Highland Thunder (Isle of Mull Series) (10 page)

“I cannot see the point in asking after you’ve already entered.” She said, not bothering to turn from her work.

He could not think of what to say next. After standing for some minutes like a simpleton, he sat down, trying to maintain a casual seat, but his body refused to cooperate. His shoulders fixed like a rigid yoke, making him stiff and awkward. Thankfully, she continued to snub him. At least his self-conscious and tongue-tied condition went unnoticed.

“God’s bones,” he swore as he stood up too abruptly and knocked over his chair.

She whirled around. “Allow me to venture a guess—something vexes you, Duncan? Your anger appears to be a permanent affliction. Perhaps, you should consult Bridget about the matter.” With an upward tilt to her chin, she resumed her chopping. His eyes followed her bandaged hands and noted for the first time how the wrappings impeded her work.

Slowly, he drew up behind her and offered his hand. “May I?” he said softly.

Brenna froze. She could feel the heat from his body behind her. His outstretched palm looked severe and calloused, and she wondered how something so large and rough-looking could be capable of the gentleness she remembered when dressing her wounds.

She cleared her throat, searching for the words to reject his help, but her mouth suddenly felt dry, and her tongue refused to cooperate.

He closed his hand over hers, and she jumped as her heart caught in her throat.

“I only want to help you, lass,” he said. His warm breath bathed her neck, causing her to shiver.

Then his other arm reached around her. She was surrounded, bound to his heat. His body grazed hers. He was so close—too close. Her heart pounded. He turned her hand over and held it while his other hand loosened her grip on the knife. Releasing it, the metal clunked forgotten on the table. She closed her eyes as his touch lingered on her skin. He leaned closer so that she could feel the full length of him. She fought the pull of his body, but the beat of his heart, which penetrated her tunic, demanded she end her struggle and lean back into his arms. His pulse beckoned her, melting her will.

“Enough,” she snapped, breathless. Straining her neck to meet his gaze, she inhaled sharply at the hunger she glimpsed in his eyes before she turned away again.

“Brenna,” he said. His voice and breath sounded strangled, his body rigid with restraint.

But then his head dropped to her neck, and she felt his rough stubble graze her tender skin. She trembled as his low growl filled her ears. His nearness. His smell. The strength of his hard muscled body against hers. All of him surrounded her, consuming her like a crashing wave.

His hands gripped hard on her hips, and he spun her around to face him. The intensity of his gaze was inescapable as he turned with her in his arms and walked her backward until the tops her thighs yielded to the table in the center of the room. He pressed against her, arching her back. Soft gasps escaped her lips. Desire shrouded her mind like a slow, languid fog. Through the haze, she saw his black eyes, filled with dark heat, burning a fiery path down the length of her body.

His hand reached out, slowly teasing the scarf from her head. As her waves fell unbound upon the table’s surface, she felt at once laid bare to him, exposed, but also released, free from the rigidity of her own making.

“Brenna,” he whispered again.

Her head whirled. She couldn’t breathe. She was lost in the magic of his gaze and the wild churning in the depths of her body that demanded she yield.

He cupped her face in his hands. Through half-closed lids, his eyes gleamed heavy with want, orbs like black suns sinking below the horizon, tempting her to follow.

His hand slid down her throat as his thumb grazed her racing pulse. She moaned softly as his lips pressed into the hollow of her neck. His harsh stubble scraped her skin once more, and the grip of his hands on her body tightened.

She felt like she was drowning, dragged beneath molten waves. She grabbed his shoulders to catch herself. His taut skin sizzled beneath her fingertips, peeking out from beneath her bandages. Her eyes followed the tips of her fingers down his sculpted arms. He shivered beneath her whisper-soft caress. His skin was hard but smooth like a stone polished by waves. Her eyes feasted on the breadth of his chest and the chiseled lines of his stomach, which shifted and flexed with every breath, every movement. Thick veins strained against the skin of his arms, winding from beneath his shoulders over rough muscle down to the hands possessively gripping her waist.

His warm breath cradled her face as he pressed soft kisses to her forehead, her cheek, and then the sensual lines of his lips grazed hers, the barest touch. She felt the tension rush from his body as he kept himself aloft, holding back, just out of reach. She shook beneath him as she cried out, “Cease this game of yours, Duncan. I can bear no more.”

He released her, stumbling back. His breath came in great heaves. His knuckles whitened as he clenched his hands in tight fists.

“Forgive me, Brenna,” he gasped. Then without another word, he turned and stormed from her hut.

Icy currents washed over her as the heat of his body drained away. What new torture was this? From the beginning, he made his feelings known. Did he delight at discovering a new way to mistreat her? Had indifference grown to hatred, giving way to malice?

She swore, hating herself at that moment. Remembering how she reacted to his closeness made her want to punish her traitorous body. Still, what of the hunger she witnessed in his eyes? Would he feign desire to further confuse and punish her? Her mind was spinning as lust and confusion collided.

But he loathed her—of this she was certain.

Anger and embarrassment brought tears to her eyes. By all rights she should despise his touch, but she did not. In fact, she wanted him with shocking force. Never had she experienced such abandon.

When Ewan made love to her, he had been tender, his touch always gentle as though he worried she might break. Such was not the case with Duncan. His hands, his eyes, his breath were hard and demanding. He stirred within her a wildness, surges of feeling churned from deep within like furious wind lifting her above the clouds. He made her the tempest she always craved, but she could not ken why. Why did he torment her? And why, after all the trouble he caused her, did she find him nigh impossible to resist?

Chapter 9

She awoke the next morning with clenched fists, her mind heavy with resolve. She did not know what new game Duncan played, but she would not lose sight of what was most important to her: Nellore and her land.

She knew going forward she had to strive to be less volatile in his presence. Lately, her temper soared and now this new problem. She remembered the rush of sensation that filled her limbs, her stomach quaking with excitement as his body drew close behind hers. She remembered his scent and the husky softness of his voice in her ear and his warm breath on her neck. Her chest tightened as her body betrayed her once again.

She shook her head. Such thoughts served only to distract from the pressing matter of uncovering his motives. She could only assume that his strange behavior had something to do with trying to manipulate her to move to the village.

Then something appalling occurred to her for the first time. Perhaps Duncan wanted the land for himself and would stop at nothing to drive her off. He shamed her and confused her to weaken her resolve. She sat up and turned to wake Nellore, but she was gone. Panic seized her heart as she leapt to her feet and hurried to the door, which she swung open to a scene that brought her momentary relief.

Duncan was feigning a swift run across the yard while Nellore gave chase. Her squeals of laughter and delight lit her green eyes, and her cheeks carried a pink bloom from her effort. She grabbed his plaid from behind.

“You did it, lass,” Duncan laughed as he fell to the ground. “You’ve caught the giant.”

Nellore fell on his stomach as she continued to giggle with impish delight. Duncan tickled her, then scooped her up and jumped to his feet. As he tossed her high in the air, she squealed and laughed with the hysteria known only to children.

Brenna laughed out loud at the sight of her daughter’s unabashed joy. It filled her heart with pleasure and her eyes with grateful tears.

“Mama,” Nellore called when she saw her standing in the doorway. Brenna crouched down and waited for her daughter to fling herself into her arms. Wrapping her in a tight hug, Brenna stood and placed quick kisses all over her cheeks and black curls. When Nellore started to squirm for release, Brenna put her tiny feet on the ground. She ran as fast as her wee legs would carry her and threw herself at Duncan. He scooped her up and tossed her again in the air as he walked toward Brenna.

“Good morrow,” he said. His dark eyes crinkled with a smile, and for the first time she noticed a dimple on one cheek that lent his features a boyish charm. She could not speak. How many faces could one man have? Now he was a gentle giant who played with children and had a dimple of all things. Her brow furrowed as she stared, waiting for his usual aloof shrug, but his expectant gaze never wavered.

She reached for Nellore and then backed away, suspicion guiding her actions. She continued to back through the doorway never taking her eyes off of him. Then she slowly shut the door but for a crack through which she continued to stare him down.

“Brenna, you needn’t be afraid,” he said.

She flung the door wide. “I needn’t be afraid? You’ve been nothing but cold and dismissive since first we met. For years, I’ve born your indifference and more than once your malice.” Then her voice dropped to a whisper. “And what of yesterday with your feigned attraction to my person?” Before he could answer, she threw her hand up. She thought better of discussing what should be forgotten. “Suffice it to say I know the truth behind your actions. But I am a woman grown, able to recognize your blatant manipulation. But what of Nellore?”

“What of Nellore?” he snapped. “I’ve done naught but play with the child.”

“Precisely my point. You have the audacity to make my daughter happier than she has been in weeks. I am many things right now, Duncan, but afraid I am not.”

Duncan stared at the door, which moments before was slammed in his face. At first, her offensive accusations provoked his temper. Did she think him so dishonorable he would stoop to use her desire as a weapon for gain? And what of Nellore? Did she truly believe his affection for the child was mere artifice?

With his face set in a dark scowl, he moved to push the door open, but then he froze. Tension fled from his shoulders as his anger dissipated, and he stepped back.

Why would she believe anything other than the worst of him? Her words reflected an unfeeling man who showed her little regard over the years—an accurate picture of the man he allowed her to see.

To protect his own wasted heart, he had done everything in his power to show her as little care as he could. She knew nothing of the constancy of his affection. Each morning, he had awoken determined to find release from the pain of loving someone from afar. And each day, behind a cool mask of indifference, he had glimpsed her strength, her courage, her boundless compassion, and he had felt adoration coil tighter around his heart. His aloof façade never wavered—he did not trust his passion to stay beneath the surface. If he had offered her friendship or warmth of any kind, she would have seen the love he harbored come through in his eyes and in his smile.

He should have found another way, fought against his affection, trusted in his restraint more, although recent events did prove he had been right to be cautious. He entered her home last night seeking to mend the rift between them, but her nearness assaulted more than his body, more than his heart; it struck that which sustains life, his breath and his soul.

Their intimacy enflamed his blood, scorching his body as though the full length of seven years of longing rushed to the fore, seeking fulfillment at last. Never had he stood before her with eyes wide open, his heart unguarded. Despite knowing he should regret having touched her, kissed her, he did not, for the longing he felt was mirrored in her eyes. The shock of her desire almost made him drop to his knees, astonishment like finding one’s heart’s desire washed up along shore.

Nonetheless, she could not know the trueness of his affection. The purity of the love he bore her still lay hidden beneath a ruse he had yet to remove. What had been the most fulfilling moments of his life were to her, a source of confusion, causing her to distrust him all the more.

She clearly decided last night was only a wicked attempt on his part to take from her—what he could not say. She said she believed he fabricated his attraction; thus, she did not accuse him of simply being a dishonorable man bent on attacking her virtue. What else did she assume he was after if not her? She was what he always wanted. Shame fell on his shoulders like a dark cloud as he turned from her door.

He cursed with frustration and self-loathing. He did not know the right course of action. Ewan was dead, and now he finally could woo her for his own, but it felt so wrong. Ewan’s heart was torn open by an axe to save Duncan’s life so that Duncan might steal his wife? Because of Ewan’s sacrifice, he stood to gain his heart’s desire.

Even if he could win her heart, he didn’t deserve her. He had coveted her from a distance, hungered for her and then dismissed her as one would a servant or a petulant child whenever she was near. He wanted to do penance for his sins; that much he knew with certainty, but first he had to earn her trust, which meant he had to control both his temper and his desire. He groaned as he prayed for strength.