes met and held.
Hugh’s groan broke their spell. “Why am I the only one not learning this dance and yet I’m the one feeling awkward?”
“Perhaps if you joined us instead of acting the surly Highlander, you might have some fun,” Isla remarked.
“Our definitions of fun are at odds,” Hugh groused. “And if I’m surly, it’s the effects of the whisky wearing off.”
“Och, well, if you are going to be prickly as a bear, go find yourself some honey to sweeten you up,” Honoria suggested.
“And shirk my duty as a chaperone?” He laced his arms around his neck and propped his boots on the rectangular walnut stool. “I don’t think so.”
Honoria huffed a breath, tucking a stray curl behind her ear. “Now you’re acting the protective brother.”
“Are you going to admire Ruthven all starry-eyed the entire day?” he countered.
“I do not have stars in my eyes,” Honoria denied.
Lord above! Was she gawking at Lash with stars in her eyes? Was it written across her face, I kissed him shamelessly in the stables and wish to do so again? How humiliating.
“I must be imagining things,” Hugh drawled with a lazy stretch.
“I’m sure
you are,” Honoria muttered. She turned back to Lash, who was observing her with faint amusement. “He is,” she felt compelled to say again. “Imagining things.”
“Of course,” Lash murmured, but his eyes were saying something else. They were stroking her with urgent, unfaltering caresses.
A lock of hair fell rakishly over his forehead, and Honoria broke the spell before she did something as damning as brush it away.
“Hello, I am here too,” Isla remarked peevishly from their left.
“You are hardly of age,” Hugh said.
“And you are a foxed chaperone,” Isla shot back.
“Only the residue of the whisky remains, I assure you.”
“On your breath,” Honoria muttered, her eyes trailing back to Lash. He was still staring at her, and this time when their eyes locked, a strong feeling of complicity wrapped around her like soft, silken thread.
She smiled.
It was funny what could happen in the space of one heartbeat.
For all his talk about focus and discipline, Lash’s mind possessed not a whit of them. He found it impossible to focus on anything other than her lips, or the stray curl that forever remained unpinned. It was the strangest thing. No matter how hard he tried, no matter what he did, Honoria MacCallan had embedded herself in his mind. And she was damn adorable in her attempt to learn this dance.
He raked his gaze over her, lingering on her mouth.
She was a distraction.
A big one.
And not because his thoughts kept straying to their kiss, but the Highlander was right. Teaching The Flamenco to two Scottish women instead of dealing with his brother was absurd.
And yet.
If she kept staring at him with stars in her eyes, his feet would sprout deeper roots. The Highlander had been on the mark again. But more than stars glittering in her amber gaze, she looked at him as though his dirty, calloused hands alone could bestow her the world.
Leaving wasn’t an option. They had saved his life. He would go against everything he believed, his very way of life, to stay with her. Until Danior was dealt with, then he would bid his farewell and clear off in search of his sister.
“I wonder what Callum and Kieran would say about this dance.” Isla broke through his thoughts.
