Border Bride (15 page)

"But you always bested me with a sword."

"Only because I was stronger and bigger."

"As you say, my lord. Some things never change."

He grew thoughtful, his intense gaze following the flight of a hen harrier. "You asked why I doubt you. Here's a case in point. I don't expect you to address me so formally, unless you're mocking me."

He might call her clever, but he took the prize for being astute. "I was, and I'm sorry."

"Then gain my forgiveness by addressing me in a fashion befitting our friendship."

"Yes, Malcolm. Although I'm surprised you use your name. You always hated it. Remember the time you dressed as Caesar and I talked you into letting me tie you to a tree?"

He stopped. "That's number four," he growled.

Thinking his harshness stemmed from patience lost, she dropped his hand and played the role of cowering maiden. "You grant no quarter today?"

His eyes narrowed and his nostrils flared. "I could be persuaded to take a hostage."

Realizing she had angered him, she sought to diffuse his rage. "I think you mean a prisoner."

"Nay. A hostage has something with which to bargain." His gaze moved to her breasts. "You're well supplied with valuable assets."

So much for placating his pride. "I should slap you."

"You could, but then I'd grow more doubtful of your sincerity."

She couldn't alienate him. She only wanted to capture his heart while guarding her own. Once she'd taken possession of her home, Malcolm could do as he pleased. Turning her back, she walked to the old well. "Then you must tell me what I can do to convince you."

He followed her and pulled off her kerchief. "You can begin by letting down your hair and reviving your role as pagan goddess."

In the spring of her last year in Scotland, she and Malcolm had painted their skin and danced naked, enacting an ancient fertility ritual.

"I see you remember," he added. "You're blushing."

"You were playing a Druid priest that day." Seeing his eyes darken with desire, she added, "We performed the ritual in childish innocence."

He grasped her waist and lifted her onto the rim of the well. "A rehearsal of sorts? You outdanced me."

A determined glimmer in his eyes, he spread her leather-clad thighs and moved so close the warmth of his wool tartan heated her skin.

"I haven't danced in years, and you're stronger now," she said.

"I'll take special care to show you the proper steps, and I'll stop often so you can catch your breath."

Her pulse began to hammer. "You're not talking about childish dancing, are you?"

Putting his cheek next to hers, he breathed softly in her ear. "Take the pins out of your hair and I'll show you exactly what I'm talking about."

Shivers rocked her and she clutched his shoulders for balance. "I'll fall into the well."

"I promise to catch you," he whispered, his mouth perilously close to hers. "I always have."

Beyond denial, she lifted her arms and began pulling the wooden pins from her hair. Hands shaking, she fumbled to complete the mundane task, which now seemed vital to her sanity. His mouth touched hers, his tongue darting forward to nudge her lips apart. She followed his lead, and by the time her hair fell free, her senses were spinning out of control. His exotic scent tantalized her nose while the heat from his body fed the flames of her desire.

He wrapped an arm around her, clutching her as if she were a precious keepsake, and although she felt his free hand unbuttoning her tunic, Alpin no longer questioned the right or wrong of his methods. He seemed her perfect mate, his heart pounding in unison with hers, his labored breathing an echo of her own. When his tongue lunged insistently against hers, she welcomed him, joined in the twirling, darting ceremony.

Just when she thought she might tumble backward into the well, Malcolm traced a line of kisses across her cheek and down her neck. He drew back, one hand splayed at the base of her spine, and again put his other hand to work freeing the tiny pearl buttons of her blouse. She looked up. The hen harrier still glided overhead. The afternoon sun turned a high bank of knobby clouds to a giant sheet of hammered gold.

Malcolm pulled her blouse from her breeches and stared at her exposed breasts. The breeze teased her heated skin.

A softness shrouded his strong features, and his lips were damp from their kisses. "You've been swimming naked as we used to. Your skin is brown where it shouldn't be."

"A gentleman wouldn't mention it" was all that came to mind, for she was caught up in appreciating the way she affected him.

He lifted the old coin she wore on a chain. "Adrienne gave you this. Your heat lingers in the metal."

Lips as sensuous as his should be outlawed, she thought, and words so beguiling should be proscribed. "Yes. It belonged to the Border Lord."

He looked youthful in his skepticism, like the adventurous Malcolm of days gone by. "Nay," he said. " 'Twas my father's. He gave her the coin."

He'd been honest enough to point out one of her faults. Now she could be honest with him. "Your father is—or was—the Border Lord."

She expected him to argue and prayed that he wouldn't. They had reached a moment of accord, and although he was her enemy, she wanted this brief respite from their war.

"I wondered when you'd guess his identity. And that's number five, Alpin. The last on the day, I trust."

His provocative tone sapped her will to evade him further, made her eager to extend their truce. Returning his caresses seemed an inevitable move. She reached for the laces on his shirt.

"In a moment, sweet." His eyes held a determined look, and his hand was insistently firm on hers. "I haven't painted you yet. Wait right there."

He stepped back, but held her until she found her balance on the edge of the well. Then he ran to his horse and lifted a wineskin from the pommel. Her feet dangling off the ground, she watched him walk toward her, his silk shirt billowing in the summer breeze, his colorful Kerr tartan lending power to an already formidable presence. How, she wondered, could any woman resist him?

Instinctively she drew the edges of her blouse together.

Twisting off the stopper, he said, "May I offer you drink for your thirst?"

From him, the ordinary question sounded devilishly indecent. She opened her mouth and closed her eyes. When the tangy liquid flowed over her tongue, she thought he'd introduced her to some strange wine. But with the first swallow she tasted berries. And the truth.

She almost gagged on Elanna's love potion.

He grasped her shoulder. "Drink slowly," he said, "or you'll choke."

Sputtering, she wiped her mouth. "Where did you get that?"

A frown creased his high forehead. "From Saladin. He found it in the kitchen and offered me a share."

Her stomach roiled and her tongue rebelled at the earthy aftertaste of the herb.

His eyes grew wide with concern. "What's wrong?"

Nothing, her mind screamed, except that I've slipped a proverbial noose over my own neck! "Nothing's wrong," she said on a nervous sigh, "but I think we would be better off with water."

He sniffed the juice. "Is it tainted?"

Before she could cry yes, he took a sip. Licking his lips, his eyes darting left and right, he said, "Berries. I rather like it." Then he tilted his head back.

Just as he began squirting the drink into his mouth, she yelled, "No!"

He stopped. "No? Why don't you want me to drink this?" Smiling, he added, "Don't fret. I'll save some for you."

A viable reply eluded her. Over the clamoring of her heart, she accepted defeat. "You really like it that much?"

He handed it back to her. "Aye. Don't you?"

Dread gripped her. "Of course," she conceded, and pretended to swallow the dangerous drink.

Her heart sinking, she watched him take back the wineskin and finish off the contents. One small blessing rang in her mind: he had drunk only half of the stuff. A drop of blood red liquid seeped from the corner of his mouth, flowed to his chin, and halted an instant before trailing leisurely over his throat, down his neck, and to his shirt. As if in a daze, she saw the thirsty white silk absorb the garnet-hued liquid.

The leather bag hit the ground with a plop. She glanced up at him and froze, for his eyes held a dreamy quality.

To her astonishment he put his index finger in his mouth, then traced a Celtic cross on each of her breasts. At that moment she understood the true meaning of the word "erotic," and with each symbol he sketched, her need increased. Watching him slip his finger into his mouth for added moisture brought a tightness to her belly and a weakness to her legs.

With great care he illuminated her torso, his touch too soft to tickle, too exquisite to agitate. A parade of sensations marched across her skin and spawned feelings so fresh they glistened like the morning dew. She felt like a treasured prize, coddled, worshiped, and valued, but as he continued his foray into artful seduction, her ethereal thoughts gave way to physical need, and her body yearned for a more intimate touch.

When he finished drawing circles, he fashioned twin blazing suns, his hallmark. Feeling completely possessed, she watched in fascination as he bent his head and took her nipple into his mouth. A cry escaped her lips, and her backbone turned to jelly. Thinking she would fall, she grasped his head and threaded her fingers in his hair. Beneath her thumb, she felt a pulse pounding at his temple in a steady rhythm. As he cherished her breasts, she came to know the slick texture of his mouth, the drag of his tongue, and the even edge of his teeth. Noise ceased, save the gentle suckling sounds he made and the desire that became a living, screaming thing inside her.

Moving from one areola to the other, he tasted and stroked her, his fingers massaging, and when he had taken his fill, he straightened up and rested his forehead against hers.

Perspiration trickled off his brow and over her thumb. A different kind of dampness flourished in her most secret place.

He inhaled deeply and said, "Do you feel properly paganized?"

She smiled. "Devilishly so."

Licking his lips, he nodded, then looked left and right.

A furnace of heat blazed where their skin touched. "
Has
someone come?" she asked.

He laughed, a pained sound that made his chest heave.

"Nay, and 'tis a definite problem, considering where we are and what you are."

Pulling her hands away, she stiffened her arms and braced herself on the well. After the softness of his hair, the stones felt gritty and cold against her palms. "I don't understand."

Dropping his chin and lifting his brows, he said, "You're a virgin, remember?"

Confusion took the edge off her desire. "You said my virginity was an enticement. I thought you were glad."

"What would please me"—he began righting her clothing—"is to strip off those breeches and love you here and now. But 'twould not please you. Most likely you'd hate me for callously taking advantage of you."

That he cared about her feelings surprised Alpin and reinforced her belief that she didn't really know the man Malcolm Kerr had become. One thing was certain: he wanted to love her, and the thought of doing so brought him great joy. Or was it the berry juice? She didn't know.

Feeling giddy and childish again, she wrapped her legs around him for balance, leaned back and over the lip of the well. The sound of her laughter echoed off the circular walls. "I could never hate you for making me feel the way I do right now."

"You truly want me for your mate."

She'd won. Why else, save true devotion, would he put her welfare before his lust? Jubilation filled her. A heartbeat later a twinge of guilt threatened her high spirits. The potion had induced him to want her, but she'd come too far and risked too much to turn back now. "Oh, yes, Malcolm. You are what I want. All I want," she lied through her teeth.

Chapter Eight