The Saint (37 page)

“I don’t suppose very long,” she said quietly. “But it will not change my mind. There will be someplace that needs a healer, someplace that the mighty Earl of Sutherland cannot reach. Even if I have to go to England, I will find a place to make a new life.”

She’d despised England ever since the soldiers had raped her. When he’d found out what had happened to her, he’d made it his personal mission to hunt every one of them down. He’d been cheated only once—one of the men had fallen in battle before he’d found him. That she would rather to go England than be with him …

“You don’t mean it.” But he feared she did. He felt himself lose control, as if the world—his world—were spinning away from him and he was helpless to stop it. He backed her up against the door. “I won’t let you go.”

Their eyes met. He couldn’t think about the way she was
looking at him. He didn’t want to put a name to it because he feared it would mean he’d lost her. But how could blue eyes turn so black?

He hated himself for what he was doing—cornering her, using his physical size to intimidate her—but he was too far gone to stop. This was a battle he would not—
could
not—lose.

She saw it, too. With one long look that shook him more than any blow from a sword, he saw the moment of recognition and acceptance in her eyes.

He’d won … my God, he’d won.

But then a strange look crossed her face. A look that made him feel the first flicker of unease.

“Very well, Will. I will give you what you want.”

He moved back slowly, warily, as if he were watching a snake that was coiled and only pretending to sleep. “You will stay?”

She smiled pityingly. “Is that what you want? I was under the impression you wanted something else from me.”

She unbuckled the plaid that she wore around her shoulders and let it fall to the ground. She began to untie the laces of her gown.

He was so stunned, it wasn’t until the kirtle, too, fell in a heap by the plaid that he realized what she meant. His heart pounded. His mouth suddenly went dry, seeing her standing there in nothing more than a thin shift, her hose, and her soft leather slippers. Oh God …

“Muriel …” His voice was raw as she lifted the hem of her shift to lower her hose and remove her shoes, revealing a seductive hint of long, creamy-smooth, shapely legs.

She arched a brow, a wry look of challenge in an otherwise impassive face. “Is this not what you want, Will? Is this not the offer you have made? I will give you my body and you will give me everything I could want, isn’t that right? Well, let’s start now. Show me. Perhaps you can convince
me that the wonder of your lovemaking will be enough?”

He felt the world rocking the way he did when he stepped off a boat after being at sea for too long. Unsteady. Odd. Like something wasn’t right. Something
wasn’t
right, but he was too damned blind to see it. All he could see was the woman he loved standing before him half-naked, giving herself to him.

His blood burned hot through his veins. He’d wanted this for so long.

She moved toward him. Sliding her hands around his neck and letting her breasts brush against his chest. “You’ll have to forgive me. It’s been some time since I’ve done this.”

His chest knifed. The brutal reminder of what had happened to her burned. He shouldn’t do this. It was wrong.

“Don’t, Muriel.” His hands went around her waist to push her away. It was so tiny he could almost span it with two hands.

But she wouldn’t let him stop. “Why not?” She swept her hand down his chest, over the taut bands of his stomach muscles to the bulge that swelled between his legs. He let out a slow hiss when he felt the weight of her hand covering him.

He wanted to weep with pleasure, it felt so good.

She slid up next to him again, rubbing her delicately curved body against his. Heat flared inside him and his skin tightened, suddenly feeling too small.

“You want me. You can have me. I’m giving myself to you. No obligations, no conditions, just the way you want.”

The soft, seductive offer proved too much to resist. He crushed her in his embrace, covering her mouth with his, drinking in every sweet inch of her. He felt the slide of her tongue against his and told himself it was all right.

But a vague sense of unease penetrated the haze of desire. She was responding to him, but it wasn’t with the intensity and urgency of before. She’d always kissed him as though she couldn’t get enough of him. But this felt—this felt different.

His hand slid through her hair, cupping her head to bring her more fully to him, intensifying the kiss. Determined to make her want him as much as he wanted her.

It would be all right. He knew he would bring her pleasure.

His hands skimmed her back, her hips, her bottom. But even the thin piece of fabric that separated them was too much. He wanted to touch her. Feel her skin against his. Make her moan for him.

But she wasn’t moaning. Wasn’t making those soft, little gasps at the back of her throat. She wasn’t melting into him, clutching the muscles of his arms and digging her fingers into him as if she were holding on for dear life.

In frustration, he cupped her bottom, bringing her more fully against him, and started to rock. Slowly at first, then quickening the pace as desire built inside him and he felt her body start to respond. Her hips circled against his, finding the perfect rhythm.

He knew through experience that he could make her want him. He thought of all the times in the past that he’d made her come just by rubbing against her. And how she’d take him in her hand and give him release. But they’d always stopped. They’d never taken it to the final step.

He’d lived like a damned monk for years, damn it.

Finally, he heard the moans he’d been aching to hear. He kissed her harder, feeling her surrender to the maelstrom surging between them. He cupped her breast, felt the nipple tighten between his fingers, and let out a deep guttural groan of masculine satisfaction when she arched into his hand.

His body pounded. His cock swelled harder, knowing she was almost ready for him. Knowing in a few minutes he was going to be inside her.

He broke away, looking into her eyes, as he gently leaned her back against the table and started to lift the edge of her chemise. She wasn’t going to stop him this time.

She looked exactly the way he’d dreamed she would look at this moment. Cheeks flushed, lips swollen and gently parted, her hair gently mussed. But something was wrong. Her eyes … Her eyes …

Oh, Jesus
.

She was surrendering to him, but she didn’t want him. She didn’t even
like
him. What she was feeling wasn’t love, it was lust.

The realization broke through the haze of passion with a fist of clarity. Making love to her wasn’t going to change a damned thing. It wasn’t going to prove they were meant to be together. And it wasn’t going to change her mind. It would only make her hate him more.

She was right. He was trying to force her—bend her to his will. But she was stronger than he. This woman who’d survived so much.

He pushed her away, keeling over as if he’d taken a blow to the gut. In that moment when she was giving him exactly what he wanted—what he thought he wanted—he knew it wasn’t what he wanted at all. And what he’d wanted, he’d lost.

He wanted her back. The girl who’d looked at him with love in her eyes. Who’d made him feel as if he were the most important person in the world to her. Who’d trusted him enough to give him her heart and a body that should never have wanted a man’s touch again.

How could he have done this to her? He
loved
her.

It was time to start acting like it.

“Go,” he said hoarsely, disgust at what he’d done making
his throat thick. “Go back to Inverness. I never should have brought you here. I’m … God, I’m sorry.”

She didn’t look at him again. She picked her clothes up from off the floor, donned them quickly, and left without a backward glance.

He loved her enough to let her go.

Helen had plenty of time to think about all that had transpired. During the long, mostly sleepless night while she waited for Magnus and Kenneth to return safely (even though neither of them deserved her worry), and the even longer and far more arduous day of travel, she could think of little else. Having one’s heart crushed tended to have that effect.

She’d thought she and Magnus might have a chance. That he’d softened toward her—toward them—but it had only been a promise to William.

Or was it?

Once the initial stab of hurt dulled, she began to wonder if that was truly all it was about. Perhaps it had started out that way, but what about what had happened in the forest? Magnus might like to
think
it was only about protecting her, but his promise to William didn’t have anything to do with the passion that had exploded between them.

And the look in his eyes when her brother’s sword had nearly cut her in two …

He cared for her. She was sure of it. But something was preventing him from acting on it. Whether it was due to his involvement with Bruce’s phantom army (she still couldn’t believe the lad who’d once chased her through the forest
was one of the most feared warriors in Christendom), her family and the feud, her marriage to William and his feelings of loyalty to his friend, or a combination of them all, she didn’t know. But she intended to find out.

Nothing was insurmountable. Not if they truly loved one another. She just needed the stubborn ox to realize it.

Which was easier said than done. He wasn’t exactly avoiding her, but as the day progressed it was clear that something beyond the torturously slow place was bothering him. There was an intensity—a watchfulness—to him that she’d never seen before. For the first time, she was seeing him in full warrior mode: fierce, hard, emotionless, and utterly focused on his duties. It was strange to see a side of him of which she’d never been a part.

It was late in the afternoon when he and Gregor MacGregor came racing to the place where the royal party had stopped for a short break along Loch Glascarnoch. Right away she knew something was wrong. The two men immediately pulled the king and some of the higher-ranking members of his retinue, including her brother and Donald, aside for what appeared to be an intense conversation.

She could tell by the way the king’s face darkened that whatever news they brought, it wasn’t good. And when her brother’s gaze flicked over to her where she sat on the banks of the loch eating a small piece of bread and cheese, she feared it had to do with her.

She wished she could hear what was being said. It was clear there was some kind of disagreement, not surprisingly with Donald and her brother on one side and Magnus on the other.

Waiting patiently wasn’t one of her virtues. She was just about to start ever-so-subtly creeping toward the men when the group disbanded, and Magnus came striding toward her.

Their eyes met, and though she knew he was trying to hide it, she could see that he was worried.

Her heart tugged. Whatever the hurt of last night—no matter how much she wanted to talk about what had happened—it was clear that it would have to wait.

She came forward to meet him, putting her hand on his arm as if she could somehow ease his burden. Touching him, seeking that instinctive connection, seemed the most natural thing in the world. It always had.

“What is it?” she asked.

“We’re being followed.”

She stilled. “By whom?”

He shook his head, his expression grim. “I don’t know, but I intend to find out.”

She feared she wasn’t going to like the answer to the question, but she asked it anyway. “What are you going to do?”

A slow smile curved his mouth. “Wait for them.”

“What do you mean, wait for them? And why do you look like you are looking forward to it?”

His expression turned as hard as stone. “I
am
looking forward to it. I don’t like when people threaten someone I—” He stopped himself, and then added, “Someone I’m responsible for.”

She swallowed. Had he been about to say “love”? “Is it me they are after, then?”

“I don’t know. It could just be a war band of malcontents, but I’m not taking any chances with you or anyone else. We’re going to set a trap for them tonight. There’s a perfect place at the far end of the loch. A natural gully where the path narrows, with the mountains and forest on one side and the loch on the other. As soon as they enter it, we’ll have them surrounded.”

It sounded dangerous, no matter how easy he was trying to make it seem. “But how many of them are there? How many men will you have? What if something goes wrong?”

“You don’t need to worry about it. You and the king will be perfectly safe—”

“Me? I’m not worried about me, it’s you I’m worried about.”

He shook his head, clearly amused. “I know what I’m doing, Helen. I’ve done this many times before.”

“Wouldn’t it be better to go for help?”

“Take a look around—there isn’t help for miles.” His face hardened again. “I’ll say this for them. Whoever it is, they’ve chosen their place well. We are still too far from Loch Broom to go for help, and too far from Dunraith to try to return. Either they have some knowledge of these mountains or they’re damned lucky.”