The Chief (Highland Guard #1)(102)

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.