My Fierce Highlander (23 page)

He reminded her of Rory, who couldn’t wash
his hair, either. Impatience overcame her. “Here, let me.” She
moved in behind Alasdair, then realized she’d have to remove her
bulky
arisaid
to avoid getting it wet. That done, she rolled
up the sleeves of her smock and dressing gown and took the mushy
soap from him.

“I thank you, m’lady.” His voice was deep and
tantalizing.

“You won’t when I’m done with you.” She
suppressed a small grin. “Rory always complains when I wash his
head.” She lathered Alasdair’s hair and briskly rubbed. She
scratched her short, blunt nails against his scalp, careful to
avoid the spot where he’d had the injury.

“God’s truth, ’tis the most thorough
head-washing I’ve had in all my days.”

“Are you complaining?”

“Nay. Never has anything felt so good.” He
released a brief chuckle. “Well, I take that back. One thing does
feel better.” He sent her a potent look over his shoulder.

Needing to get away from him, she rose.
“There, I think you’re ready to rinse.”

“Would you wash my back first?” He gazed up
at her, more innocently this time. “If you please.”

What a manipulating scoundrel he was. “Very
well.” She took the soapy cloth and stroked it over his broad
back.

Aside from a couple of scars from knife or
sword wounds, his back was smooth and sleek, hard with muscle and
ribs. He straightened his spine and the muscles rippled. His low
back tapered in toward his hips in a most appealing way, drawing
her gaze downward.

Wonder struck her again—how could a man be so
beautiful? He was a marvel of creation. She found herself recalling
all too vividly their encounter yesterday in his room, the
dangerous and sensual magic that had drawn her to him against her
rational will. She had given herself to him fully. That same magic
crept into her bloodstream now, the tingling warmth flowing down
toward the V of her thighs. Such delicious sin she craved with
him.

She stood abruptly and laid the cloth on his
shoulder. “There, it looks clean to me.”

“Many good thanks.” Even his deep murmur
threatened to seduce her.

She wiped her hands on her dressing gown and
stepped back. Feeling completely bereft, she fought down the
treacherous sensations humming through her that urged her to watch
him, touch him. Invite him into her bed.

He slid down again, his knees coming up, and
dunked his head beneath the water for a rinse. Coward that she was,
she shifted her gaze to the fire before she could see whether his
position exposed his most masculine parts. When he surfaced, water
poured from his hair.

He flung it back from his face, spattering
the floor with droplets, took up the rag again and flicked an
amused glance her way. “Would you be willing to help me wash
something else?”

Good lord
. Ignoring his chuckle, she
turned her back on him and paced to the opposite side of the room.
No wonder he treated her as he did—she’d practically dragged him to
his bed yesterday. Clearly she had no shame when Alasdair touched
her.

She turned the wooden chair by the bed, sat
with her back to him and took up her mending. Anything to keep her
mind and eyes off his captivating naked form.

Minutes later, water splashed, and she
imagined him standing. Oh, what a sight that would be. Bending, she
focused harder on her task. Almost no sound came from behind her
for a long, tedious moment. She squeezed her eyes shut and
listened. Imagined. Soft, dry linen cloth whispered over wet,
bronzed skin.

I hope he will go now.
Yes, her
conscious mind did, but her body tingled with anticipation.

He padded closer on the Turkish carpet.

“You should dry your hair beside the fire,
m’lady.” He burrowed his hand into her long hair. She’d forgotten
it was wet. He stroked her neck with his warm, moist fingers.

“’Tis drying.” She prayed he’d go and spare
her further temptation.

On one knee, he knelt beside her chair.
“Gwyneth,” he murmured in a rough, intimate voice she would dream
about.

He’d wrapped the linen cloth low about his
hips, so that he was barely decent. His muscled shoulders, chest
and arms were just as appealing and arousing as the rest of his
body. He should cover himself entirely. Beads of water dripped from
his hair onto his chest. She tried not to drink him up with her
eyes. But when their gazes met, his dark intensity penetrated her
defenses. She knew he saw the truth in her eyes, the truth of how
he disturbed her, of how she was vulnerable beneath his touch.

He rose, took the mending from her hands and
placed it on the bed. “Come.” When he held out his hand in
invitation, no part of her could’ve refused him, even though she
was unsure what he intended. His hand warm around hers, he pulled
her up. “We shall dry your hair.”

Impulses warred inside her—to flee…or press
her face to his chest. Resisting both, she let him lead her to a
chair by the fire.

“Do you have a comb?” he asked.

She shook her head, feeling every bit the
penniless pauper she was. “I’ll borrow Tessie’s tomorrow.”

He sat in the chair first and startled her by
pulling her down onto his lap.

Heavens, he was practically naked. She
stiffened and tried to rise again. “No, I should not. It is
not…”

“Proper? I ken ’tis the truth. Nothing about
us is proper, m’lady.”

And he didn’t care one whit. But she did. No
matter her past, she could not be a man’s paramour.

He seated her firmly on his thighs and pulled
her hair over the wooden chair arm. “Your hair is very long and
beautiful.” He combed his fingers through it, loosening the snarls.
Her scalp tingled.

Oh, do stop.
Her hair was mousy brown
and straight as a spear. No one with an eye for fashion or beauty
would find it appealing.

She tried to ignore the clean, masculine
scent of him, which the light floral and herbal soap could not
disguise. His face was another enticement, as were the sensual,
hard curves of muscle that formed his chest.

When she shifted, his aroused shaft straining
against the linen nudged her hip. He was so hard, he would feel
glorious sliding into her. Moist heat prickled between her thighs
and she squeezed them together.

“Relax,” he murmured, working gentle fingers
through the wet strands of her hair. “London society, your da, nor
anyone else is here to judge you.”

Her chest tightened and guilt surged through
her. “You’re a man. You cannot possibly understand what it is to
disgrace yourself before God, your family and your community.”

“’Haps not, but ’tis done. You cannot go back
and redo your past.”

“No, but I can behave better in the
future.”

“And you will, I’ve no doubt.”

“Now. I must do better now. I must resist the
temptation of…” She let out a breath, hardly able to believe the
sharp, conflicting feelings within her.

“Of what, m’lady?” His whisper in her ear
sent a tingle over her shoulders.

“Of you.” Never had anything or anyone
enticed her as much.

A smile played upon his lips. “I’m not a
temptation to you.” He stroked a finger down her neck. “I’m but a
Highland barbarian, and you a lady of fine breeding.”

She shivered at the sensation his calloused
finger wrought. “You are no barbarian. You’re an earl and a
chief.”

“Aye, but compared to you, I’m not very
impressive.”

How could he be so daft? He was the most
impressive man she’d ever met—honorable, trustworthy…tantalizing.
“Oh, you don’t know.” Yearning to nuzzle her face against his
chest, breathe him in, and taste him, she resolutely covered her
face with her hands. She could not believe the liquid desire aching
low in her belly. How could she turn into such a brazen wanton in
his presence?

“Don’t know what?” His breath, warm, sweet
and ginger scented, fanned against her ear.

“How I feel.”

He stroked his mouth and nose against her
hair, inhaling her scent. “You smell prettier than a flower, and
more delicious than a strawberry.”

“You see? You shouldn’t say things like
that.” She lowered her hands and risked a glance at his playful,
inviting expression.

“Why not? ’Tis the truth. Would you have me
lie?”

“No.”

“Would you have me lie and say I hope to
never to kiss you again? Would you have me say I never want you in
my bed again? I don’t hunger for the taste of your mouth and your
skin. I didn’t spend half the night last night remembering our
spellbinding encounter in great detail, wishing you were there with
me so we might do it again and again. Do you believe those
lies?”

Oh, heaven help me.
“You should not,
sir.” She tried to pull away and get up, but he placed a strong arm
across her lap, his hand cupping her hip, spurring even more
instinctive urges.

“Why? What is so terrible about telling the
truth and speaking my mind?” The edge of passion and irritation in
his voice alarmed her.

In defense, and to still the trembling deep
inside, she crossed her arms over her chest. “You want the truth?
Here it is—you are a laird. And I’m only a disowned woman my family
is ashamed of. The very things you speak of are what make me thus.
I admit I have a shocking hunger for sensual pursuits. They are my
downfall. If they weren’t, I wouldn’t have been banished.”

“Och. ’Tis only nature, m’lady.” His tone
softened. “Your society would say men are different from women in
their appetites. That ’tis acceptable for men to feel desire but
not for women. But that is a lie. Both men and women have desires
and urges. ’Tis the way God created us.”

With his explanation, lovemaking sounded so
simple and reasonable. Acceptable. But she still couldn’t convince
herself to believe it. Too many years and too many people had
drummed a certain way of thinking into her—that women, especially
ladies, were supposed to be above those carnal urges and immune to
them.

She shook her head. “No, we must resist our
human nature.”

“Why must we resist the way God created us?
He gave us the ability to feel these desires.”

“No, you don’t know what you’re talking
about. What we did yesterday was bad.”

“You must call it what you will. But I won’t
call it bad. ’Twas beautiful beyond measure.”

He released her and she sprang from his lap.
Indeed, their lovemaking had been beautiful. The most exquisite
thing she’d ever experienced.

“I must go now.” He rose, threw the articles
of his clothing over his shoulder and moved toward the door.

He was going? It was exactly what she wanted.
Yet not.

A few feet from the door, Alasdair stopped
and turned. “Would you gift me with a wee goodnight kiss?”

Heaven help me. A kiss?
Before she
knew what she was doing, she stood before him.
I am too
eager,
she realized too late. Her skin heating, she dropped her
gaze to the floor. He took her face between his hands, tilting it
upward, and kissed her in a lingering brush of his warm lips and
tongue against hers. Oh, she had forgotten how his kiss could
seduce her in an instant. She opened to receive his tongue and her
own licked against his, with a will of its own. A well-spring of
hunger rose up from her chest and spurred her into action. She
consumed his delectable mouth as if starved.

“
Iosa is Muire Mhàthair
,” Alasdair
growled and pulled her tightly to him as if control had slipped
from his fingers.

Desire possessed her, shut down her decorum.
Her arms closed around his naked lower back, and she stroked her
hands down to his waist. The linen cloth fell away, and his trim
hips were bare beneath her hands. She knew she shouldn’t touch him,
but she did. She remembered squeezing the powerful flexing muscles
of his buttocks when he’d made love to her yesterday.

He moaned, his bare erection prodding her
belly. Wetness tickled between her thighs.

His clothing slid from his shoulder. He
coaxed her dressing gown from her, then gathered up her smock
around her waist, even as he kissed her throat and breathed his hot
breath on her. He lifted the garment farther, drawing it off over
her head, and took her nipple into his mouth.

Sparkles of delight shimmered through her.
“Oh.”

“Mmmm.” He suckled her other nipple. “I have
craved these.”

He walked her backward a few steps. Her
thighs bumped into the bed, and he gently pushed her down upon
it.

“By the saints, Gwyneth, you tempt me to near
lunacy.”

She squirmed, restless on the bed. Guilt
ambushed her and she squeezed her eyes shut. She should fight this,
resist her own desires.

“Look at me,” he murmured.

She did, but seeing him in all his naked
glory was a pleasure near too keen to bear. Her gaze dropped,
tracing the line of hair down his flat hard belly that led to that
most fascinating and masculine part of him. The act of simply
observing him filled her with hunger.

She realized she had never been fully naked
in the candlelight before a man and tried to yank the linen
coverlet over herself. He would surely find her lacking.

“Nay.” Alasdair stayed her hand, and his gaze
stroked over her like a physical caress. “You cannot hide from me,
Gwyneth. You’re the most beautiful sight I’ve ever seen.”

She believed him—his sincere, lust-filled
eyes couldn’t lie. He didn’t seem to mind that her breasts weren’t
large and full like those women deemed most attractive. Her figure
was too slim to be called voluptuous. Yet the way he looked at her,
with hunger and yearning, made her feel as if she were the most
desirable woman on earth.

He lifted her foot and kissed her ankle. With
a sigh, she let her eyes drift closed. His lips and beard stubble
tickled and scratched, sending a thrill up her leg. He trailed
kisses up her calf and flicked his tongue at the back of her
knee.