The Chief (Highland Guard #1)(65)

She knew the way the muscles in his arms and shoulders flexed when he held himself above her to push inside. She knew how hard those muscles felt bulging under her hands. She knew the weight of him on top of her, the fullness of him inside her, the rhythm of his lovemaking as he moved in and out of her. She knew the way his stomach muscles clenched into tight bands right before he cried out his release. She knew the sound of that release—the sharp grunt and deep groan echoed in her ears long after he’d gone. And gone he was, every time, no matter how much she hoped he would want to stay. To wake up in his arms just once …

Her chest tightened as she turned away from the bed.

She knew his lovemaking, but she knew nothing of the man. He kept his thoughts to himself. No matter how hard she tried to break through the wall he’d erected around himself, nothing worked. Perhaps she should ask King Edward to borrow his infamous siege engine “Warwolf,” she thought ruefully.

Tor was so used to being alone, to keeping his burdens to himself, that she didn’t even think he knew what he was missing. Or that his efforts to keep her out hurt. On the rare occasions that he joined her for a meal, her attempts at more intimate conversation were politely, but definitively, rebuked. Her attempt to make the household more cheery and bring a little warmth to the dreary Hall had been for naught. She tried to be helpful. To do nice things for him, like having the cook prepare his favorite meals or keeping his clothes spotless and freshly laundered. But he seemed too busy to notice.

She’d begun to feel like one of his dogs. An adoring pup, following him around at his heels, looking for any show of affection. A tender touch. A look. Anything to show he might care. Even another kiss on the head would give her hope.

It wasn’t that he was cruel. Cruelty would require some flare of emotion. Perhaps that would be easier. At least then, she would know where she stood.

She had thought she’d sensed something special between them, but what if she was wrong? What if there were no cozy nights before the fire? What if this was it?

Tor seemed to have two emotions when it came to her: polite indifference during the day and passion at night. The latter gave her hope. The passion between them had only grown as she’d gradually become more comfortable with her body’s desires and started to let go.

At least it had for her. She wanted to think it was mutual, but then again, she didn’t have anything to compare it to. Not the way he did.

But even in bed, she couldn’t help feeling that something was wrong. That he was holding back. She felt a sharp pang in her chest, fearing that she was a disappointment to him. I must be doing something wrong.

Desperately, she wanted to please him. But how? Impressing him with her wifely skills certainly wasn’t working. He’d taught her passion, how to sense the desires of her own body, but she still knew so little of his. What did he like?

He always seemed so under control, except for—

That was it! The first time. There was something raw and real about the first time. Maybe that was how he liked it?

Her cheeks heated at the wicked memory of how he’d entered her from behind.

Warmth settled low in her belly. She had a plan. It required boldness, but modesty would not deter her. To knock down the wall of distrust and isolation that he’d built up around himself, she would need to strike hard. Warwolf was nothing compared to what she had planned.

The wave crashed over him, dragging Tor down and holding him under for long enough to make most men panic. Lungs on fire, he broke back through the surface of the water, sucking in air in big gulps.

“Anyone ready to quit?” he yelled, his voice dulled by the roar of the wind and the hammer of the rain.

His question was greeted by a chorus of exhausted but determined men: “Nay, captain.”

But after more than an hour in the icy waters of the loch during the worst storm to hit Skye this season, even MacSorley was showing signs of weakening.

Only a madman would be caught out in the water on a night like tonight. But it was just the night he’d been waiting for. He couldn’t have devised more challenging conditions if he’d divined the storm himself.

Thor had unleashed his vengeance in a mighty torrent. Water crashed against the craggy rocks that lined the loch in huge, pounding waves.

They’d swum out to the mouth of the loch, perhaps a quarter mile from shore, through five-foot swells and a current intent on driving them back. Treading water since, they’d been doing their best to stay afloat as the black seas and sleet swirled mercilessly around them.

On a calm summer day, he could stay out here indefinitely. But the freezing winter waters and fierce seas sapped a man’s strength in minutes. His teeth had stopped chattering, and his legs and arms had stopped burning long ago. He didn’t feel anything. He knew the signs of danger but pushed on, pushing through pain and fear that would defeat all but the most elite warriors.

Strength. Endurance. Never surrender. Toughness of body and mind is what made his men the best.

When other men stood on the shore shaking, his men plunged in.

Given that he was one of the best swimmers of the group—as good as MacRuairi, if not quite as inhumanly strong as MacSorley—he could imagine how some of the other men must be suffering.

But quitting wasn’t an option. Ever. Best if they find out whether they had what it took now, when it risked the loss of one and not the entire team.

Most of the men were good swimmers, but Seton and MacKay were not as comfortable as the others in the water—Seton because he was English, and MacKay because he came from the mountain country deep in the Highlands.