Sword Dance (4 page)

The tousle-haired maid curtsied and stared wide-eyed at Rose as she walked into the small bedroom. And it was no wonder. Bruce's black jacket didn't hide much of her sheer, colourful dancing costume. Her face and hair were still veiled, and after over an hour riding in the cold night, her kohl eye make-up had run all over her face. Like the landlord who'd finally opened the inn's front door after Bruce pounded on it for over five minutes, the girl probably wondered if she was dreaming.

Or more likely, perhaps she believed her to be a woman of loose morals.

Right now, it didn't matter what they thought. They had been lucky to find the Kirkhouse Inn on the road to Wick, and luckier still that the landlord had given them a room, despite Rose's bizarre clothing and the unusual timing of their arrival.

‘It's surprisingly nice, isn't it?' Bruce remarked as he dropped Rose's bag on the floor and walked across the room, bending down to avoid a low ceiling beam.

Rose looked around the room. If the inn looked shabby from the outside, with its courtyard littered with straw and horse manure, and a broken wooden sign creaking above the front door, the bedroom was warm and welcoming. A thick red counterpane covered the bed, and matching curtains were drawn against the night. For once Rose had no intention of pulling them open. All she wanted was to keep the cold, the night, and the whole world outside.

Her face numb with the chill, and shivering despite Bruce's thick jacket, she walked to the fireplace and rubbed her hands over the flames.

‘I know you don't care much for whisky but this will warm you up.'

Bruce handed her a tumbler and came to stand next to her. He didn't drink but swirled the amber liquid in his glass. With shadows dancing on his face, flames reflecting in his eyes and his mouth set in a hard line, he seemed remote, unapproachable.

Her chest tightened with love and longing.

As if aware of her scrutiny, he turned to look at her. Embarrassed, she lifted the glass to her lips, gulped down some liquor, and choked.

‘That bad, is it? I thought you'd be used to it by now.' A faint smile touched his lips.

‘I told you before,' she replied between fits of coughing, ‘I don't like it, and I don't think I'll ever like it.'

He finished his glass and put it down on top of the mantelpiece.

‘Well, I must go back to Westmore now that you're safe. You'll be all right here, but don't go out of the room until I return.'

He was leaving, already?

Her eyes filled with tears but she forced a smile.

‘I must give you back your jacket.'

Her fingers shook so much she could hardly unfasten the buttons. Finally she managed to slip the jacket off. As she stepped closer to hand it to him, the room seemed to tilt and spin around her, and she felt as weak and wobbly as a leaf caught in a dust devil, those unpredictable Saharan whirlwinds that lifted sand and debris across the desert.

She staggered and the jacket slipped from her fingers into a heap on the floor.

He caught her in his arms and looked down into her face.

‘Rose! What's wrong? Are you ill?'

‘It's nothing,' she hiccupped. ‘I am just being clumsy, as usual.'

She drew in a deep breath, pressed the palm of her hands flat against his chest to push him away. ‘There. I'm better now. You can put me down. I don't know what came over me. I'm sorry.'

His grip grew tight and his gaze was almost fierce.

‘No,
I
am sorry. I always forget how scary and upsetting this whole sorry mess must be for you. You miss your home, your family and the people you care about, of course, but don't worry, I promise you'll soon be back in Algiers. As soon as my business here is done, I'll buy a passage for you on a ship sailing to North Africa. We'll find something, even if I have to take you to Glasgow, Inverness or Liverpool myself.'

Pain stabbed her straight through the heart, and once again she could do nothing to stop the tears. He wanted her gone. Worse than that, it sounded as if he couldn't wait for to get her out of his life.

She should wipe her tears, muster the little pride she had left and apologise for making a scene, blaming the whole thing on shock and exhaustion. Instead she nestled closer, rubbed her wet cheeks on the fabric of his waistcoat and breathed in his strong, male scent. She loved him so much that pride didn't matter at all. There was only love, and the insane desire to be in arms a while longer, to be his.

If only she had more time with him. If only she could hold him, erase the sadness, the anger, the torment that so often clouded his eyes. Show him how much she loved him.

Walk out. Now. Before it's too late. She's safe here, nothing will happen to her.

Instead of releasing her, Bruce held her more tightly. He could have fought the burning need to carry her to the bed, lay her on the covers and remove the dress that barely covered her slender body. He could – just about – have conquered the maddening urge to kiss, touch and taste her, but he couldn't ignore her tears.

‘I thought you'd be glad to know you'll soon go home.'

She only cried harder, her chest heaving with deep, long, heart-wrenching sobs that touched a raw nerve inside him, and made him feel he'd failed her miserably. He should protect her, not make her cry.

Her fragrance rose, potent, summery, intoxicating. Her silky dress slid and rustled under his fingers. Heavens. Had he ever wanted a woman as much as he wanted her? Probably not. He remembered the feel of her under his touch, the taste of her. He'd be damned but he wanted to taste her again.

‘Don't cry, m
ó graigheag
,' he whispered as he bent down to kiss her.

Her lips were wet and salty from her tears. He brushed his mouth over them in a light, gentle caress. As soon as it was over, he wanted more. He let out a low groan, pressed her closer and kissed her again, and again, each time with more heat, more urgency. He could feel the softness of her round breasts through her flimsy costume, the hard bud of her nipples pressing against his chest.

All he wanted, all he needed right now was her, and to lose himself inside her.

He wouldn't. He couldn't. Feelings, urges and reason raged a desperate war inside him.
Let her go. She suffered enough with McRae. You have nothing to give her.

He kissed her again.

Let her go. You're ill, and you're going mad. No good can ever come of it.

That did it. He couldn't ignore the madness that lurked and grew inside him like a greedy shadow ready to devour him – and his failing health, the headaches, the chest pains. No, he had no right to her, no right to love her. Not now. Not ever.

He let her down slowly and she slid along him until her feet touched the floor.

‘I have to leave now, Rose, before I…'

Like a woman awakening from a deep dream, she opened her eyes slowly. They were dark, cloudy, unfocussed. Her cheeks, still damp with tears, had turned the delicious shade of pink he found so tempting. Her lips were red and swollen, begging to be devoured again and again.

‘Please stay, please love me,' she said in a whisper.

He swallowed hard. ‘Don't, please. I can't.'

Did the woman really have no idea of the way he felt? Could she really be that naive? Right now, he clung to the last shreds of his willpower to resist the urge of ripping her clothes off, throwing her on the bed and covering her body with his.

She tilted her head back to look at him. Her chains and necklaces made a soft, tinkling, seductive sound – little fairy bells in a summer breeze. The pink of her cheeks deepened, her blue eyes shone like precious gems.

‘I want to be yours.'

He drew in a sharp breath and stiffened as her hands slid upward to his shoulders. She was so small she had to rise to her tiptoes to link her fingers behind his neck. Blood thudded hard and fast, desire surged, irresistible.

‘Stop this. You don't know what you're saying.'

His voice sounded hoarse and burly, almost angry.

She didn't reply but her fingers lingered along the side of his neck in a provoking caress.

‘This isn't a game,' he growled. ‘Stop it, right now.'

He reached out to unlock her arms from around his neck and held her wrists down. He tried to give the kind of stern look which used to make his men grow pale with fear. She only smiled.

‘What if I don't want to stop? You may have shaved your beard and put a smart shirt and waistcoat on, but you're still behaving like a grumpy ape. And you know what? I don't care. In fact, I rather like it when you're grumpy. Well, at least sometimes.'

‘You can't possibly want this… want me.'

He let go of her, but she only came closer and pressed her body against him. ‘I do… and I'll show you how much,' she whispered, a wicked glint lighting her eyes and an enticing smile touching her lips. ‘I'm going to dance for you.'

As she stepped back her body started to move to the sound of a music only she could hear. Her necklaces slid from side to side, brushed against her breasts. She lifted her arms above her head, her movement gracious, snake-like, and tapped her feet on the floor, making her ankle chains tinkle. Soon her whole body undulated, fluid and tormenting. He stared at her, mesmerised, as her hips rocked forward and back, again and again. His heart thumped so hard it felt about to burst, his body grew even tauter, harder.

She moved around him, a temptress taunting him with her scent, the light touch of her fingers on his arm, his shoulders, his chest, the jingling of her jewellery. He stood still, hardly breathing.

As if she knew he couldn't take anymore, she faced him at last and looked deep into his eyes.

‘Shall I carry on or do you believe me now?' She kissed the side of his mouth. ‘Oh Bruce, when will you understand that I love you…'

He closed his eyes. No one had ever told him they loved him before. Not when he was a child, growing up at Wrath Lodge, between Morag grieving for her own son and husband, and the grandfather who hated the very sight of him. Not later, when he started enjoying women, because he never let any of them close enough. Even that crazy lass who'd insisted on marrying him a few months before, and who he'd had to bundle into a coach to Tongue to get rid of, had never dared say the words.

Rose was the first, the only one.

Then it hit him, hard, a punch straight to the heart. He loved her, too, with a fierceness, an intensity he only now started to grasp. He'd do everything, and anything, for her.

She kissed him softly again, and his last defences shook, crumbled, collapsed. Reason had lost the war.

With an almost savage groan, he scooped her into his arms and carried her to the bed. His hand shook as he turned down the counterpane with a hard tug, laid her on the white sheet and sat on the bed next to her. He'd never wanted any woman as much as he wanted her; he only hoped he was man enough to love her without hurting her.

As if she sensed his doubts, she put her small hand on his and smiled – a brave, trusting smile. With a care and gentleness he didn't know he possessed, he stroked her cheeks, the outline of her mouth, spread her hair like sunrays on the white pillow. His fingers combed through the thick, silky curls, then he bent and kissed her again.

He took his time, nipped her lips with his teeth, teased her with his tongue, in turn caressing and hard, until he heard her soft moans and felt her shudder under him. He needed to see her, touch her, take his fill of her.

Now.

His hands slid to the opening of her dress and he let out a frustrated sigh. Who the devil had sewn these tiny beads on? His fingers were too big, too clumsy to undo them. He pulled on the fabric, the silk tore, the pearly buttons flew everywhere. He didn't care.

His mouth went dry as he parted open the top of the dress. Like the other dancing girls, she was naked underneath. Her breasts peaked, high and full, the nipples a dark pink. His gaze lingered down to her waist, and the gentle swell of her hips. Every fibre of his being throbbed, tightened and strained with need. He bent down, his mouth closed on the already tight bud of a nipple whilst his fingers stroked and teased the other.

She arched under him, her hands flew to his shoulders, clutched to pull him closer. He skimmed down the side of her waist, revelling in the softness of her skin, and lifted her off the bed to slide his hands behind her.

Her breathing was fast and shallow as he lingered over her breasts, kissed the small hollow pulsing at the base of her throat, nipped her earlobe. He thought he heard her say something – his name, perhaps – and he took her mouth again.

Feverish now, he pulled down what was left of the dress. He stroked and caressed her until she cried out. It was the most beautiful sound he'd ever heard.

He held her against him for a long time, trailing kisses along her neck, her jawline, on her mouth. He had no idea how long it took for her limbs to stop shaking and her heart to stop thudding. When she finally opened her eyes and looked straight at him, it was as if she could see inside him and understand his deepest, darkest needs.

‘Bruce.' Her voice was husky, dreamy. She lay the palm of her hand against his cheek. ‘Don't stop now. Make me yours.'

That was all the reassurance he needed. She hadn't changed her mind. She wanted more. He gave her mouth a long, hard kiss before tugging at his cravat, his waistcoat, and throwing them in a heap on the floor. The shirt soon followed. He kicked his boots off, unbuttoned the trousers which had been killing him for the best part of the evening and discarded them.

She didn't say a word as he undressed. She didn't need to. Her eyes widened, her face paled when he turned to her. She recoiled against the bed head and pulled the snowy white sheet to cover herself. She was afraid – not half as afraid as he was, surely. Would he know how to make love to her, would he know not to hurt her? She hadn't said it, but he'd understood her night with McRae in Algiers had been brutal and painful.