Highland Jewel (Highland Brides) (32 page)

For a moment Roman did not blink or breathe, but stood like one in fear of great pain. Nevertheless, he spoke finally, his small chin firm and slightly lifted as he dared gainsay the huge laird who would determine his future. "I dunna think her foolish," he said, his voice faint, his fingers firmly wound into Dora's fur. "Only high-spirited."

Leith's expression was somber. "Loyalty. Tis a rare and precious thing, young Roman," he said huskily. "The lady is blessed to have gained yers."

Leith was gone for nearly an hour, and in that time Rose discovered several things. Firstly, he had been devious in his means of keeping her still, for surely she would not injure Roman's tender feelings by trying to leave.

Secondly, Roman's charm had not been diminished by Dermid's cruel hand, though the lad seemed ever afraid of human contact and sat on the far side of the bed as he told stories he must have weaved for himself and Dora while guarding sheep.

And thirdly, Dora the dog stank to high heaven.

It was the third issue she was attempting to tactfully address when Leith returned.

He stopped in the doorway as she broached the subject of a canine bath.

Roman's voice chimed in. Rose answered, and Leith realized with some amazement that he was listening attentively to their words. Holy Jesu, even her simplest conversation held him breathless, while the sight of her upon his bed made his chest ache. But it was her with a child that made his heart hurt. If ever a woman was meant to nurture young ones, it was she. But that was not his first concern now. What had happened by the river's falls? Had Harlow tried to harm her or had she merely fallen as she'd said?

His conversation with the younger man had revealed little, for Harlow had seemed tense and defensive, which had done nothing to lessen Leith's suspicions. But was Harlow at fault here? Had he meant to harm Fiona Rose or had he but seen her climb the hill and gone to make certain she was safe, as he had said? Leith did not know the answer but he could not forget the night by the lochan when the three lads had accosted Rose.

Mayhap he was being unfair. Perhaps young Harlow was utterly innocent of any wrongdoing this day, and after a lifetime of loneliness and rejection, only needed to be accepted and trusted.

Leith ground his teeth and grimaced. The fact was, there was little he could do but keep Harlow from the castle and watch Rose's every move.

"But is it safe to dunk poor Dora into the water?" young Roman was asking, his green eyes wide, his small fingers immersed in a patch of tawny fur that remained free of bandages. "If her smell bothers me lady," he said timidly, "I could sleep with her in the stable."

"No. No. It’s simply—" began Rose quickly, seeing the hurt on the lad's thin face.

"Smell!" Leith scowled as he sniffed the potent air. The place reeked of sheep and worse. The blankets would need to be soaked for a month. "What is this talk of odor? I smell only the fragrance of the Highlands." He sniffed again—though not so deeply. "Lasses, though," he began, shaking his head solemnly, "they be fragile things who dunna always appreciate the sweet smell of livestock."

Rose gave him a peeved look over the lad's shoulder but he only raised his brows, challenging her to say differently.

"And since she be our lady," Leith continued after a momentary pause, "methinks we should humor her sensitivities and honor her wishes."

"And... it will na harm Dora?" Roman asked again, his concern for the dog so obvious Rose was prepared to abandon the entire idea.

Na if our lady says it be so."

Roman turned quickly to her and she smiled. "'Twould be good for her to have her wounds cleansed," she assured him gently.

The lad was silent for a moment. Finally he nodded, his face solemn, his bright hair falling over one eye again. "If me lady says it be best, then we shall brave the bath."

Leith could only assume the lad meant to bathe with his dog but found it beyond his will to dissuade him. "Then tell Judith to fetch water, lad. Fiona will wash first. Dora second."

Roman was gone in a moment, seeming more comfortable with his lady's ridiculous idea now that his laird agreed.

"I suppose I should feel honored that you did not suggest that
I
bathe with the dog, since you are so fond of the scent of livestock," said Rose glibly.

"Aye." Leith settled himself onto the edge of the bed. "That ye should, lass."

Looking up into the honeyed warmth of his eyes, Rose felt a familiar sense of anticipation. "Ye are indeed a generous lord," she offered breathlessly.

His gaze skimmed her face. It was uninjured, unlike her hands, and likely other parts of her body, which were decently covered by her gown. "Indeed I am, lass. Generous to a fault. But 'tis a common trait among us Highlanders."

“Truly?" Rose bit her lower lip as she stared at him. "And what other attributes are common to your rare and noble breed?"

He leaned his torso over her legs, resting his weight on one palm to look directly into her eyes. "We are a handsome lot," he assured her earnestly.

She raised her brows and tried not to smile. "Aye?"

"Aye. And we are strong."

"Indeed?"

"Tis true. There is na another people in all Christendom or beyond that can best a Highlander in a scrap."

"Oh?" She widened her eyes innocently, remembering the sight of him on his white charger, his sword drawn, his face a mask of stark purpose as he avenged her assault by the thieves of the borderland. In all honesty, she could not deny the truth of his words, for surely, there had never been a more powerful—or gentle—man.

"But do ye know our most noticeable characteristic?" he asked, leaning closer still.

"Modesty?" she ventured weakly, visibly shaken by his proximity.

He shook his head, setting his braids to swaying slightly. "Nay," he answered honestly, his breath soft against her cheek, "we are"—he touched her lips with his fingertips, making her shiver—"randy as bucks in rut."

His lips were firm yet tender against hers, and where his hip leaned against her thigh, she felt the contact as if she were branded by his touch. Without warning his left hand slipped beneath her hair, cupping her neck and pressing her toward him.

She shivered in need—in anticipation. She was being drawn into the undercurrent of his embrace like a person drowning in desire. His kiss stopped time and thought. Only he mattered, only his touch, his presence, and when he drew away she felt bereft.

“Judith." He spoke without raising his eyes from Rose. "Fill the tub then take Roman and his dog to the kitchen for a bite to eat."

Judith was present, Rose thought dimly, opening her eyes like one in a trance and finding she was unable to remove her gaze from Leith's sharply hewn face.

"Ye willna be needing me and Dora?" asked Roman softly from the doorway.

Roman was also there, thought Rose numbly and wondered if the entire Forbes clan might be nearby to watch them kiss. And if so, did it matter?

"Nay, lad," answered Leith as he shifted his gaze to the boy's solemn face. "I shall have great need of ye soon. But just now ye must eat to replenish yer strength so that ye might protect our lady always." He slipped his attention back to Rose, his eyes still warm with emotion. "Just now though, lad, I will care for our Fiona meself."

God forgive her, thought Rose mistily, but she wanted to be cared for. She wanted to be touched and caressed, and... whatever else he could think to do to her.

It seemed that memories of her last experience in this bedchamber made poor Judith fairly fly through her duties, for soon the wooden tub was filled with steaming water, Roman was motioned from the room, and the door was quietly but firmly closed behind them.

"Yer bath awaits, me lady," Leith said softly. "It will soak away some of the pain of yer bruises."

Pain? She felt no pain. Except perhaps that luscious ache in the secret place between her thighs.

"I am but yer servant, Fiona," he murmured.
Servant.
Imagine the things she could order him to do, she thought dizzily, forgetting to blush.

"Lass?"

"Yes?" Her voice was as dusky as nightfall.

"I am waiting."

"But..." She bit her lip. "Surely we cannot do it again so soon," she whispered, then raised her brows. "Can we?"

"Aye," he breathed. "We can."

"Oh." Her response was barely above a whisper, and when his hand reached for the laces that bound her gown, there was nothing she could do but hold her breath and hope he would hurry.

He did not.

Leith's fingers were warm and titillating, burning a fiery course downward as he drew her garments away.

Her elbows were skinned. One hip was bruised, and though her knees were badly scraped, she failed to care.

"Lass." He murmured the word like a supplication, his tone as hot and breathless as Rose's body. "Ye are a work of finest art. A masterpiece made for me."

She could not speak and did not try, but only stared in wide-eyed silence, waiting.

"I feel, me love, that I could better serve ye if I too were disrobed." He raised her hand to the wooden buttons of his simple shirt, but her fingers were hopelessly bumbling and he finally pulled the small discs through the holes himself, allowing her to watch as he removed his jeweled brooch and slipped the tartan from his shoulder.

His hands dropped now, pulling his long, saffron shirt from beneath his plaid. Masses of glorious, rippling muscle were bared, showing his belly where the narrow band of dark hair ran downward—his ribs, where the rows of bones were fleshed in undulated waves of luscious brawn. His chest... Sweet Savior! His chest!

Rose's nostrils flared. God's knees, he was a glorious creature, all masculine excitement and rock-hard strength.

Grasping his shirt, Leith pulled it off, his arms flexing as his sleeves were drawn away.

Dear God, would it be a sin to beg him to hurry? Rose wondered. But yes, it probably would. Patience was a virtue.

She would, at least, wait until he was completely naked this time, she decided, but suddenly found that her hands were gripping his plaid with immovable strength.

"Lass, let go."

"Leith?"

"Aye?"

"Bar the door."

His jaw clenched and he swallowed, his eyes as dark and dangerous as a storm. "Ye are wise beyond yer years, sweet babe," he declared.

"I am randy beyond your wildest dreams," she corrected.

"Jesu!" he exclaimed, and pulling her fingers from his plaid, rose to his feet.

"Nay." She caught his hand as he turned away, her eyes as hungry as a hunting cat’s. "Disrobe first."

Chapter 24

“Sweet Jesu!" Leith moaned. He stood by the bed like a stud in the throes of lust and loosened his belt with one quick movement.

His plaid slid downward. His throbbing manhood sprang free and proud and turgid.

Rose's lungs were full to bursting. God's teeth, he was the very image of masculine perfection.

She exhaled slowly, trying to relax and letting her gaze dwell where it would. But the familiar heat of arousal had seared a ragged course through her impatient form.

"Lass," Leith growled, his jaw clenched, "dunna look at me like that. Na if ye wish to take some time at this."

Her gaze flicked downward like a living flame. "Patience—is sadly overrated," she said, her voice a husky whisper.

"Lass," he breathed, stepping forward, but she lifted a hand and sucked in a long breath.

"Bar the door," she insisted again.

His fists clenched and he turned.

Good Lord, he was as massive as a stallion, lean and hard and rippling with muscle front and back. And there, between his legs, she caught a glimpse of his manly parts as he walked away.

He hurried to lift the timber and settle it in place against the door, then turned, his face a taut expression of anticipation.

"Your boots," she murmured. “Take them off."

God's truth, she was as bold as an Edinburgh whore. Leith lifted his gaze to her face. It was flushed pink. An innocent whore, he corrected silently, and his. The thought inflamed him further and he strode back to the bed then dropped his bare buttocks to the mattress to discard his footgear.

He made an intriguing sight as his muscular thighs bent and lifted, prodding his manhood higher, exposing the flesh below. In a moment his task was finished and he twisted about, his eyes as intoxicating as old whiskey.

She was propped on her knees, a triangle of curly hair between her legs, her stomach flat and firm, her breasts curving like soft hillocks above her ribs. Framing it all in tousled auburn waves was her hair, glorious, soft and enticing.

Leith settled his fingers in the thick of it, then pushed his hands beneath. Her skin felt like satin, her hair like velvet, and as he leaned close, her breasts caressed his chest, sending trembles through them both.

His lips caught hers. His manhood prodded her belly in an impatient demand. Her mouth opened as she panted for breath and his kisses slanted downward, over her jaw to her neck.

She shuddered against the delicious feelings, clutching him to her, but the blazing trail of kisses did not stop. Lower it went. Over her shoulder, down her arm. She shivered again.

He pulled her hand from him and, straightening her arm, nibbled his way to the crease in her elbow.

"Leith!" She rasped his name, trying to jerk free.

"Strange," he murmured, his breath a caress against her goose-bumped flesh. "Ye have the most sensitive arms. Look." He leaned closer, lightly touching his tongue to her inner elbow and she jumped again. Leith raised his gaze to her face, his brows high. "Is it na a marvel? Does it na make ye wonder what ye would do if I touched other parts so?"

"Leith!"

"Yer nipple, mayhap?" He drew close with breathless slowness and touched his tongue to her right nipple.

Her entire body jerked spasmodically.

“Intriguing," he observed huskily. "And what of yer other?" He touched that rosebud pebble next. She released a high-pitched gasp, quivering like a willow leaf in the wind.