The Rock (32 page)

She gripped his shoulders, her fingers digging into the thick bulge of muscle to bring him closer.

She fought tenderness with passion, parrying the slow stroke of his tongue with deep thrusts and carnal twists. She heard him groan and felt his arms tighten around her in response to her sensual entreaty.

She thought she’d won.

She moaned at the increased contact, feeling the tips of her breasts harden as they were crushed against the steely warmth of his chest. She loved the way he felt against her. Loved the feeling of all that strength wrapped around her.

This was exactly what she wanted.

She pressed even tighter, letting her hips rock against his. The feel of his manhood riding high against her stomach, so hard and thick . . .

She wanted him to move against her. Wanted the pressure—the friction—the frantic energy pulsing through her. She didn’t want time to think.

But he wouldn’t give it to her. He seemed impervious to her attempts to spark the lust that simmered between them ready to burst into flames at the first flare. He blocked the carnal thrusts and twists of her tongue with long, loving strokes.

He took control and didn’t give it back.

She almost cried out in frustration as he met her wicked onslaught not with the speed and frenzy she craved but with deft control and gentle caresses. His hands did not cup her bottom to lift her against him, they smoothed over her hips and waist as if he were sculpting a fine piece of porcelain.

The ache in her chest returned. The tenderness mixed with passion combined to make an even more powerful drug. One that beckoned and tempted. But she fought against it, using the only weapon at her disposal.

Slowly, she started to slide her hand down his stomach.

Thom knew what she was trying to do. She was scared and determined to deny the tender feelings he roused in her with passion.

But he was equally determined to win this sensual battle that had sprung up between them; to prove that it wasn’t just lust but something far deeper that bound them. He wouldn’t let her win.
Couldn’t
let her win.

But when her hand began to inch down his stomach he started to sweat. He had to grit his teeth against the pleasure that he knew was a few sweet strokes of her hand away. Just the thought of her touching him, of having those dainty, white fingers wrapped around his thick, throbbing cock . . .

Oh God.
The pounding at the base of his spine, and the tight throbbing of an already too-hard erection, intensified.

He concentrated on kissing her. Concentrated on the gentle strokes of his tongue delving lovingly into her mouth. Concentrated on the soft brushes of his lips against hers, on the velvety softness of the delicate cheek under his hand.

He tried not to think about the hard tips of the generous breasts digging into his chest or the hips innocently pressing against him, or the hand . . .

The hand that was now at his waist, damn it.

He stopped breathing, sensing her hesitation. She was innocent. A maid. Not a wanton. She wouldn’t be bold enough to touch him. Christ, at least he hoped she wouldn’t. But knowing Elizabeth . . .

He muffled a curse even as temptation beckoned. It would be so easy to put his hand over hers, slide it over him, and show her what to do. Show her how to wrap her fingers around him, grip him tight, and milk him until the pleasure exploded. Release—relief—was only a few pumps away.

But he couldn’t, damn it. The feel of her hand on him . . . he didn’t know if he would be able to stay in control.

He was about to find out. She was bold enough all right—God, help him. He couldn’t stifle the groan that tore from deep inside his lungs when her hand tentatively skimmed over the swollen head. Instinctively—because what else could he do?—he thrust into her hand, and she molded her fingers and palm around him.

He stilled. He might have stopped breathing for a moment while he thanked every god he’d ever heard of and tried to find the strength to stop the powerful urges surging through his body. It felt so damned good, so damned right, a few thrusts of his hips, and the pleasure would be pulsing through him.

But the relief—no matter how great—would only be temporary. And it wouldn’t bring her any closer to recognizing and accepting her feelings for him—with everything that might mean.

A moment now or a lifetime? It wasn’t hard to decide.

So he let her hand stay there. Ignored it (as if that were possible) while he concentrated on kissing her, showing her with his mouth and tongue how much he loved her. Even when she mewled in frustration, when her hand accidentally tugged him in a motion that if it wasn’t a stroke was a damned fine imitation of one, he didn’t give in.

But the instant he was certain he’d made his point, he pulled back. He knew it was only a matter of time—probably not much—before the fact that she was warm and willing against him would wreak havoc with even the most steely of control.

He didn’t say anything, but just stared into her eyes, holding her close and watching the frustration and turmoil play across her faerie princess features. The big blue eyes framed by curly, long lashes, the tiny, slightly upturned nose, the high pink cheeks, and soft red mouth.

“Why are you doing this?” she begged in a half-plea, half-cry of desperation.

He knew why she was fighting him so hard. She was scared. Scared of what admitting her love for him might mean. Scared of what she would have to give up. And she was resisting her feelings for him with everything she had. “You don’t need to be scared, El.”

She pulled back as if he’d uttered a horrible slur. “I’m not!”

“Then why are you trying to deny what is between us?”

“Are you sure it isn’t you who are doing that?”

Realizing what she meant, he released her and stepped back. “There is more to what is between us than lust, Elizabeth. Lie to me if you want, but don’t lie to yourself.”

One kiss might not have proved it to her, but he wasn’t going to give up. He would make her see it whether she wanted to or not. Elizabeth Douglas loved him. She had for a long time, and soon they would both know it.

I
’
D WAGER IT
has been some time since the nuns and the residents of St. Mary’s have been treated to such a beautiful recital,” Elizabeth said as she left the almshouse with her cousin and Randolph. “I can’t say I’ve ever enjoyed the Lenten hymns as much. But I didn’t know who to listen to; it seemed that as soon as Izzie took a breath, you filled it right in, my lord.” She tried not to smile, pretending that she didn’t know what they’d been doing. But after Izzie forced him to sing upon mentioning how good he was to their audience, it had been obvious that they were waging some sort of battle. “Perhaps you might consider singing a chanson together sometime for a feast?”

Izzie’s eyes narrowed, aware that her cousin was needling her. “What an extraordinary idea, Elizabeth.” She smiled sweetly at Randolph. “But I would never think to compete with such prodigious talent as the earl’s.”

The ever-chivalrous knight gave a short bow of his head. “It is I who would be honored, Lady Isabel. Your cousin did not exaggerate your talent, you have a beautiful voice.”

It was simply stated without his usual grandiosity.

Izzie seemed taken aback, whether from the compliment or from the sincerity with which it was given, Elizabeth couldn’t tell.

Truth be told, Elizabeth had been grateful for the distraction they provided. Though her visits to almshouses and lazar houses were important to her, they could sometimes be difficult, evoking memories that she would rather forget of how close she came to one herself. She’d felt the cold shadow of memory before Randolph and Izzie’s war of song had reminded her of where she was.

They continued down the wynd, proceeding down the high street to the abbey located at the bottom end. The morning mist had yet to lift off the hills to the east, and although the day was off to a cool start (she and Isabel had both worn their warmest fur-lined cloaks), she sensed it was going to be another beautiful day. At this time of year, anything that didn’t involve ice, snow, or rain was reason for celebration.

Once through the gate, they paused opposite the massive facade of the abbey entrance. She turned to Randolph. “Will you be able to join us in the refectory to break your fast, my lord?”

The first meal of the day was eliminated during Lent except for on Sundays.

He shook his head. “I wish I could, but I must return to the castle to see whether any progress has been made.”

“Progress?” Izzie repeated with a frown. “At night? Do the English like to parley in the dark, my lord?”

Randolph’s smile turned brittle. The détente between them was apparently already at an end. “I meant in general,” he said dismissively. But Elizabeth sensed rather the opposite. Did they have something planned at night? An attack on the castle perhaps? But given what he’d said before, it didn’t seem likely. “My uncle will be waiting—” He stopped suddenly, frowning. “That’s strange.”

“What’s strange?” Elizabeth asked.

“He should be at camp. Excuse me for a moment.”

Both women turned as Randolph started off in the direction of the gate. It was then that Elizabeth saw the man who’d caught his attention: Thom.

Her heart jumped, obviously having not quite recovered from yesterday’s overworking.

She hadn’t thought to see him so soon. He’d seemed eager to be rid of her, marching her down the hill and watching stoically from the trees as she made her way safely through the gate. He hadn’t even waved; she’d looked.

They’d said little on the way back down the hill. Thom once again wore that blank look he’d perfected in his youth when facing an angry Jamie, and Elizabeth had been, well, angry. At herself, at him, maybe it didn’t matter.

When she thought about how she’d touched him . . .

She didn’t think about that—
couldn’t
think about that—especially standing outside an abbey with her soon-to-be betrothed only a few feet away.

Don’t lie to yourself
. . .

Her mouth pursed at the memory of the challenge he’d tossed down at her feet like a gauntlet. He had a lot of nerve, thinking he knew her better than she knew herself. Elizabeth knew exactly how she felt. She cared for him—deeply—and wanted him—irrationally—but she did not love him. At least not in the way he meant.

She wasn’t Joanna. She didn’t think with her heart. She was far too practical to fall in love with someone she could never marry. She’d been exiled from society and treated like a leper once before; she would not go through that again—at least not willingly. She had a secure future in her grasp, she wasn’t about to let it go.

So what if she dreamed about the way he kissed her and touched her, and wanted him to do it again? It didn’t change anything. And there was nothing to say she wouldn’t feel the same way about Randolph . . . in time.

But how long will it take? Shouldn’t there be at least a tiny spark by now?

“I wonder what they are talking about?” Izzie said thoughtfully. “What exactly is it that MacGowan does in Bruce’s army?”

Elizabeth was wondering the same thing herself as she watched the two men converse intently. “Jamie said the king had some special missions for him in mind.”

“And those missions involve Randolph?” Izzie made a face. “Makes things rather awkward, doesn’t it?”

Elizabeth stared blankly at her cousin. “Why would it be awkward?”

The implicit warning didn’t deter her cousin one bit. Izzie laughed and rolled her eyes. “Oh, I don’t know, like maybe having the man you claim you don’t want show up to see you right under the nose of the man you say you do?”

“I’m sure Thom isn’t here to see me,” she said primly, but her cheeks were blazing.

What if he was? Would he be so bold (and foolish!) as to pursue her right—as her cousin had said—under Randolph’s nose? Not to mention her brother’s. Surely he would be more circumspect?

“Don’t look now,” Izzie whispered out of the side of her mouth. “Your Thom and Sir-Too-Good-to-Be-True are headed this way. But don’t worry, I’m sure this won’t be awkward at all.”