Susana and the Scot (11 page)

“Aye.” He said nothing more, merely stared at her, which she found mildly disturbing. Or not mildly.

“Is there anything else?” A bark.

She didn't know why her stomach plummeted when he turned to leave.

But he didn't leave … He kicked the door shut with his foot and came back to her.

Her pulse leaped. “I … What are you doing?”

He stepped closer. The light of the lamp cast his face in shadows, gave him an ominous demeanor. “I canna stop thinking about it,” he said.

Her belly rippled. “About what?”

“That kiss.”

Something sizzled through her womb. She looked around, searching for an escape. There was none. Certainly no escape from the desire that suddenly curled through her.

“That–That … kiss?”

He smiled. “It was delicious. But there was something about it…” He stepped closer and though she stepped back, there was nowhere to go. Once again, he had cornered her. She placed a hand on his chest, probably to keep him away. His heart thudded beneath her palm.

She gazed up at him, unable to move. “Something about it? What?”

“I'm not sure.” A whisper. No more was necessary because he was already as close as he could be. His heat scalded her. “I need another taste.”

Before she could react, before she could slip away, his lips touched hers, scraped across them, across her sanity. A mere hint of a buss, but it was enough. It was enough to fill her with his essence, his taste, his scent.

Her knees locked and she wobbled. His arms surrounded her, holding her up. His hand pressed against her back, pulling her closer. He groaned and deepened the kiss, covering her, smothering her with his mouth. Washing her with a tide of desire. It was a sea in which she could gladly drown.

As had happened yesterday, with the mere touch of his lips on hers all her reservations, all her pain, six years of resolve, crumbled.

She could hate herself for this weakness. She should. But not now. Tonight she would regret this.

For the moment, she would only glory in the feelings he ignited in her hungry, aching body.

It was as though, in his arms, she was alive again. Ah, but for a moment, surely. Soon she would curl up and turn to stone again, but for now, for this moment, she was alive.

His lips moved over hers; his tongue dabbed in. Susana shook at the sensation. She opened to him, allowed him in, sucking on his tongue. He reared back, his nostrils flared, his eyes wide. Then he fisted his hands in her hair and yanked her closer and kissed her again.

No gentle exploration this. No tender tasting. He consumed her whole with the savage desire of a man long starved.

It was wild and passionate and glorious and … folly, but she sank into it.

As he kissed her, his hands roved, dancing over her back, her hips, cupping her bottom. He pressed against her and pulled her into him. The outline of his aroused cock was unmistakable.

The thought flickered through her head, a foolish thought, an injudicious one.

They were alone here in the cellar. It was likely no one would intrude.

Her body was ready for him; her womb ached for him. How difficult would it be to raise her skirts and lean back? How insane would it be to taste that glory … just once more?

Aye, she might regret it. But she would survive. She had before.

But before she could act on such an imprudent and rampant desire, he lifted his head. He stared at her, his damp lips parted. His brow furrowed and he whispered, “Susana?”

She swallowed heavily. “Aye?”

“You taste…”

Her pulse pinged. “Aye?”

To her frustration—nae, to her relief—he eased back. Surely she imagined that flicker in his expression, that flicker of … recognition. He didn't remember her. Did he? She forced down the vexing surge of hope; it was an annoyance. Besides which, she didn't want him to remember her. She didn't want him to remember anything. There was too much at stake.

“You taste … wonderful.”

She forced herself to relax. A mistake. Because he kissed her again. But this was not an enflamed and seductive kiss, it was … a sample. Another tiny nibble of a dish he was trying to decide if he wanted to eat. It was delicious and far too brief. But it was followed by another, and another.

The befuddlement in his expression deepened. His Adam's apple worked. “Have we ever … kissed before?”

Something nasty rippled through her. She wasn't sure if it was rage, relief or disappointment. She pushed him away and he allowed it. She stalked across the room. This time, he did not follow. “Do you no' remember the girls you've kissed?” She tried for a civil tone. And almost achieved it.

“Of course I do.”

“Then why do you ask if you've kissed me? For heaven's sake. We've never even met.” A bold-faced lie, and one twined, perhaps, with a hint of desperation. But it was a necessary lie.

“You taste … You seem … familiar.”

Dread arose in her. She fought it back down. “Oh, for pity's sake,” she said with a snort. “How many women have you kissed?” Sometimes offense was the best defense.

He winced, but didn't answer. For some reason, his reticence reignited her anger, even when silencing him had been her aim.

“Do you even remember the name of the last girl you kissed?”

“Of course I do!”

“What was it?”

He paled. His lips worked. He didn't answer. Then again, no answer was answer in itself.

He didn't remember. He never remembered.

He never remembered anything.

And as memorable as this kiss had been, he would forget it as soon as another girl passed by, capturing his eye.

He would forget her as he'd forgotten her before.

She glared at him, all of her fury, all of her pain, all of her desolation plain on her face for him to see.

Likely he would forget that as well.

“Susana…”

“Go on. Admit it. You doona remember.”

“I do. I just … canna say.”

“You canna say?” She blew out a breath, investing in it every ort of her disdain.

She'd been right to distrust him. She'd been right to keep him at arm's length. She'd been right in her desire to punish him and make him pay for her broken heart.

He was a bastard. A faithless philanderer, a heartless Lothario who seduced women, used them until he tired of them, and tossed them aside. And then forgot them.

Oh, what a fool she'd been. Then, and now.

She was right in her determination to resist him, to avoid him.

All he had to do was kiss her and her thoughts scattered, her determination shattered; insanity reigned.

Without a word, she pushed past him and ran from the room.

It was a good thing he didn't follow her, or she might have gutted him.

*   *   *

Andrew leaned against the ramparts and stared out at the picturesque town of Ciaran Reay, nestled against the sea like a jewel. The view from the turrets was superb. He could see far in the distance in all directions. Stafford's land to the west and Scrabster's to the east.

He couldn't see all the crofts to the south through the thick woods, but if they set up a system of signal fires, it would be easy for the soldiers posted here to spot the smoke and send help to the far reaches.

Why there were no men stationed here was befuddling.

That wasn't the only befuddling thought twining in his brain.

After that debacle with Susana, he'd thrown himself into his work. Never had he regretted a kiss as much as he did that one.

Oh, not the kiss with Susana.

The kiss with Lana.

When he'd refused to name her and Susana had stormed out of the storage room, he hadn't been able to move. He'd stared after her, his mind in a tumult.

He hadn't wanted to let her go. He probably shouldn't have. He probably should never have let her go. He should have kept kissing her, maybe taken more of what she'd seemed so willing to offer. He should have ignored that insistent urge to
speak
to her. Because when he'd lifted his head and burbled the question ringing in his mind—well, that had ruined everything.

And her challenge? To name the last woman he'd kissed?

Fook. How could he tell her? How could he admit the last woman he'd pulled into his arms and kissed had been … her sister?

That would have bollixed everything up but good.

He gusted a sigh and turned to head back down the stairs but a scraping sound over his head captured his attention. He glanced up. And froze.

A tiny figure scrambled across the slate shingles of the turret's slanted roof, a bow slung over her shoulder. He recognized her at once. That blond hair was unmistakable.

Horror curled through him.

What the hell was she doing there?
On the roof?

He opened his mouth to call to her and then clamped it shut. The last thing he wanted to do was startle her and cause her to slip. The walkway ended at the turret tower; beyond the low wall, there was nothing to stop her from plummeting to the cobblestones far below. The fall would be fatal.

Dear God.

But his silence mattered not. Even as he watched, one of the shingles shifted beneath her and her foot slipped. She fell.

Time slowed down. The tiny bundle skittered down the steeply slanted roof scrambling to catch herself. She managed to do so. Just inches from the lip. Just inches from utter disaster.

“Oh, my God.” His unintended gust captured her attention. She glanced at him over her shoulder. Unaccountably, she smiled.

“Oh, hullo there,” she said. She grunted and found a more secure handhold. Moving slowly, he edged around to the side so that if she slipped again, he could catch her. Maybe.

His pulse pounded in his throat. “Jesus God, Isobel. What are you doing on the roof?”

“Hunting.”

Hunting? On the roof? He burned to know why, what, but he didn't dare ask.

She grunted again as her fingers slipped. Her confident expression crumbled, washed away by a sudden wave of fear.

“Stay there,” he commanded. “I'm coming to get you.”

Swallowing his own fear of heights, he balanced his foot on the low wall and levered up to the battlement.

He knew, if she fell, the impact might knock him off, too, but he couldn't do nothing. He couldn't just let her tumble to her death.

“Can you ease down?” he asked. “Slowly?”

She nodded.

Carefully, cautiously, slowly, she shifted down one inch, two, until her feet dangled over the edge.

Balancing on his toes, Andrew reached up and took hold of her ankles. He didn't allow himself to look down. He planned to catch her as she slid off the roof, and throw his body toward the narrow walkway of the battlement. If he angled his body correctly, they would fall on the battlement and the girl would land on him.

If God was with them, they wouldn't go tumbling the wrong way.

“All right. Are you ready to let go?”

“Mmm-hmm.” Her voice was wobbly.

“Doona worry. I'm going to catch you.”
Please God. Please.
“Ready?”

“Aye.”

“Let go.”

A moment of complete and utter panic scoured him as she did as she asked, trusting him with her life.

Please God.

Please God.

As her body slid off the roof, he grabbed her, trying like mad to stay balanced, to not tip over the edge into oblivion. And then, using every ounce of his concentration, every ort of his strength, he launched himself backward.

He landed on the stone walkway with a thud that forced the air from his lungs. But he didn't need it. Not really. There was no need to breathe.

The moment hung over him, a sharp shard of time. And then she landed. On top of him. Whatever air was left in him exited in an
oof
. Every muscle ached and he hit his head hard when he fell, but he didn't care.

Her body was a welcome weight on his.

They were both alive.

He lay still, willing his heart to calm, trying to force his lungs to work.

Something pried open his eye. A finger. And a sticky one at that.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

He nodded. Words were beyond him.

“Oh, good.”

“What on earth were you doing on that roof?” he asked when he finally recovered himself—though his pulse still raged in his veins.

Isobel blew out a sigh. “I told you. Hunting.”

“Hunting what?”

“Birds, probably.”

“You nearly died.”

She frowned at him.

“What if I hadn't been here to catch you?”

She didn't seem inclined to answer.

“Have you done this before?”

She snorted. “I do it all the time.”

His breath caught. “
What?
”

“Never this high, though. Mama said I shouldna.”

“Your mama might have had the right of it.” He glanced up at the roof. “Do you think that was a good idea?”

She put out a lip. “Probably not. But I doona like being told no.”

He would have rolled his eyes, but everything hurt too much to move. “No one likes being told no. But sometimes there's a damn good reason for it.”

“You really shouldna swear.”

He frowned at her. “Do you think you will be doing this again?” If so, he should probably warn Susana. Maybe help her build a cage.

Isobel considered the question at length. A flicker of apprehension crossed her face as she likely relived what had just happened … and what had almost happened. “Nae,” she said, far too cheerily in his opinion. “I doona think I shall.”

Andrew sat up and rubbed his head. There would be a goose egg tomorrow. “You are verra wise.”

She tipped her head and studied him. “Do you really think I am wise?”

“In this? Aye. I do.”

Her smile was blinding.