The Queen's Lady (20 page)

The people had rallied behind the queen, and he'd been surprised to find himself something of a hero to the townsfolk. The servants in the lodge were pleased to have him. The lodge itself was, and had been, a royal holding and not beneath the Huntlys, so perhaps it was natural that those who made their livelihood there were pleased with the outcome of the battle.

They had been merry while preparing the meal he shared with his men, despite the vast amount of labor it entailed. And when he chose a chamber within the lodge, the stableboys and valet were quick to bring him a massive tub, and pot after pot of boiling water, though the steward was afraid that he would wash away all the natural defenses he needed against the “agues tha' migh' be takin' a body” after such exertion as the battle.

Rowan, amused, assured the man that he had enough defense within his body, covered with blood and mud or no.

So it was in the wee hours of the night that he at last lay in the great wooden tub, the room darkened and in sweet shadow, the only light rising from the embers of the fire in the hearth. The steam was rising around him, and he welcomed the feeling of cleanliness and the heat that relaxed his muscles. Laying his head back upon the broad wooden rim, he closed his eyes and let out a sigh, enjoying the sweet sensation of heat and steam. He should be jubilant. They had won. But he was still disturbed.

Mary was proving to be a good queen, but she had also shown that she could act recklessly under duress.

What monarch in history had not? he chided himself.

Was it only because of Gwenyth that he felt so angry? Would he have felt so betrayed had it been one of the queen's other ladies? None among them might have so easily blended with the people here; perhaps Gwenyth
had
been the best choice.

He realized he was disturbed, as well, because, as yet, they had not found Fergus MacIvey among the dead. The man was dangerous, and it frightened Rowan to think he might still be out there, hatching his plans of revenge, now that the MacIveys would be stripped of their holdings. Clan loyalty was everything in the Highlands, and if Fergus were alive, he would not let the matter rest.

He froze suddenly, muscles going rigid. He'd heard the slightest noise, and it wasn't the snap of a log in the hearth.

Someone was in his chamber.

He opened his eyes to mere slits without otherwise moving. He couldn't believe that his men were anything less than entirely vigilant, but…

A hooded figure was tiptoeing toward the tub. It paused a few feet away, then came closer. Someone come to murder him in his bath? A Huntly loyal, with access to the royal domain, ready to sacrifice all for his death?

His hand shot out, and he heard a startled, feminine cry as his fingers closed around a woman's wrist. He sat up, ready to fight.

“Stop, please! It's me!”

The woolen hood fell back, and as she jerked in response to his sudden attack, the cloak slipped to the floor.

To his amazement, his nocturnal visitor was Lady Gwenyth MacLeod. She was wearing a nightgown and a rich velvet robe, the gown in softest white, the robe a brilliant shade of crimson, richly embroidered. Her hair was loose, her face scrubbed clean, and she looked as innocent as an angel and as sensual as Lilith herself.

With gritted teeth, he tossed her wrist from his hold, staring at her with suspicion and unconcealed anger. “You just took your life in your hands again, you little fool!” he informed her. “What in God's name are you doing here, slinking around my bedchamber?” he demanded.

She rubbed her wrist, backing away, her eyes managing a look of both apology and defiance, all in one. “I am not slinking,” she protested.

“You came tiptoeing up to a man in his bath. What reaction did you expect?” he demanded.

“I came to beg pardon, and to explain,” she said indignantly.

“And no one informed you I was not available to be seen?” he inquired.

A flush covered her cheeks.

“As if it were not idiotic enough to leave the manor and come here dressed like that, you didn't seek a proper entry, did you?” he inquired.

She hesitated, then shrugged. “I was afraid you would refuse to see me. I entered through the kitchens…. I brought towels,” she told him, sweeping an arm toward the trunk at the entry, where she had dropped the linens.

He scowled. The heat from the bath had relaxed him; now there was another sense of heat tearing through him and every muscle in his body was tense again.

“Fine. You're brought towels. That will certainly atone for risking four lives. Would you leave now, please?”

She stared at him, myriad emotions passing swiftly through her eyes, and then she turned to go.

He didn't know what he was thinking.

Or perhaps he wasn't thinking at all.

He sprang out of the tub, catching her before she could reach the door and turning her toward him. Once again, her eyes met his, and for a moment, just for a moment, all her defiance, all her anger, was gone. There was something there as naked as his flesh, something lost and pleading, something that spoke of the time they'd spent in each other's company.

And something else was there, too.

A silent admission that there had always been more between them than the battle, that he had been wrong to blame her for being who and what she was, that she had been wrong to blame him for his honesty. He opened his mouth; he meant to say something. But he didn't.

Instead he drew her to him, pulling her against his wet and naked flesh, and looked long into her eyes, then kissed her lips. He had not intended such a thing; indeed, he had fought against it for what felt like forever. Then he felt her fingers sliding up the dampness of his chest, curving over the muscles of his shoulders, tentatively moving into the wetness of his hair, drawing him closer.

Her mouth returned the slow, simmering passion of his own, and then it erupted. She was sweet, tasting of mint, and of a longing and hunger to know more of him. He trembled there, holding her and feeling, beneath the velvet and linen, the heat of her body, the perfection of her form, the way it melded to his own. He'd not been drinking; there was no excuse for the heady insanity that leapt into his being, his mind, his soul.

He lifted her closer against him and moved to the massive four-poster, but he did not lay her gently down but fell heavily with her to the mattress. Her fingers grew swiftly confident, coursing along his shoulder, his arm, his back. He drew his lips from hers and met her eyes again, and they offered neither protest nor explanation. She moved against him, and he kissed her again, swiftly growing ravenous to taste more and more of the sweetness of her mouth as her lips parted and her tongue parried his.

The velvet robe had come open. He found her throat, the flesh of her breasts, his hand moving over the thin linen gown. She moved against him, fingers taut now in his hair, the writhing of her body stoking the sure madness of fire in him. He felt her lips upon his shoulders, the instinctive play of her tongue. He moved still further against her, lips moist fire against her, until he wanted more than he could have with the fabric in the way.

In the glow of the fire, he rose. He met her eyes, as enigmatic as the shadows, as he stripped both velvet and cotton from her, and lay down again to cradle her against him, flesh to flesh. Once more he caressed her with the liquid flame of his lips, stroking his hands over the smoothness of her flesh, cherishing the heated, vital feel of it. It occurred to him that they could both be damned for this indiscretion, she, the queen's lady and he, her sworn protector. But damnation would be a worthwhile price to pay for this moment, when the world seemed right, when his senses and soul seemed to be filled after years of emptiness, when it felt as if he had found the very essence that had been missing from his existence and now made him soar.

She gasped and arched against his touch, and as her fingers and lips played over him, he lost himself in the scent of her, the slight brush of her fingers, the exquisite and agonizing touch of her tongue. She moved her body against the length of him, her hair trailing like silk over his skin, arousing, exciting. He knew she was fragile, that he must take care, and yet, as they loved one another with lips and touch, he knew the rising thunder of an exultant passion, and as the minutes of tenderness slipped by, his strength and ardor grew. With her beneath him, he slid against her, lips finding every inch of her, paying the most evocative attention to her breasts until small gasps escaped her, then moving lower to caress her midriff and belly. He eased himself along her length, tending then to her ankles, calves and upward along her inner thigh…

And then to the heart of her sex.

She clutched his back, raked her fingers through his hair. He felt the touch of her fingertips sliding along his back, not caressing, but holding on, feverish…intense. Felt the startled jolt and shift of her body, the expulsion of her breath, as she gasped and cried out….

He rose above her, met her eyes, took her lips again…kissed her as he adjusted his body over hers, then slid smoothly into her, mindful to move slowly and with great care, despite the lightning tearing through his own veins.

She never cried out then, but she clung to him as he eased the thrust and glide of his hips, drawing her surely into the rhythm he set, and when he felt her rock and shudder beneath him, he allowed all the power he had held in abeyance to flood free. Her arms wound around him tightly as she all but melted into him.

And then she moved…

Moved in a way that brought sheer pleasure and madness leaping through him, his limbs, his sex. Time was gone; fire and shadows were gone. The world was pure darkness and sheer, shocking light. She was no longer fragile, she was a whirl of fever and passion, sliding against him, rubbing the length of his body, sheathing his sex.

He fought the explosion of climax, longing for her to know it first. And then, just when he thought he would die of the blaze consuming him, she shuddered, strained, went limp, and he allowed himself the rocket fire of a shuddering, volatile explosion within her. Again, again, the tremors racked through him, and then, even then, she held him, was one with him, trembling, clinging….

A long while later, he eased to his side next to her. Her eyes were closed now, and she quickly found a place against his shoulder, her head resting upon his chest.

He sought desperately for the right words to say. And as he did so, he admitted to himself at last why he had felt such anger for her, why he had needed so desperately to be away from her.

It was easy to bed a whore.

It was hard to love.

She had, all unintentionally, beckoned and beguiled him from the moment he had seen her. When he'd had no right to feel such fascination, she had seduced him blithely from the beginning, and it had been no fault of her own.

He had not been able to bear his own disloyalty to Catherine, because while she had lived, he owed her his love.

She didn't speak, and the right words continued to escape him. Even though he was compelled and attracted, he was not at all certain he could say what he felt, and so he resorted to irony.

“Far better than towels,” he said.

At that, she moved, contentment turning swiftly to fury. She started to rise, but he held on to her, at which point he discovered to his amazement that she was well-versed in Gaelic curses. “Let me up!” she demanded.

He pulled her close instead, trying not to laugh. Her eyes could change so quickly. Right now they were the color of the hottest fire—almost demonic against the shadows.

“No. Stay,” he urged, his voice soft, the power in his arms more than matching her own.

“Not if you intend to mock me again,” she said, and he had to try very hard not to smile, her words were so prim and dignified despite the fact that she was lying naked on his bed.

“I would not dream of mocking you.”

“Listen to your voice! You mock me by telling me that you would not mock me.”

She was still straining against him, features so beautiful in the firelight, hair like a cloak of crimson and gold. He did laugh then, which further infuriated her, but he rolled, pinning her to the bed, so she had no chance of escape.

“I swear I'm not mocking you. And if you came to offer an apology, I assure you, I have never had pardon begged of me so magnificently.”

“I swear, if you don't stop—”

“Stop what? I don't know what words to say to you. Am I glad that you are here? Aye. Am I incredulous that you arrived as you did…that you gave to me as you did? Indeed. You want the truth? All of it? I thought you a rare beauty the first time I saw your face. I thought you a treasure indeed fit to serve a queen. Was I afraid of you? Beyond all doubt.”

She relaxed slightly beneath him, puzzled then, and still wary. “Afraid of me? Perhaps that is the worst mockery, my Laird Rowan.”

She grew still, and he shook his head, gently easing his fingers into her hair, marveling again at the sight of her. “Nay, lass, believe that I feared you.”

“Why?”

“Because I wanted…this. I wanted you so much, when it was so wrong.”