My Brave Highlander (39 page)

"I ken it. But I'd rather be fired than raped."

Raped?
Did they think Dirk would rape them? If so, they had seriously misjudged him.

Isobel stepped out of the shadows. "What are you arguing about?"

"Oh, m'lady." One of the maids covered her mouth, and the other's eyes near popped out of her head. "I didn't see you standing there."

"What is the disagreement about?"

Both remained tight-lipped.

"Chief Dirk MacKay?" she guessed.

One gave a sheepish nod. "We don't wish to lose our jobs, m'lady," she whispered, beseeching her with a pitiful expression.

"Why would you?"

"He is bathing and requires a maid to wash his back. And… well…" She compressed her lips tightly between her teeth.

"Ah. I see." An enticing image of his brawny muscular body sprawled in a wooden tub teased Isobel's imagination. "There is naught to fear from Dirk MacKay. He's a good man and a good chief. I'll wash his back."

"Oh. You will?" The maids' faces fairly glowed with relief.

"Aye. Don't be gossiping and telling anyone I volunteered for the task, and I won't tell Chief MacKay you were shirking your duties."

"Oh, nay, m'lady." They both shook their heads dramatically. "We'll not say a word."

"If I find out you did…" she warned.

"We promise. Our lips are sealed tight." They both trotted away as if hungry wolves chased at their heels.

Ninnies
. Surely helping the chief bathe was a job best suited to a lady and a widow anyway. She'd helped her former husband bathe a few times. Dirk had kept himself busy for the past three days, and she'd hardly seen him. She was starting to wonder if he was avoiding her.

Isobel knocked at the door to the chief's chamber.

"Come." Dirk's deep voice sent a thrill through her.

She opened the door and found him sitting in the huge wooden tub before the hearth, much as she'd imagined. His broad naked shoulders and muscular arms stirred her female instincts.

"What the devil?" he muttered. "I sent for a servant. Not you, m'lady."

"Why not me?" After entering, she closed the door firmly behind her. She considered barring it, but that might give him the wrong impression… or the right impression. She hid her grin. "I am well accustomed to helping a man bathe. I helped my husband many times before his death."

Dirk let out an exasperated breath. "Nay. I'm asking you to leave. Now," he said firmly.

"There is no need for stubbornness. Do you need your back washed or not?"

"You cannot. You have a splint on your finger."

"Nay, I removed it today." She held up her hand, showing him.

"You shouldn't have. 'Tis too soon," he grumbled. "I doubt your bone is knitted back together yet."

"'Tis fine, I assure you." She moved forward.

He muttered a curse under his breath. "You are not a servant. You are betrothed to another man."

"What does that matter? I'm but helping you bathe. Not… seducing you."

He gave her a harsh glare and, for a second, she understood why the servants feared him so much. He appeared a blood-thirsty Norse invader like the ones her father's bard had told stories about from hundreds of years ago, ready to lay waste to the entire country. But she knew he wasn't like that.

"You think I am incapable of helping you bathe?" she asked, stopping before the tub and crossing her arms over her breasts.

"Not incapable. 'Tis simply a terrible idea."

"Don't be silly." She ignored the frown and approached him. His naked torso above the water was enough to distract any woman. Dirk's chest, shoulders and arms were composed of large iron-hard muscles. Heavens, the sight of him near took her breath away. A sprinkling of light hair on his chest tapered downward toward his waist. A quick glance told her a linen cloth lay in the water over his lap.

She moved in behind him and found the soap on the floor beside the tub.

"Could you lean forward?" she asked.

When he did, she had a splendid view of his back in the firelight… the ridges of muscle, the scars, and the birthmark in the shape of a dirk. She'd heard the clan elders talking about it and how the mark proved who he was. The scar below it was especially fearsome and rough but did not appear to be a sword wound.

"What happened here?" She ran her fingers over the uneven white scar tissue.

He blew out a hissing breath. "That's where I slid down the cliff twelve summers ago. The jagged rocks tore into my flesh, but 'twas those same rocks that stopped my fall when they caught my plaid.

"Oh." She smoothed her soap-slicked fingers over the mar to his perfect body. If this scar meant his life was saved, then she was thankful for the wicked mark.

He could've so easily died when he was fifteen and then she would've never had this opportunity to appreciate him. As she ran her soapy hands over his shoulder blades, and his massive shoulders, she found herself cherishing and admiring him. Not only his impressive body, but him as a man. She had never known anyone like him.

Wetting her hands and soaping them again, she washed his back, attempting to dig her fingertips into his hard muscles, but that was impossible, tense as he was.

"I know what you're trying to do," he muttered.

"I'm trying to wash your back," she assured him, hoping he couldn't read her mind.

"I'm not daft, lass."

"Of course not. You're highly intelligent."

He blew out a breath, and his teeth grated together in an audible click.

"What do you think I'm trying to do?" she asked, truly curious about his thoughts. Maybe they were like the thoughts he'd had on the battlements days ago… that he wanted her. That he once again craved what they'd shared in bed that night. With the passionate way he'd confessed his desires before that stunning kiss, he'd stolen her heart.

"God's teeth," he growled. "You don't have to do this, Isobel. I'll protect you from those who would harm you."

"I know that. You're incredibly honorable. 'Tis time to wash your hair. Are you ready?"

"Aye."

She lifted a bucket of warm water and poured half of it over his head.

He sputtered and shook his head, flinging droplets of water onto her skirts.

Taking the soap again, she smoothed his hair back from his high forehead and soaped it up thoroughly.

Though he sat in silence with his eyes closed to prevent the soap getting into them, his entire body was tense. As she stood over him, she had a perfect view over his shoulder toward his lap. The linen was exceedingly tented now. Prior to a few nights ago, when she'd experienced his stone-hard member sliding into her, she might have wondered how that part of his body could possibly tent linen. She had felt her elderly husband's shaft, and it was but a flimsy dangling thing. She had often wondered why on earth it would be called a
shaft
if it wasn't stiff like an arrow.

Now she understood that a shaft was indeed supposed to be stiff… when aroused. 'Twas also clear that Dirk became irritable when he was aroused. That was a detail Beitris had neglected to tell her about men.

"I know why you are cross," Isobel said.

"Do you now?" His deep, murmured question sent shivers of excitement through her.

"Aye."

"Why is that?"

Heat rushed up her chest to her face. Dare she say the words she was thinking? He would surely think her a wanton, and honestly… she was. "Because you are aroused," she confessed in a whisper near his ear.

"God's bones, Isobel," he growled. "You're treading on damned thin ice."

She bit her lip to keep from snickering. "You see, now you are even more irritable."

"Just rinse my hair and be done with this hellish bath."

He valued his precious control so much, did he not? If he lost it, what would he do? Maybe he'd give her another scorching kiss. He might even carry her to his bed and ravish her body again. Tingles swirled through her lower belly with the mere thought.

She poured a bucket and a half of clean water over his head, rinsing the suds away.

"There now. You're all clean."

He flung his wet hair back off his face and cleared the water from his eyes. "I thank you. You're free to go now."

Hmph.
She didn't want to go. "Do you need help with anything else?"

Turning, he glared at her from the corner of his eyes. His hand and arm now lay across his lap, concealing his erection.

"You enjoy torturing me?" he asked.

"Nay. I don't want to torture you at all. I want…"

His eyes narrowed, warning her.

She could barely breathe as their eyes locked, his normally pale eyes now darker than she could fathom. His nostrils flared and his jaw clenched. "Go," he ordered, with a quick tilt of his head toward the door. "Now."

What if she didn't? Would he yell at her? Thrash her? Was he so aroused he would lose control of his actions and his rational mind? Although he looked fearsome, she didn't fear him. Instead, his threatening glower only made her want him all the more because it meant he desired her intensely. She craved the passion that emanated from him.

The first time they'd coupled, he had been out of his mind with the drugging herbs. What would he be like completely lucid and wholly himself?

Her body flushed all over, hot and cold at once as if she had a malady. She could think of naught but how astonishingly hot and hard his body had felt against hers, inside hers. He'd shown her what it was like to be a woman in truth. She yearned for that again. And she wanted him to be fully present this time.

In answer to his command for her to leave, she shook her head, knowing she was wayward and wicked for disobeying a chief.

With a swift, abrupt movement, he shoved up from the tub, splashing water. Water sliding down his phenomenal body, his erection jutting upward, he was magnificent.

Heavens!

His shoulders were impossibly wide above his trim waist. The thick muscles of his thighs flexed as he stepped out of the tub and proceeded toward her, stalking her like a wild, hungry animal. Her heart rate shot toward the stars.

"This is your last chance," he warned. "Get out of here or suffer the consequences."

"Suffer?" She bit her lip to keep from grinning at that word. "You won't hurt me, will you?" she asked softly, knowing he wouldn't.

"I make no promises. I should take my horse whip to your wee arse."

"You didn't whip me last time. And it only hurt for a minute. Then, there was naught but pleasure."

His shaft jerked, drawing her attention. A second later, he stood before her, crowding her against the stone wall, lifting her. Before she could utter a sound, his mouth devoured hers, his tongue invading, tasting.
Mmm.
Her thoughts scattered in the wake of his sensual assault. The thrust of his tongue reminded her of the way he had thrust himself into her last time, spurring her woman's instincts. Aye, her body craved his plundering.

His hard shaft rubbed up against her crotch through the material of her dress. She held on tightly around his neck as he easily held her aloft. With his hand, he dug under her skirts and petticoats, yanking them out of his way and burrowing beneath until he reached his destination. His fingertips gently stroked between her legs in a most shocking and exciting way. She gasped.

"Damnation, how wet you are," he whispered against her mouth.

She couldn't think how to respond to that. She only knew somehow the moisture gathered between her legs whenever he kissed or touched her. Or when she saw his naked body. She thought it must be female arousal.

His fingers caressed her in slow, spellbinding circles. What magic! The pleasure and her need for him intensified, blotting out her thoughts.

"Aye," she gasped, seeking more kisses.

His wet finger slipped inside her and she thought she would go off like a cannon. She wriggled, trying to find relief from the sensual torment. She again craved the thickness of his large shaft inside her, stroking deep as he had done before.

"Take me," she whispered, locking her arms around his neck.

"Damnation, Isobel. You drive me mad."

Surely 'twas madness she felt inside right now too.

He tugged more of her clothing out of the way. The firm tip of his shaft slid against her most sensitive flesh, then prodded into her.

"Aye, Dirk." She was near delirious with need, her body craving his.

He growled and gently pressed deeper. Withdrew and slid in again, challenging her with each slight thrust forward. She knew he was being a considerate lover now. The first time he hadn't taken it so slow.

He gradually eased his way deeper with each inward lunge, and she appreciated every inch as he drove further, testing her limits. He'd fit the first time so she knew he would again. Finally, he ground his hips, forcing himself in that last inch. He growled a curse and she felt possessed by him, conquered. She was his now. And he was hers. That knowledge consumed her. She didn't know if she alone felt it.