The Campbell Trilogy (57 page)

He squeezed her wrist a little more tightly and repeated roughly, “Where am I?”

“I heard you the first time you bellowed at me,” she reprimanded him with a sharp glance, not perturbed in the least by his burst of anger. Anger that had cowed many men. Hell, he must be getting soft. “You are in the tower of Castle Campbell,” she explained. “In my cousin’s bedchamber, actually.”

Fit for a king all right: King Campbell. He—an outlawed MacGregor—was sleeping in the Earl of Argyll’s bed. The world must have come to an end. He swallowed the irony and looked around again, trying to remember. “How did I get here?”

Carefully, she pried his fingers from her wrist and stepped away from the bed. Standing with her back to the sunlight like that, her hair caught in a golden halo of light, and her skin as delicate as alabaster …

The air shot from his lungs as if he’d just been socked in the gut.

She didn’t just sing like an angel, she looked like one.
My
angel.

Her delicate brows gathered together across her nose. “You don’t remember anything?”

He shook his head, the small movement making him wince with pain.

She was at his side again, touching him. Her hand on his forehead. “Are you all right?”

She sounded … concerned, as if she were worried about him. “As long as I don’t move my head.”

“Then I suggest you lie still,” she said with a teasing smile. She poured a glass of water from a pitcher at the table beside the bed and handed it to him. “Drink this. You must be thirsty.” He drained it quickly, the cool liquid sliding down his parched throat like ambrosia.

Handing the empty glass back to her, he asked, “Now tell me how I happen to find myself asleep in the Earl of Argyll’s bed.”

A pretty pink blush crept up her pale cheeks, and once again she stepped away from him. “You were very ill, and the healer said you needed to be kept warm.” She motioned to the fireplace. “As this is the only private chamber with its own fireplace until the new tower and range is completed, it made sense.”

He frowned. “Ill?”

“Your men found you in the
barmkin
unconscious from the wound you received in your side.” She gave him a long look. “A day and a half ago.”

Damn.
Apparently his injury had finally caught up to him. Normally the sign of weakness would annoy him, but not this time. If he’d known blacking out would get him half-naked in a bedchamber alone with her he might have tried it sooner. And from the way her eyes were avoiding
his chest, he sensed that she was no longer thinking of him as a patient.

“You’d lost so much blood, we thought you’d died,” she added. “How could you say nothing of your injury?”

He shrugged. “I didn’t think it was that serious.”

Her expression changed from concerned to irritated—angry, even. “Not serious? How can you say that? You were walking around with an open gash in your side about a foot long. Surely you must have felt it? Surely it must have pained you?”

Her anger—and the hint of sarcasm—momentarily took him aback. “A bit,” he admitted reluctantly, not quite sure what to make of this side of Elizabeth Campbell. His delicate little kitten, it seemed, had claws. “But it feels much better now.” A little sore, but he felt better than he had in weeks.

“Of all the stubborn … foolish …”

Her eyes flashed, and he thought she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. The ferocity hinted at the strong, passionate woman burning behind the paragon of duty and virtue.

God, he wanted her. As he’d never wanted anything before in his life. With an intensity that should have alarmed him, if he hadn’t been so consumed with other matters. Like covering her with his body and lifting her hands above her head so that she was stretched out beneath him as he eased himself slowly inside her.

“You could have died,” she seethed. “
Would
have died were it not for the healer’s help.”

“And yours,” he said, holding her gaze intently. The idea of her caring for him … he liked it.

She dropped her eyes. “I did very little.”

She lied. It had been her soothing his dreams with her songs and gentle hands.

Avoiding his gaze, she approached the bed, once again the dutiful lady of the keep. “I’ve come to check on your
wound,” she said briskly. “I can come back if you’d rather do it later.”

“Nay.” The idea of her hands on him … “Now is fine,” he said, his voice unmistakably husky.

She hesitated, her gaze sweeping over his bare chest to the bedcoverings slung low across his stomach. Apparently he was feeling much better, because he stiffened like an untried lad under the weight of her gaze.

He sensed her nervousness but made no effort to cover himself. He liked her skittish, liked that she was aware of him.

“Very well.”

He lay back on the pillow and watched her as she worked. She leaned over him to examine the bandage, and her delicate scent hit him. Damn, she smelled good. Fresh and flowery. Like the lavender that scented his pillow. She wore a simple brown wool kirtle and fitted jacket that hugged the gentle curves of her breasts. Lush, round breasts that he was painfully aware were only inches from his mouth. He could lift his head and bury his face in their softness.

A lock of her hair fell forward on his chest. The feathery brush of flaxen silk on his skin nearly made him groan.

“Sorry,” she mumbled, quickly tucking the errant lock behind her ear. Still bent over him, she lifted her eyes to his. “I have to pull the bandage back to check beneath. It might hurt a bit.”

He was in pain all right, but not from his wound.

His cock felt as if it might explode. She was so close. He couldn’t breathe; every inch of his body was honed to a razor’s edge. Somehow he managed a strangled, “Fine.”

Gently she pulled back the bandage, and he could see the carefully stitched wound. It looked good. Surprisingly good. Annie would have nothing to complain about—not that it would stop her from trying.

Elizabeth took a damp cloth from the basin and gently
wiped away the dried blood. He closed his eyes, his skin flaming when she touched him. Her hands on his body were maddening. Torturous. An exercise in restraint for a man who had none.

Take her.

His pulse raced, his breath jagged, his patience run out.

Her fingers skimmed over his ribs to his stomach, to the waist of his breeches.

Too damn close. But not close enough. He was hard as a rock, primed for her touch, and all he could think of were those velvety hands closing around him.

Lizzie’s heart pounded in her chest. Her hands were shaking as she ministered to the wound, as she’d done for two nights and a day.

But this time was different.

This time he wasn’t unconscious, but fully awake. The skin that she touched was warm and pulsing with life. Tension crackled in the sultry air between them. She could feel the weight of his eyes on her, watching her intently as she ministered to his wound. There was something wickedly satisfying about the knowledge that her touch affected him. It made her feel … desirable.

She dabbed the damp cloth along the bottom of the cut near his stomach, trying not to notice how hard it was. How defined the muscles were. The problem was that she
was
noticing and her hands weren’t following direction. She accidentally brushed the edge of the bedsheet slung low over his hips, coming into contact with his manhood. His very prominent manhood. For just an instant, her gaze lingered on the bulge underneath the sheet.

Mother Mary.

His hand whipped out to clasp her wrist. “Enough!”

His voice was ragged and raw with pain. Her gaze shot to his face, despair plummeting through her chest. “I’m sorry, did I hurt you?”

His eyes locked on hers—the brilliant green so dark, it appeared almost black. She could see the tension coiled in him, the strain, in the slight flare of his nostrils and the tiny white lines etched around his mouth. “Not in the way you think,” he said roughly. “You’d best leave. Send someone else to finish.”

Lizzie sucked in her breath as the wallop of hurt hit her hard across the chest. Her eyes widened in horror. She’d thought he was attracted to her. God, what a fool she was. Despite what had happened with John, she was far from experienced. She tried to look away, but there was nowhere to hide. He was holding her so close, the hand wrapped around her wrist as rigid as a band of steel. “Of c-course.”

Stammering. Her humiliation was now complete. With a choked sob, she tried to jerk away, but he pulled her against him with a harsh curse. The hand she instinctively braced against his chest to break her fall was the only thing preventing her from collapsing on top of him.

She gasped, the breath knocked out of her—not from the harshness of the movement, but from the force of the awareness that crashed over her at being held so close to him. So close that her breasts grazed his chest and only inches separated their mouths. The warmth of his breath swept over her lips. She could taste the hint of spice on her tongue, and all she could think about was pressing her mouth against his.

What would it feel like to kiss him? Were his lips as impossibly soft and velvety as they looked? Would he be gentle or hard? Entreating or demanding?

The temptation was torturous. His dark, masculine scent filled her senses. And he was so warm, his skin almost hot to the touch. Her body felt flush and prickly, engulfed by his heat. She could hear the pounding of his heart—or maybe it was hers.

She gazed at him, wide-eyed, trying to read the thoughts behind the implacable façade. His expression was tight,
unyielding. His eyes were dark and hard. He looked as though the last thing on his mind was kissing.

She was a fool, allowing herself to get caught up like this. Hadn’t he just made very clear that he wanted nothing to do with her?

“Don’t,” he said harshly. “What you are thinking is wrong.”

Hot tears pricked at the backs of her eyes. “You don’t need to explain. I should go.” She tried to lever her body off his, but it was like trying to bend steel. The hard, muscular wall of his chest didn’t budge, nor did the arm holding her.

He uttered another oath, muttering something about her being too damn innocent.

In that he was wrong.

“Look at me,” he ordered, his fingers gently tipping her chin. Reluctantly, she complied. “I don’t want you to touch me, because it feels too good.” The muscle below his jaw pulsed. He leaned closer, his mouth a hairbreadth from hers. Her heart fluttered wildly—erratically. Startled, she felt the slightest brush of his lips against hers, like the whisper of a feather—so soft that she wondered whether she’d imagined it—before he pulled back with a groan. “It’s all I can do right now not to pull you down on top of me and kiss you until you beg for me to take you.”

The heat in his voice left her no doubt that he meant what he said. The idea of ravishment didn’t frighten her as much as it should. Two spots of color burned high on her cheeks. She swallowed hard. “Oh.”

“Yes, oh.” He dropped her wrist, releasing her, but she didn’t move right away. Couldn’t even if she wanted to. Her body seemed to have a mind of its own—being near him like this felt too good.

His confession shouldn’t have made her so absurdly pleased … but it did. A flush of pleasure rushed up her cheeks. She bit her lip and said shyly, “I didn’t realize …”

“I know.” His gaze deepened. “But now you do. I want you, and I’m not gentleman enough not to do something about it.”

Her eyes widened again, taking in the dangerous-looking man lying half-naked beneath her. He was right about that—he didn’t look anything like a gentleman. He looked like a warrior. Like a man hanging very close to the edge of civility. Why wasn’t she frightened? “I see.”

“So if that makes you change your mind about your offer—”

“I’m not changing my mind,” she said firmly. The look that passed between them in the silence that followed was so thick with intensity, it was almost palpable. She felt the connection, the cinch that was pulling them closer and closer. Tighter and tighter.

She realized her words might have sounded like an invitation. Blushing, she pulled away. “I mean, well, these are unusual circumstances. There’s no reason to think something like this will ever happen again. One of the maid servants can tend to your bandage from now on.”

He gave her a look that suggested it might not be so simple, but she chose to ignore the implications.

She moved toward the door, stopping suddenly and turning to give him one last glance. “So you’ll stay?”

Their eyes connected with an intensity that told her she was a fool. What sparked between them was not confined to this room.

“Aye, lass, I’ll stay.”

She smiled, more relieved than she wanted to acknowledge. But a small part of her wondered whether she’d just opened Pandora’s box and invited in more than she could handle.

Two days later, Patrick could no longer contain his restlessness. To hell with what the blasted healer said, he would not stay abed for one more hour, let alone one more day. He was a chieftain, a warrior, not a bloody invalid. Every minute that he and his men spent in the bosom of their enemy increased the danger of discovery. Time was of the essence, and he’d not waste it abed—alone.