The Chief (33 page)

His laughter died, and their eyes met.

The air sparked between them. The heat of a different kind of fever sent a flush spreading over her skin. It had been too long. Her body craved his on an elemental level—like water, food, and air, she
needed
him.

She was deeply conscious of him beside her on the bed, of his broad shoulders and powerful arms. Of his spicy, masculine scent. Of his gorgeous mouth.

He leaned down.

Her breath caught in anticipation.

But instead of kissing her, he pressed his lips to her forehead. “You need to rest,” he said.

“I feel fine,” she insisted, sounding not unlike a child deprived of a toy. Her very favorite toy.

But her effort to change his mind fell on deaf ears. He stood up. “I'll be back to check on you later. If you need anything, just tell Morag.”

A bath. First thing. But sure that he would have other ideas about that, she decided not to mention it. “Morag was here? I thought she would be busy tending the wounded.”

“Among the men there were only a few bruises and scratches.”

She was relieved to hear it. A shadow of the ones who weren't so fortunate passed over her.

He stood up and she watched him walk to the door. “Get some rest. I'll send Mhairi to watch over you.”

“It isn't necessary—”

But the door had already closed shut.

It was late afternoon when Tor returned to the castle. As much as he would have liked to stay by his wife's sickbed, once he'd been assured of her well-being, he had matters to attend to that could not be delayed any longer.

It was the first time he could recall ever resenting the call of duty. But in addition to trying to ferret out a possible spy, he'd also received a disturbing message from MacDonald requiring action. It would likely upset the hard-won balance of the team, but it could not be avoided.

Besides, if he'd stayed in that room one more minute he was liable to forget how ill she'd been and show her
exactly
how much she'd frightened him.

The moment when she'd collapsed to the ground was not one he wished to remember—ever. For one agonizing moment, he'd thought she was dead. He'd been able to breathe only when he'd felt the flutter of her pulse beneath his fingers and her faint but steady breath on his cheek. The panic subsided a bit more when the healer examined her and informed him that she had only a fever.

Only. There was no “only” when it came to his wife. When the old woman had made that mistake, he'd scared her out of half the years she had left—and she didn't have many to spare.

He'd never felt like this before. Christina roused a fierce protectiveness in him of which he didn't know he was capable. It was his duty as her husband to keep her safe, but what he felt went beyond duty.

He'd always been able to cut himself off from emotion, closing his mind like a steel trap. But with her it wasn't so easy. Something about her called to him. Penetrated. She was gentle, kind, and giving, with a quick mind and an infectious excitement and joy for life, but with more depth and spirit than he'd initially given her credit for. She stood up to him, challenged him…cared for him.

She was softness to a man who'd known only strife. And no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't keep her out.

He trudged up the stairs and instinctively scanned the area. The guardsmen were posted in their positions along the stone parapets and in the
bretache
overhanging the gate—a small wooden box built into the castle wall. A few women were gathering water from the well. Servants were carrying platters and dishes back from the Hall, and Christina was—

The bottom fell out of his stomach as his gaze shot back to the figure walking along the battlements. His temper—something he was becoming too familiar with lately—exploded. What the hell was she doing outside? She should be resting, not traipsing around outside in the cool air with—heaven help him—
damp
hair. Didn't she know she could catch a chill?

She turned and waved, her hand slowly dropping when he drew near.

She'd seen his expression. Biting her lip, she took a few steps back. But the placating look on her face didn't do one damned thing. “You're back,” she said with exaggerated brightness. “I didn't see you approach.”

He didn't say a word, didn't break his stride, as he stormed right up to her and swept her up in his arms.

She gasped her surprise, but he kept his eyes straight
ahead, not trusting himself to look at her. As it was, his control was hanging by a very thin thread. His chest burned.

“You're overreacting,” she said gently, as if soothing an angry beast. “I'm fine.”

“Don't,” he growled through clenched teeth, emotion boiling too close to the surface. “Don't.”

With a heavy sigh of resignation, she wrapped her arms around his neck and placed her cheek on his chest. A huge swell of warmth cut through the anger. He felt an unbelievable sense of…tenderness. What the hell was happening to him?

Not knowing, not caring, he bundled her a little closer.

The Great Hall fell silent as he carried her through the entry and across to the corridor. He was aware of the curious stares but didn't give a damn. If it seemed to the onlookers as though their chief had gone mad, they were probably right.

A few minutes later, he reached her room. He slammed the door behind them with his foot and stood there for a minute, strangely reluctant to set her down. Eventually, he did and took a seat beside her.

Slowly, he felt his body relax. She cupped his face in her tiny hand, forcing his gaze to hers. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to worry you.”

“Your hair is wet,” he said, as if this were some kind of explanation.

“I took a bath.”

“You could catch a cold.”

She had the audacity to appear to be fighting a smile. “That's only a bit of nursemaid nonsense. I've been outside many times with damp hair and never become ill. It was only a slight fever; truly, I am fine. Morag said I was fit to move around.”

His jaw clenched. “What does Morag know about a wee lass like you? She's as sturdy and stubborn as an old Highland mule.”

This time she did smile. “I might not be as tall as the rest of you, but I have a hearty constitution.” A shadow crossed her face. “Though sometimes I've wished it otherwise.”

It was a strange thing to say. Then he remembered. “You mentioned that your sister was ill when you were young.”

She nodded. “Beatrix was always a sickly child. I was hardly ever ill. It seemed so unfair. I used to wish I could be sick for her.”

“That's not the way it works,” he said gently. “We shouldn't feel guilty for how we are born.”

He'd spoken without thinking.

She tilted her head, studying his face. “You felt guilty for being the elder twin.”

Instinctively, he closed off, drawing his expression into a blank. But the gentle reproach in her gaze made him remember their earlier agreement. He drew a deep breath, wondering what the hell he'd been thinking. “Perhaps a bit when we were young. It seemed unfair that because of a difference of a few minutes I was chief. But I learned to accept that life is far from fair and we must play the role we are given.”

She beamed up at him, a huge smile on her face. “Now that wasn't so hard, was it?” He grumbled that it felt like hot spikes were being driven down behind his fingernails, but she only laughed. “Soon you will be chattering away like wee Iain.”

He rolled his eyes. “God forbid, that bairn never shuts up.”

Their eyes met in shared amusement that quickly changed into something else. Something hot and raw, and shimmering with awareness.

He was acutely aware of their position. On the bed. Their legs touching. The soft floral scent of her soap on freshly washed skin. The lush pout of her harlot's mouth.

He felt a rush of heat to his groin. Desire grabbed him in a viselike grip. Tightening. Drawing him closer. Making it difficult for him to remember that she needed to rest.

The strange flurry of emotions of the past few days were still too raw. All he could think about was burying himself inside her and making them go away.

He leaned toward her. Only inches separated their mouths. He heard her breath quicken. Her lips opened. Beckoning.

He could almost taste her…

Damn. Get control
. He pulled back, forcing himself to remember that she was still too weak. “Get some rest. I'll be back to check on you later.”

Her face fell. Dark eyes searched his face. “Don't you want…?” Then her eyes dropped, and the knowing smile that curved her mouth made the hair on the back of his neck stand straight up. “I see you do,” she said huskily, placing her hand on his thigh. The muscle tightened reflexively. Her tiny palm felt like a brand through the linen of his
leine
, resting a precious few inches away from where he wanted it most. “Please stay,” she whispered.

Her hand slid around his thigh, dipping closer. His blood pounded. He could almost feel her stroking him. The long, hard pull of her tiny, soft hand. He locked his jaw, steeling himself to resist her touch.

He was about to refuse when she added, “I need you.”

In that simple plea he heard the echo of his own fears over the past few days. Their eyes met. He could see the pink flush on her cheeks—a healthy flush.

“I don't want to hurt you,” he said gruffly.

Her eyes softened with an emotion that made his chest squeeze. “You won't.”

She brushed his length with the back of her knuckle and he groaned, closing his eyes as a hot wave of pleasure crashed over him.

He grabbed her wrist, preventing her hand from closing around him, though right now he wanted nothing more in his life. “Promise me you'll tell me if you start to feel weak.”

The naughty smile returned to her face. “I'm afraid I have every intention of feeling weak, very weak indeed.” She leaned closer to him, pressing her mouth on his jaw, on his neck. Right by his ear. “And very well sated.”

He'd reached the limits of his good intentions. Releasing her wrist, he turned his head to capture her lips with his and groaned into her mouth when her hand finally circled around him. Relief rushed through him.

God, he loved kissing his woman. Her lips were so soft, the taste of her like warm honey. His tongue swept inside her mouth in long, languid strokes, taking time to savor and explore. He couldn't get enough of her, gorging on the simple pleasure of kissing her that he'd denied himself for too long.

Her breathy gasps urged him on. As did the teasing stroke of her hand. The linen was killing him. Nothing should be between them.

He pulled away, breaking the kiss. The resulting mewl of displeasure made him smile. She looked like a kitten that had just had her bowl of cream taken away. He stood. She opened her mouth to object, thinking he meant to leave, but stopped when he started to unfasten the pin at his neck securing his brat.

She didn't bother to hide her appreciation as he removed his clothing, devouring him with her eyes, her gaze traveling over his chest, down his stomach, along the long, thick length of his cock. The unabashed desire in her eyes made it hard for him to concentrate. An unconscious lick of her lips made his knees almost buckle.

He turned slightly, and her gaze lingered on his flanks. Her eyebrows pinched together. “What's that mark?”

Because he didn't usually have anyone studying his backside, he'd forgotten about it. “A tattoo from blue woad. I was given it at birth.”

She nodded. “I've heard of them before, but never seen one. Is it a tradition among your clan?”

An intriguing idea
he thought. “Nay, it was to identify me as the eldest. It cannot be removed.” He grinned. “I guess they figured I wasn't as likely to have my arse cut off as I might an arm or a leg.”

She made a face. “Can I see it?”

He moved closer, his muscles jumping when he felt the soft pad of her finger tracing the design.
“Mor,”
she said, then translated, “great or big.” A naughty smile played upon her lips. “It certainly fits.”

“Wicked lass,” he chided. She knew full well “Mor” was an epithet commonly used to signify the elder—as “Og” was used for the younger.

“I like the design.”

“It's Irish,” he said tightly. His cock felt as if it was going to explode from her innocent exploration.

“Did it hurt?”

“Not that I can remember.” Hot needles pushed under the skin wasn't half as painful as what she was causing right now.

Trying to keep a rein on his desire, he sat on the edge of the bed and moved her around to stand before him. His time to explore. He helped her with the pins and ties, enough to where she could do the rest herself. “Undress for me, Tina,” he ordered. “Slowly.”

Heat rose in her cheeks, but she did as he asked. Piece by piece, she removed her clothing, holding his gaze the entire time.

He got hotter and hotter as each item hit the floor—cloak, cotte, slippers, hose. By the time she reached her chemise, she'd definitely gotten the hang of it. Inch by inch she lifted it up over her legs. Her thighs. Stopping right before revealing the sweet center of her womanhood.

His muscles strained against his too-tight skin, his breath coming hard as his eyes burned into her. She teased and taunted until he made a sound that was half impatience, half growl. Right before he was about to rip the damned
thing off her, she lifted the hem to her stomach. He sucked in his breath, barely able to stop himself from reaching out and touching her, knowing she'd be warm and slick with passion.

She lifted the chemise higher and higher until he could just see the soft under-curve of her breasts.

She paused and he stopped breathing, resuming only when she revealed the beautiful, lush mounds of flesh, tipped with very hard, very ripe, nipples.

Pulling the chemise over her head, she tossed it on the floor and stood before him, perfectly—beautifully—naked. The last few rays of sunlight filtered through the single window, casting a warm, sultry glow over her.

She was incredible. A small, compact, tightly formed bundle of femininity. Long waves of silky dark hair flowed around her shoulders. Shapely legs, curvy hips, a narrow waist, breasts to make a man want to bury his face in them and weep with pleasure, wrapped up in the most flawless, creamy-soft skin he'd ever seen—or touched.