The Raider (18 page)

Robbie glanced toward the bath, a dangerous idea taking form. He stepped back, a slow smile curving his mouth. “What a brilliant idea.”

He jerked the mail coif—the one concession he made toward heavy mail—over his head and tossed it on his bed. Next came the thick leather
cotun
. He’d been so eager to get out of there last night, he hadn’t even taken the time to remove his armor. By the time he got to the linen shirt underneath, her eyes were two full moons.

“W-what are you d-doing?”

“What you suggested.” He finished pulling the shirt over his head and threw it on top of the others. “Taking a bath. Would be a shame to waste the water.”

She sucked in her breath, taking in every inch of his naked chest. His muscles tensed of their own accord, a natural reaction to being the recipient of so much study. Staring was putting it mildly. Gorging was better. And despite his anger, he felt himself warming under the heat of so much feminine appreciation.

Who in Hades was he kidding? It wasn’t feminine appreciation, it was
her
appreciation. He’d never wanted to flex and strut around like some damned peacock in his life.

Only when he started with the ties to his chausses did she tear her eyes away. The delicate flush that had pinkened her cheeks drew pale.

“With me here?” She gaped. “You can’t.”

“I assure you I can. And you are going to help me.”

“What do you mean, ‘help you’?”

“I would have thought you would be familiar with the tradition for the lady of the castle to wash her important guests.”

“That’s an outdated tradition. No one does that anymore.”

His eyes held hers. “We here in Scotland are a little backwards, as I’m sure your brother has told you.”

She didn’t protest any further, because by that time he was down to his braies. And with one quick pull of the ties, those were gone as well, and he was standing naked before her.

She went completely still. Except for her eyes, which were definitely moving. Aye, he was acutely aware of the slow travel of her gaze lowering. It was almost as if her eyes were touching him—stroking him—singeing a trail of fire on his skin, down his chest, over every band of stomach muscle, to the narrow path of dark hair that led to…

Her eyes widened as she took him in. All of him. It took some time.

Red palm prints of color stained her cheeks, but she didn’t look away. The latent sensuality of her gaze, the unabashed maidenly curiosity, filled him with heat. He started to swell and thicken but sank into the cool bath before he’d come to a complete rise.

The tub was just big enough for him to be able to dunk his head. He came back up, hair slicked back, already feeling better. Sitting back, he slung his arms over the edge of the tub like a sultan from Outremer and glanced at her. She seemed to be frozen in place, staring at him as if she couldn’t believe what he’d just done and didn’t know whether she should look or turn away. She looked, and seemed particularly fascinated with the rivulets of water streaming down his upper arms and chest.

The cool water wasn’t enough to stop him from hardening. If he weren’t so angry, he might have debated the wisdom of pressing this further. But he was still angry—enough to play with fire.

He quirked a brow. “Well? Are you going to fetch the soap? There’s a cloth for washing in the trunk.” His eyes scanned her clothes. Bloody hell, he’d have to be more careful if he didn’t want her to discover his role in the Highland Guard. “Which you must already know.”

She hesitated, and he could see her indecision.

He’d never expected her to do it. He thought she’d refuse and tell him to go to hell.

He should have known better. She was a Clifford. She had more stubborn pride than sense and would not back down from a challenge. Bloody hell, how could the things he hated in her brother make him admire her?

Teeth clamped and eyes narrowed with determination, she stomped over to the trunk to fetch the cloth, and then over to the table where she’d left the soap. She knelt beside the tub, plunged her hand into the water (too damned close to a part of him that was aching for attention) to dampen the cloth, and after a vigorous rub of the soap, proceeded to attack his skin with an equally vigorous scrub. His chest suddenly felt like the rocks the laundress would beat the laundry against.

She started to scrub his arm. “These markings won’t come off.”

“It’s a tattoo.” One that he probably should have tried to hide.

“Of a Lion Rampant, and…” She drew closer, examining it with far too fine a comb. “Is that a spiderweb? And what does
Confido
mean?”

“‘I trust.’ It’s a reference to my clan’s loyalty to the Scottish cause. It’s engraved on my sword as well.”

“So these are references to your clan?”

So to speak. The Highland Guard were his brothers. The Rampant Lion and spiderweb “torque” around his arm were the mark that bound them together. It was originally intended as a means of identification were the need ever to arise (as it might have when Arthur “Ranger” Campbell was sent to spy in the English camp), but the knowledge of the mark had unfortunately fallen into enemy hands with the death of William Gordon. He hoped to hell she never mentioned it to her brother.

“Aye.” Not wanting any more questions, he added, “You’re stalling.”

Realizing she was staring, her cheeks heated, and she resumed her scrubbing. There was nothing sensual in her touch, nothing erotic, but still it affected him. Hell, “affected” was putting it mildly. Just the idea of her hands on him was driving him mad. It wasn’t the first time a woman had bathed him, but it was the first time he’d ever been so painfully aware of it.

Think of England
, he told himself. He laid his head back, closed his eyes, and tried to concentrate on everything he hated about the enemy he’d been fighting for almost half his life. Their overreaching kings, their pompous superiority, their chivalric hypocrisy, their treachery, their damned irritating accents…

But it wasn’t helping. Closing his eyes only made his other senses work harder. He could smell her warmth, the fresh scent of the heather soap, the mint on her breath, the press of every one of her soft, slim fingers on his skin.

Christ
. He almost groaned.

He opened his eyes. Her golden head bowed forward as she drew the cloth over his stomach, perilously close to the heavy head of his cock, which hovered just beneath the water’s edge.

He was about to put an end to it, when she lifted her gaze to his. A gaze that was closer than he would have liked.

“Does this please you, my lord?” she taunted with a sly smile. “I’m afraid I’ve not much experience bathing men. But it isn’t much different than washing a pig before market.”

Robbie was playing a dangerous game and knew it. The heat that sprang between them had just notched up quite a few degrees. But the pig comment had struck too close and demanded retaliation. “I think you missed a spot on my arm.”

Their eyes held. He could see the green flare of temper and thought he’d won. But then her mouth pursed, and she slunk the cloth back into the water with renewed determination.

He knew the exact moment he’d made a mistake. Her movements slowed, and her hand gently started to slide the cloth over the bulge of muscle in a soft caress. He watched as her breath hitched and then quickened. As her lips parted and the glare of her eyes softened with arousal.

Their eyes met, and all the anger that had started this dangerous game fizzled away. A different kind of tension now snapped between them. His heart made a violent thump in his chest. A thump of awareness. A thump of question. A thump of expectation.

With the anger stripped away, he felt bare. More naked than he’d felt when he’d stripped in front of her. There was no hiding how much he wanted her. No hiding how much she affected him. No hiding that the attraction between them was so strong not even he could fight it.

Rosalin knew she was in trouble.

For a while she was so furious, she was able to keep her mind off the body parts—the rather magnificent body parts—she was scrubbing. The stomach that looked as if it had been forged from steel like a centurion’s breastplate, every band of ridged muscle hammered with perfect precision; the broad shoulders, solid chest, narrow waist, arms that bulged thick and heavy with muscle. There wasn’t an ounce of spare flesh on him—every inch of his warrior’s body had been honed and crafted for battle.

The strongest man in Scotland
. Aye, he certainly looked the part. She feared no other man would compare. He’d ruined her—if not in fact, then in all the ways that mattered.

And then there was that other part of him. The thick, long column of his manhood that should have made her turn and run.

He wasn’t the first naked man she’d ever seen—there was little privacy in even the largest and most luxurious of castles—but he was by far the most impressive. And he was the only one she’d ever wanted to look at. The only one she’d ever wanted to explore with her hands…her mouth. A flush rose to her cheeks as she thought of his taunt the night before.

When she lifted her head to see him watching her, everything seemed to change. They both knew it. It was as if the roar of battle, the clatter of swords, the tempest of wills suddenly went silent. In their place was the crackle of awareness, the magnetism of attraction, and the hammering of lust that rose to a deafening crescendo.

There was no pretense of indifference. He wasn’t looking at her with distrust. He wasn’t thinking of her as the enemy or as Clifford’s sister. He was looking at her as if he wanted her. As if she were the only thing that mattered.

Her hand had slid to his stomach without even being aware of it. But he was. The line of muscles in his stomach clenched. His breathing was shallow, almost pained. His steely blue eyes watched her like one of her hawks.

He wanted something from her, but she didn’t know what. Then his hips lifted ever so slightly, and she understood. He wanted her to touch him.

Their eyes held. She felt poised with indecision, her heart teetering on a precipice. It was a moment of decision. The point of no return.

But she couldn’t go forward without knowing. “Did she…did you…?” She couldn’t seem to form the words. But she had to know whether he’d done what he’d said he was going to do with the dark-haired woman—Deirdre, he’d called her.

He didn’t say anything for a long moment. It almost seemed as if he wanted to lie, as if he knew that what he said would be important.

If he said yes, it would have been over. She would have found the strength to stand and walk away from him. She would have known that she didn’t matter.

But he told her the truth. “Nay, Rosalin,” he said in a soft, low voice. “She didn’t.”

Her heart seemed to grow too big for her chest. Without any further hesitation, Rosalin lowered her hand.

Robbie’s muscles clenched as he waited for the moment of contact, for the first tentative brush of her hand. The anticipation was nearly as sweet as—

Christ!
The heel of her hand grazed the heavy tip, and he nearly jumped out of his skin. He groaned as sensation exploded from every nerve ending. Anticipation, hell! There was nothing as sweet as the feel of her hand touching him. And when she covered him with her palm…he gave thanks to every god he’d ever heard of, even as he prayed to a few nameless ones for strength. Biting back the pleasure, he had to fight the urge to thrust up into her hand.

A fight he nearly lost when she started to explore him, running her hand up his rock-hard length in a soft caress, petting him as if he were a wild beast. An analogy that wasn’t that far off the mark right now.

It felt so good he couldn’t stand it. The shy, maidenly fumblings were proving more arousing than the most practiced of strokings. Her innocent curiosity threatened to unman him.

“Oh God, sweetheart, you’re killing me.” The endearment slipped from his tongue so easily, it was hard to believe he’d never used one before.

Their eyes met, and she smiled shyly. He felt something jam in his chest. Something big and powerful and important. Something that should have given him pause, but instead only made him feel…

Shite
, he swore, recognizing the feeling. He felt
happy
. It had been so damned long, he’d almost forgotten what it felt like.

“Tell me what to do,” she said.

He didn’t know if he could; every muscle in his body was clenched too tightly. Hell, he could have bounced rocks off his arse and stomach.

“Circle me with your hand,” he managed through gritted teeth, grabbing the edge of the tub to steel himself.

His knuckles turned white.

He groaned, surging into her hold at the first press of her fingers closing around him. Blood pulsed—nay, exploded—through his veins. He could have wept, the blast of pleasure was so intense that had he been standing, it would have brought him to his knees.

“I can’t,” she said. “You’re too big.”

Her disgruntled tone would have made him laugh if he weren’t so focused on trying not to explode. “Squeeze a little. I won’t break.”

Not yet—he hoped.

She did as instructed, and he nearly lost control right there as sensation shot through his spine, gathering at the base and hammering so hard it hurt just to hold it back.

This wasn’t going to last long. “Stroke me, sweetheart,” he whispered, covering her hand with his to show her how.

God, stroke me
.

And she did. Quite effectively.

The gentle press of her soft, slender fingers around him, squeezing, milking, was too perfect. The pressure was too intense. A few hard pumps, and he couldn’t hold back any longer. “That’s it, love. Oh God, yes, right there…I’m going to…”

He should have closed his eyes and tossed his head back. Normally, that was exactly what he would have done. But he wanted to see her face. He didn’t want to miss a damned minute of her introduction to the world of passion.

Their eyes met and held right at the moment that she brought him to the very peak of pleasure. When he was at his weakest. When he couldn’t fight it, even if he wanted to.

A hard cry of pleasure tore from his lungs. He stiffened. He couldn’t turn away, not even when the spasms wracked him and he started to come. Nay, especially not then. The pleasure she squeezed from his body seemed intensified, sharpened somehow by the connection. By a closeness he’d never felt before. By the tender feelings squeezing in his chest.

For the first time in his life when Robbie took his release, it was not his alone but shared with someone else, and the experience was unlike any other. It was bigger, more powerful, and more significant. The moment was too poignant and the look exchanged between them too meaningful.

He let her in, and when it was over, and the reality of what he’d done finally hit him, he didn’t know how to get her out.

He bowed his head and swore, furious with himself.

Tell me I didn’t just do that
.
Tell me I didn’t just have Clifford’s sister take me to release in her hand
.

But he had, and in doing so, he’d let her slip under his guard. He’d let her know that he’d sent his leman away, that he hadn’t wanted another woman. Only her. And as with Pandora’s box, he feared what that knowledge now escaped would do to them both.

He looked up. She’d sat back from the tub a little and was still on her knees, eyeing him uncertainly.

He held her gaze unflinchingly and said, “I guess we’re even now.”

It took her a moment to realize what he meant. When she did, she flinched as if he’d slapped her. The look of hurt on her face was so acute, he had to turn away so that he wouldn’t give in to the urge to pull her into his arms.

Pretending he didn’t feel her eyes on him, he stood from the tub, strode over to his trunk, and proceeded to dry himself and don a fresh linen tunic and leather breeches with a cool efficiency he did not feel.

When he finished, he’d regained enough composure to face her. She’d moved back to sit on the edge of Seton’s bed but was still watching him.

“I didn’t deserve that,” she said quietly, the condemnation in her beautiful green eyes giving him no quarter. “If you want me to hate you and think you as cold and unfeeling as you seem, you are doing a fine job of it.”

For the first time in his life, Robbie felt like squirming. She was right. She hadn’t deserved that. He dragged his fingers through his damp hair in frustration. Finally, he straightened and met her gaze head on. “It would be better for us both if you did.”

She gaped at him incredulously. “You are serious? You think I will be better off if you say mean things so that I will hate you? That is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. Of all the misguided…” Her eyes flashed angrily, as she blinked up at him. “You arrogant beast! Do you do this with all your women so they won’t fall in love with you, or am I the only one who needs such protection from your overpowering charms? Well, you needn’t try to protect me from myself. I am quite capable of disliking you all on my own.”

Now, he did feel like an arse. She was right, but only partially. It wasn’t only she he was trying to protect.

“What would you have me do, Rosalin? You know as well as I that nothing good can come of this. You are my hostage, surety for your brother’s truce and good faith.”

“That does not mean we must be enemies. Can we not be civil to each other? You were friendly enough toward Roger—can you not treat me the same?”

Like a thirteen-year-old lad? God, she was young. “I don’t know if that is possible.”

“Why? Do you despise me so much?”

The look of disappointment on her face caused him to speak more bluntly than he might have. “Nay, I want you too much.”

His honesty seemed to surprise her, and then—undeniably—please her. A slow smile curved her lips and a soft pink blush spread over her cheeks.

She looked sweet enough to eat. And God, he wanted to devour her—which only proved his damned point!

She tilted her head to one side. “You have never been friendly with a woman you wanted before?”

He’d never wanted a woman the way he wanted her, but he thought it better not to mention that. “Nay.”

“Why not?”

He shrugged. “Women are for…” He didn’t finish, guessing she wouldn’t appreciate what he’d been about to say.

Her mouth pursed, however, suggesting that she’d guessed. “Women are for the bedchamber, is that it? But not worth your time for anything else?”

That was about the gist of it, but it hadn’t sounded so bad when he thought it.

She made a sharp harrumphing sound and mumbled something about spoiled, too-handsome-for-their-own-good brutes that almost made him smile.

She stomped over to where he stood by his bed and put her hands on her hips. “Well, if it isn’t too much trouble, I should like you to try.”

He looked down at her and wanted to pull her into his arms so badly, his muscles ached from the restraint.

“Can you do that?” she asked.

When all he had to do was smell her and he wanted to toss her down on the bed behind them? “I don’t know if I’m strong enough.”

One corner of her mouth lifted in a wry smile. “From what I’ve seen, you are plenty strong.”

He gave her a sharp glance. Naughty lass! That wasn’t what he meant. And it wasn’t going to help his restraint. “Not when it comes to you. We can’t—” He stopped, trying to think of a way to say it less crudely. “I shouldn’t have touched you the way I did or let you touch me the way you just did. It’s dangerous. The next time, I might not stop. I don’t seem to have much control when it comes to you. Nor do I wish to give your brother a reason to kill me that is deserved.”

She shivered, but whether it was from fear or something else, he didn’t want to guess.

“Does that mean you won’t try?”

She looked so disheartened, he couldn’t refuse. “I’ll try,” he said, even if he suspected it was going to kill him.

The broad smile that lit her face made him reconsider. He didn’t suspect a damned thing; it
was
killing him already.