Highland Enchantment (Highland Brides) (22 page)

Her heart was pounding, her gut tight, and though she told herself she hoped he would not follow her, she wouldn't have bet her life on it.

The door closed with a bang.

She turned breathlessly, trying to swallow her disappointment, but found instead that he was inches behind her.

"Nay, I'm not about to leave you alone," he growled. "Not with the Rom rutting after you like a bloody cur."

Her heart hammered against her ribs. "I like the Rom," she said, lifting her chin slightly. "He's been naught but kind to me."

"Kind!" he said, and slammed his fist against the wall of the wagon. The kettles shook with the force of his punch. "Is that what you call it now?"

"Aye." Anger and frustration made it difficult to breathe. "He's done naught but help me out and pay me compliments."

"Compliments!" he sneered. "And why would he do that, do you think?"

"I cannot guess, Liam," she countered, leaning toward him. "Maybe you can tell me. Maybe you have even—"

But her words snapped to a halt as he snatched her against him. His chest felt hard as iron beneath her hands, and his fingers on her arms were unyielding. "What do you want from me?" he snarled.

"Me?" She could feel his heart beating against her fingertips, could feel her own body tremble.

"I don't want anything."

His fingers tightened. "I wish to hell I could say the same," he rasped, and jerked her toward him.

She should pull away, resist him, she told herself, but she had no strength, no will. His lips crashed against hers. She answered his kiss because she had no choice. He dropped her wrist and clasped his arms about her squeezing hard, and then his hands curved down her back, pressing her closer still, until he grasped her buttocks, grinding their hips together.

"Do you want something now?" he rasped.

"Nay!"

He kissed her again, hard, breathlessly, slipping his tongue into her mouth and shocking her with the invasion.

She shivered at the impact even as she pulled him closer.

"Now?" he asked.

"Nay," she denied, but she was panting when she said it.

"You lie," he growled. "You've wanted something since the moment I met you."

Aye, she wanted him so much she ached, but her pride ached more. Curling her arm up between their bodies, she pushed him away, but he was far stronger than she. "I fear your vanity exceeds your good sense," she said.

"Nay, it does not," he said. "I know you well, Rachel Forbes. I know that from the first you have wanted me to want you. Even when you were little more than a child, you gloried in that."

She shook her head, befuddled and frustrated. "Gloried in what?"

He squeezed her harder against him. "In the fact that I could not bear to be around you knowing that you would never be—"

He stopped abruptly, breathing hard.

"That I would never be what?"

He stared at her as if shocked to find her there.

"That I would never be what?" she whispered again, but he pushed himself abruptly away.

"Liam?"

"Do you need to hear me say it again? Didn't you understand the first time? Jesus, Rachel, you all but threw yerself at me a decade ago. I told you then you were not for a bastard like..." He paused, breathing hard. "I told you, you were not what I wanted."

She was a fool Rachel told herself. A fool to still let it hurt. Surely the wound had scarred by now. And yet the pain ripped through her like the jagged cut of a dullisnife. But she had cheated pain before.

Hardening everything in her, she laughed. "Poor Liam," she said. "Adoring me from afar for all these years, and never able to admit it."

"Adoring you!" he spat. "You were a spoiled brat then, and you are a spoiled brat now."

"Aye, and you've wanted me since the moment we met. Only you fear the consequences too much to do anything about it." She forced a laugh. "Maybe you are wiser than I know for my father might very well kill you if he knew your ilk dared touch me." She turned away. "You'd best run along now, Liam. I need sleep, and I've no wish to tempt you beyond your restraint."

"You think I am tempted by you?"

Her stomach knotted, but she forced herself to smile. "You, Liam," she said, "would be tempted by a potato if you spent enough time in its company, and I..." It was the hardest thing she'd ever done to lean forward, to slip her hand behind his neck, to press her mouth against his. Closing her eyes, she swiped the tip of her tongue across his lips. Someone trembled violently at the caress, but whether it was him or herself, she would never be certain. Still, she forced herself to pull back and glance up through her lashes at him. "I am no potato," she finished.

She could see his chest rise and fall with each inhalation, could see that his fists were clenched and his jaw tight.

"Run along now, Liam," she said. "I wish to disrobe, and I do not wish to see you fail."

Silence filled the space. "You think I cannot resist you?"

"Don't feel badly, Liam," she said, settling down on her blankets. "Most men cannot."

"I am not most men."

"Nay." She turned toward him, and for a moment she weakened. "You are Liam the Irishman."

Their gazes clashed.

"And because I have no family name, you think me less a man."

Weakness flooded her, and she nearly reached out, nearly touched his cheek and told him the hateful, foolish truth. But he had hurt her enough without offering more opportunity.

"Go away, Liam," she whispered. "I am hot and I am tired."

"Then disrobe." He shrugged. "But I stay here."

Rachel stared at Liam. Anger and exhilaration and frustration battled inside her. A thousand emotions burned her. For a moment she'd been certain Liam had wanted her. Had thought of her like a woman instead of an irritating little sister. But she'd been deluded before as a young girl, to think herself in love with him. She knew far better than that now, and she wasn't about to let him win this hand.

She'd take her clothes off. Just see if she wouldn't. Reaching up, she set her fingers to the laces that bound the front of her gown.

Liam's gaze followed her hands, she noticed, and worried that he might see them tremble. But it was dark and she knew better than to think he might stay and watch. Nay, if there was one thing she knew about Liam, it was that he protected his own skin, and his skin might very well be forfeit if he displeased her father, the laird of the Forbes. He knew that as well as anyone.

True, he'd seen her naked before, but that was when they were soaked and freezing and she'd had a medical reason to undress. The same could not be said now, and thus he would surely leave.

Still, he remained where he was. Rachel licked her lips and froze. He would leave. Of course he'd leave she told herself and tugged the lace loose. It sighed open but that was no hardship, for indeed, she again wore her tunic underneath. Still, with his gaze riveted to her as it was, the action felt strangely erotic.

"Go now, Liam." She tried to make her tone light, as if his actions were of little concern to her.

But she feared she only managed to sound breathless.

"I'm not leaving." His words were low. "Not with the Rom sniffing about as he is."

"Go," she said, and slipped the sleeves of the gown down her shoulders. The tunic slid sideways with the movement. "Or you shall surely regret it."

His nostrils were flared, his eyes intense. "I fear ye know precious little of me if ye think I would regret watching a woman disrobe."

She remained in stunned silence for a while. But a thousand memories of Liam trounced her. He was not the type to risk his well-being. Not for her. Nay. She was not worth the trouble to him. "And what of my father?" she asked.

He laughed. The sound was low and quiet as if forced from deep within his chest. "Twas you who said you have already lain with a host of men. So surely me watching you undress will seem no great sin to your sire."

"He didn't think of the others like a son." The words came out of their own accord. She knew better than to say them, for surely the last thing she wished to do was compliment this rogue. But it was true. Though her father had often jested about Liam's sleight of hand and Irish heritage, the Forbes of the Forbes would never have allowed any man access to his daughter and his nieces, had he not trusted him. Still, she regretted her admittance—until she saw Liam blanch, saw him pale in the dim light, saw him draw back as if struck.

How very interesting.

"I am no laird's son," he murmured.

She forced a laugh. "Hardly do you have to remind
me,
Liam. I but said he thinks of you as kin."

He tightened his fists and for a moment she thought he would surely turn away, but she'd misjudged him before.

"He loves
you
like a daughter. Yet you betray his trust," he said finally.

"I
am
his daughter," she snapped, frustrated and tired. "He would forgive me anything."

"And you said I am like a son." Tension snapped between them. "Maybe he would forgive me all, too, if I said you tempted me beyond me own control."

"And who do you think he would believe, Liam, if I told him you ravaged me? You? Or his own flesh and blood?"

The muscle ticked in his jaw again. "Ravage you! You think too highly of yourself, Rachel."

"Hardly that. Indeed, I do not believe I think highly enough of myself. But I tire of this talk. Get thee gone now."

"I told you nay."

"And I told you, I am going to disrobe."

He laughed, the sound low in the darkness. "The warning is beginning to lose its edge, Rachel.

Rather like threatening a hound with mutton chops." His gaze was absolutely steady in the darkness, his voice the same.

She almost cried, almost dropped to her blankets and hid her head. Never had she wanted to be alone more than now, to lick her wounds. But she would not lick while he watched. So she pulled the sleeves of the gown lower. They slipped over her hands. The bodice drooped away from her breasts, down to her waist. The oversized tunic guarded her modesty, but suddenly it felt as insubstantial as air.

Liam watched her with unreadable eyes. "Are you finished with your wee exhibition?" he asked.

Rachel stared at him in silence, knowing he had won and hating him for it. Obviously, he was far from being tempted beyond control, and she could not go further. She nodded shallowly.

He grinned, the expression tight. "A modest wanton," he murmured. Silence echoed in the narrow confines of the wagon. "Admit the truth, Rachel. There have been no men in your bed."

Logic told her that she shouldn't be insulted by such words, but logic was as rare as hen's teeth where Liam was concerned, and she could not help but feel the sting of his deduction. Mother of God, her friends were preparing for grandchildren, and she had not yet felt passion's flame even once.

Surely there was something wrong with her.

"Admit it," Liam ordered. "There has not been a single man." The words sliced through her like a well-sharpened dirk sliding between her ribs to her heart. But she bore the pain and raised her chin.

"Just because you will never share my bed doesn't mean that others have not," she said, and exerting every ounce of control on her muscles, she pulled her tunic upward.

It was stuck beneath her knees. She was forced to shimmy from side to side in order to tug it free, but she managed to do that before she stopped, unable to go on.

He stared at her. A mocking grin tilted his full lips, and his eyes sparked with laughter.

Rachel drew a deep shuddering breath and tugged again. The linen slid along her thighs. She shivered, pulling it a few scant inches higher then stopping to breathe, as if she were exerting some heroic effort.

She dared not look at him, for if she did every ounce of her determination would surely be snatched away. Instead, she closed her eyes and pulled the tunic higher.

It slipped over her hips. She felt the air touch her private parts, her hips and her waist.

Sweet Mary save her from her own stupidity, she thought, but she didn't quit. The tunic rasped over her peaked breasts and upward. She drew the garment away like one in a trance, opening her eyes as it cleared her head.

Liam remained perfectly still, breathing hard and staring at her unblinking. She licked her lips, swiping her tongue over them in one quick motion. He watched the movement, and then, as though his hand was controlled by someone other than himself, he reached for her.

His hand felt feather soft against her flesh. She closed her eyes and exhaled softly. He skimmed his fingertips along the outside curve of her breast, so that his palm brushed her nipple and his thumb touched Dragonheart.

Fire spurred through her.

His hand slipped under her arm and down to her waist. And suddenly he was closer, so close she could feel his breath on her throat, but still she didn't open her eyes. Instead, she gave herself up to the feelings, to the slide of his hand down her back, to the skim of his fingers against her buttocks.

She trembled beneath his touch, and then he kissed her. Not with the harsh force she'd felt before, but with midnight-soft tenderness, first her lips, then her cheek.

His other hand joined in the play, and he tugged her closer. They were chest to chest now, their bodies pressed against each other with painful intimacy. He caressed her bottom, slid his hands around her thighs then skimmed slowly up her waist.

They trembled in unison. His hands were like magic on her skin and his lips hot against her shoulder. She moaned as his kisses slipped lower. She was a fool not to stop this, she knew. But she couldn't.

In a haze of heated desire, she reached for the laces that held his tunic. But suddenly he grabbed her hands and squeezed them with trembling strength between them. "Nay," he rasped.

"Why?" She couldn't stop the words, though she knew she was a weak-hearted fool for their escape. "Why not me, Liam?"

Tense as a bowstring, his body quivered against her. For a moment she thought he would continue. But instead he pushed himself away.