The Hawk (Highland Guard #2)(37)

She would not think of it. But her gaze dropped to his lips, and she remembered all too well the heated sensations wrought by that too-perfect mouth on hers.

She’d never dreamed a kiss could be like that. That the pull of desire could be so strong. That she could want so desperately from every corner of her being.

His mouth had been so soft and warm, seducing her with every skillful stroke of his lips and tongue. He’d tasted of darkness, of whisky, and of wicked, untold pleasures.

The force of her reaction to him had stunned her. She’d thought herself immune to cravings of the flesh. But she’d never felt like that before. Never had her senses so overwhelmed her. One taste and she’d been drunk with desire. She’d found herself responding. Kissing him back. Sinking into his embrace. Melting against him. Wanting to get even closer. Too aware of the hard press of his manhood against her bottom. And when his hand had cupped her breast …

She shuddered, recalling how easily she’d fallen prey to his seductive trap. What could she have been thinking?

Angry with herself for remembering what she’d vowed to forget—as he’d so easily done—she didn’t bother hiding her impatience. “Is there something you wanted? I’m busy.”

His eyes narrowed to dangerous slits. “I’m sure you are. Is there a reason I’ve returned to find my men not practicing as I instructed but sitting in the caves by the fire half-naked?”

She couldn’t stop herself from giving a careless shrug, even though she knew it would only rile him further. “I don’t know. I suggested they practice with swords later and swim instead, hoping they’d clean up a bit.”

He looked ready to explode. Really, she shouldn’t take such pleasure in it.

“You ordered my men to swim?”

“Suggested,” she corrected in her most officious voice. “It seemed the most efficient thing to do. I noticed their linens were soiled and offered to wash them. I’m afraid there wasn’t much I could do with the woolens other than brush them out.”

The men wore a wide variety of garments from the varying influences in the Western Isles, including the traditional belted leinte, plaids, and cotuns of the Gael, Norse hose and colorful tunics, and knightly vestments like linen braies and wool—or in the finer garments, leather—chausses. Only Thomas wore a habergeon shirt and chausses of mail, but the captain’s black leather cotun and chausses plated with pieces of steel were every bit as fine. Obviously, piracy was a lucrative occupation.

“There is the first half,” she said, indicating the stack on the rock. “The rest will be done by later this afternoon.”

She ran her gaze down him and gave a sharp sniff in the air, inhaling his heady masculine scent. She wrinkled up her nose as if the scent was unpleasant, though it was anything but. “If you wish to add your linens to the pile, I will see them returned to you.”

His face grew so dark, she almost regretted needling him. Almost. But after the way he’d turned her into a soupy mess and then acted as if the kiss had never happened, she would get her pleasure where she could.

The kiss that had left her reeling was nothing to him. Something he’d undoubtedly done hundreds of times with countless other women. Even now he stood there oblivious and unaffected while her body fought the visceral memories of his touch.

His reaction—or lack thereof—was exactly the reason to stay away from him. He never took anything seriously, and nothing penetrated that affable shell. Around everyone but her, that is.

She was acting like a fool even thinking about it. He’d kissed her only because he felt sorry for her. If being thought of as pathetic wasn’t humiliating enough, how quickly she’d succumbed was much worse. Apparently her resistance to his handsome face did not extend to his talented mouth.

It was nothing, she told herself. He couldn’t have made that more clear. A woman who thought differently—who put too much store in a single kiss—was only looking for disappointment and heartbreak.

She had no intention of following her mother’s tragedy. If she gave her heart to a man, it wouldn’t be to someone who would throw it away. Her father had loved too freely to limit his heart to one, not unlike the man before her. But why was she even thinking about this? Love was not for her.

He peered down at the stack of linens. “You did all this by yourself?”

She tried to prevent the heat from rising to her cheeks—unsuccessfully. “A few of the village women offered to help.” When they saw what difficulty she was having, they’d taken pity on her.

His jaw locked and his lips turned white. “Let me see your hands.”

She tossed her head the way she knew he hated, hoping to distract him, and reached down to retrieve the linens. “I need to get these back—”

He’d removed his bandages and when his hand locked on her wrist, she gasped at the contact. Her skin buzzed as if she’d been struck with tiny bolts of lightning.

“Your hands, Ellie,” he growled in a low voice that sent shivers down her spine. “Now.”

Her lips pressed together. He was nothing but a big bully. She tried to jerk her hand away, but he forced her palm open and uttered a crude expletive.

“It’s nothing,” she said, jerking her hand away. “And you shouldn’t use language like that. It indicates a weak mind.”